Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Rhodes.” Roman’s eyes flicked over Cody, sizing him up from boots to brow, as if only just seeing him for the first time. His gaze lingered, narrowing on a point just above Cody’s eyes. “Why are you blond?” he asked, voice low, almost accusatory.

Cody turned slowly toward Jimmy and Jey, his expression a silent plea for the situation to either make sense or vanish entirely. It did neither.

“Uce.”

The word hit Roman, blaring through the fog of his aching skull. The sound seemed to come from everywhere, echoing as if dialed to a hundred. His head pounded, and his entire body throbbed. Even his heartbeat felt amplified to a deafening roar. He wanted to crack his eyes open, but even through clenched lids, he could tell the brightness of whatever room he was currently in was set to harsh.

“Uce!”

The voice struck again, sharper this time, and Roman flinched, a reflexive jerk he couldn’t control. He raised a sluggish hand to swat at the noise’s suspected source, only for a strong grip to seize his wrist midair, pinning it back to his side with firm pressure.

“C’mon, bruhh, don’t yank the IV,” the voice scolded, tinged with exasperation.

Roman’s throat felt like sandpaper. “L–lights,” he croaked, the single word draining him.

Shuffling followed, then a weight settled on the edge of his bed, dipping the mattress. Even with his eyes screwed shut, Roman didn’t need a sixth sense to know it was one of the twins. The presence leaned closer, the faint scent of coconut and restless energy confirming it was Jimmy, no question.

“What was that?” Jimmy at least had the good grace to whisper.

“The lights, Jimmy,” Roman groaned, the words scraping out of him.

“Oh!” Jimmy shot upright, the bed creaking. “Jey, kill the lights!”

The room dimmed, the harsh glare fading to a bearable shadow. Roman pried his eyes open, exhaling a shaky breath as he took in his surroundings. A sterile hospital room materialized with white walls and beeping monitors; the faint smell of antiseptic stung his nose

Jimmy was still perched at his bedside, his trademark grin in place. Jey prowled over from where Roman was guessing the light switch was situated, halting on the opposite side of the bed. His dark eyes raked over Roman, sharp and searching in thorough scrutiny.

“You good?” Jey asked, his tone laced with skepticism.

“Mm.” Roman shifted, wincing as he eased himself into a sitting position, careful not to jostle the IV taped to his arm. “Why’s my head killing me—ow!” His fingers barely grazed his temple before Jimmy’s hand smacked them away.

“Stay cool now,” Jimmy chided obligatorily, “Hands away from the bandages.”

“You didn’t have to smack me to make the point,” Roman whined, shooting a glare that faltered under Jey’s unrelenting stare.

“Roman.” Jey’s voice cut through, pulling Roman’s gaze to him. “You sure you a’ight?” The question carried weight, like Jey was probing for something Roman hadn’t yet noticed himself.

Roman paused, taking stock. He wiggled his fingers and toes, confirming mobility and full possession of all extremities. Aside from the relentless headache clawing at his skull, his body seemed intact. 

“I’m fine,” he said, shrugging, though the motion tugged at his sore muscles. Then a stray thought hit him, and his hand drifted to his jaw, stilling as his fingers brushed through a thick, unfamiliar beard. “Unless the problem’s how I look.”

He traced the coarse hair again, brow furrowing. “How long’ve I been here?” he asked, cutting off Jimmy’s rambling tangent about Samoans and their natural drip.

Jimmy’s spiel sputtered out, his half-offended glare softening into unease as he caught the shift in Roman’s expression. “Couple hours,” he said, exchanging a glance with Jey, whose eyes narrowed in sync.

“Why?” Jey asked, his voice tight.

Roman reached for a stainless steel tray on the bedside table, tilting it to catch his reflection. His breath hitched. A full, thick beard stared back at him, framing his jaw in a way that felt alien. His fingers scrubbed through it again in disbelief. 

“How the fuck did I grow a full beard in a couple of hours?” He jerked the tray away, his gaze snapping between Jimmy and Jey, demanding answers.

The twins stared back, their faces mirroring his confusion. Then, slowly, they turned to each other, eyes locking in a shared moment of dread.

“Aw, hell,” Jimmy muttered under his breath.

“Fuck,” Jey said, the word sharp and final.

Roman’s eyes narrowed at the hushed voices buzzing from the cluster of figures crowding his doorway. His doorway, and yet somehow he felt like the intruder here. They weren’t even trying to be discreet, furiously whispering about him as if his ears had suddenly retired along with his memory. Calling it ‘whispering’ was being charitable; without the headache hammering his temples, Roman was certain he’d be catching more than every fourth word.

The lineup was… peculiar. The twins were there, as expected, but they’d dragged in two extras. One was Sami Zayn, older than Roman remembered him. His hair hung longer, brushing his shoulders, and a thick, grizzled beard framed his face, aging him in a way Roman couldn’t reconcile with memory. The other was some unidentified rocker type Roman had never laid eyes on, draped in an unhealthy amount of leather and purple.

Come to think of it, the twins themselves were different, too. Jey’s hair was cropped short, with new, severe lines that changed his whole face. Jimmy, meanwhile, was rocking braids and a beard. Apparently, the beard thing was in full swing now, seeing as Roman had one as well. Jason Momoa chic, Jimmy had called it earlier, like that explained anything.

The changes gnawed at Roman, each alteration a marker of the time he’d somehow lost. After grilling the twins relentlessly, he’d managed to establish the basics: no coma, no cryostasis, no elaborate prank. That left amnesia. The word alone sat heavy in his chest, a thick lump of dread. What was worse? Being frozen in time, untouched, or being here now; one person in one moment, and then waking up a stranger in his own life? Whatever the case, out there, obligations loomed. There were people he was supposed to know, but wouldn’t be able to place, expectations he wouldn’t be able to meet. And then there was Jimmy, shooting him those poorly veiled glances every thirty seconds, his eyes flickering with hope that the real Roman might suddenly snap back into place, only to dim with disappointment when he didn’t.

By the fifth look, Roman’s patience cracked.

“Hey!” he snapped, his voice cutting through the murmurs. Four heads swiveled to face him, caught off guard. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Of course you are.” Unidentified rocker stepped forward, wearing a soft smile that should’ve been disarming but wasn’t. “Sorry. We got carried away—” He paused, tilted his head, and then added gently, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

The man’s voice carried sympathy, not pity, thank God, or Roman might’ve decked him out of principle. Still, Roman’s lip curled as his eyes dragged slowly up the stranger’s frame: tattoos scattered like an illustrated diary, leather that had seen too many late nights, an almost religious devotion to the color purple that bordered on comical, and a style that couldn’t decide if it worshipped Black Sabbath or the Rolling Stones.

“Lead guitarist of some obscure indie rock band?” Roman quipped, one eyebrow arching with dry amusement.

“Oh Lord.” Jimmy groaned in exaggerated distress, throwing both hands on his head. “He’s got that 2017 sense of humor back.”

Sami nudged Jimmy’s shoulder, earning a scowl for his efforts. Roman shot one Jimmy’s way too, clinging to the one thing he could still control: the direction of his glares.

“Ignore him.” Unidentified rocker laughed softly, a deep rumble that seemed too casual for the moment. “I thought it was actually funny.”

“Glad to know, I can get reactions now,” Roman muttered, his voice tinged with self-deprecation. Jey’s face pinched tight, as if Roman had just proven some unspoken fear.

“I’m Damian, by the way. Priest.” Rocker extended a hand, his rings glinting under the dim hospital lights.

Sami leaned in from behind Jey, almost sheepishly. “And I’m Sami Zayn. No idea if you remember that or not.”

Roman’s eyes flicked to the hand, then to Sami. He clasped Damian’s palm with a firm shake before looking Sami dead in the eye.

“I remember,” he said simply, edged with uncertainty. “You and… Kevin Owens, yeah?”

Jey’s eyes flashed with a complicated mix of annoyance and exasperation, muttering something under his breath too low for Roman to catch. Jimmy twisted his head, stifling a snort that echoed in the sterile room. Rocker–Priest shot a long-suffering glance over his shoulder at the group before turning back to Roman, his expression a careful blend of patience and caution.

“So—” Damian began, just as Roman cut in, “Seth.”

The name dropped like a bad omen, shattering the room’s fragile camaraderie. The air thickened, charged with a sudden, suffocating tension. Jimmy’s grin vanished, replaced by a hard-set jaw. Jey’s arms flexed, his jaw clenching so hard Roman swore he heard teeth grind. Even Sami, who’d been hovering at the edge like an old friend trying not to impose, flinched and began muttering something about ‘terrible luck’ and ‘picking the wrong years’.

“Guys!” Damian’s voice cracked through the room. And just like that, the twins fell silent, all promise of violence cut short.

Roman shot Damian a sidelong glance, impressed despite himself. Very few people could rein in his cousins like that. That kind of authority didn’t come cheap. 

He filed away a mental note to pick the man’s brain later, but for now, his focus was singular. “Does he know I’m in Medical?” he asked, ignoring the warning signs in the room’s sudden chill.

He and Seth had their on-and-off elephant in the room that they’d both mastered the art of ignoring, but regardless of the state of their… entanglement, they had never failed to circle back and check on each other. Always.

“W—I mean—” Damian fidgeted, running a hand over his mouth. “In a way, yeah?” His wince was almost apologetic.

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Then why hasn’t he dropped by?”

“That fool steps one toe in this room and I’m killing him,” Jey growled venomously.

Ah. So that hadn’t changed. His cousins’ eternal disdain for Seth still burned bright as ever. Roman leaned back against the bed, exhaling slowly. At least that felt familiar, a lifeline in the disorienting haze of lost time. This, he could handle. 

“Lay off him, Jey,” he said, tone weary.

“Nah, Uce.” This time, Jimmy stepped forward. “We’re all in agreement—Seth doesn’t come anywhere near this room.” He glanced around for confirmation. Sami nodded, his expression resolute despite his earlier unease. Jey crossed his arms, his stare daring Roman to argue. Damian shifted awkwardly, his hand still rubbing his neck, sheepish but complicit.

Roman’s gaze swept over the united front before him. “Really?” He scoffed, the sound lacking humor. Usually, when things got this dire, he could count on Dean to play mediator, to carve out space for Roman to navigate his mess with Seth. Which begged the question…

“Where’s Ambrose?” He asked haughtily. “It can’t be all of you against one me.”

The room soured again, but this time the air grew heavy with melancholy. Eyes softened with a shared grief that made Roman’s stomach twist. 

Roman’s patience snapped; the constant expression shifts grating against his raw nerves. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” His eyes swept across each of them, demanding. “Where are Seth and Dean?”

Damian had just opened his mouth to reply when the door burst open and a blond figure shot inside, stumbling to a stop like he’d outrun the devil. He was bent double, gasping ragged breaths, one hand braced on his knee, the other clutching at his tie like it was strangling him.

Roman blinked, taking in the absurd sight of a three-piece suit starkly out of place in the sterile med bay. He gave the room another quick once-over just to make sure, and yep, he was still in the stadium. Which meant whatever had landed him here had clearly happened mid-show, which only left one pressing question: Who the fuck wore a tailored suit to a wrestling event?

The figure straightened, dragging in air like he’d sprinted the whole damn arena, and Roman caught a flash of piercing blue eyes beneath a scowl that swept the room, landing first on Jimmy, Jey, then Sami, before locking onto Damian beside Roman’s bed.

“Have you all lost your damn minds?” the man snapped, his aggressively platinum blond hair catching the dim light as his head whipped back and forth in anger. “Why didn’t anyone call me?!”

Roman’s nose wrinkled as he strained to place the voice, its cadence achingly familiar, yet the packaging was all wrong. He hadn’t seen this guy in forever, and the aggressive blond hue didn’t match the memory tugging at the edges of his mind.

Damian cleared his throat, tension bleeding into the very sound. “Cody,” he said, a barely concealed edge of urgency beneath his calm. “May I see you outside for a moment?” 

His tone carried a pleading note, but Cody ignored it, striding purposefully to the empty side of Roman’s bed. The mattress dipped under his weight where he sat down on the edge like he belonged there. When his hand reached out, Roman’s body reacted before his brain did, instinctively recoiling from the touch. A flicker of hurt, raw and unguarded, flashed across Cody’s face.

“Roman?” Cody’s voice softened warily. “What’s wrong?”

“Uce, you might wanna step outside,” Jey shifted uneasily, muttering.

“Honestly, Cody…” Sami added, tone carrying the same warning.

“Everybody just—!” Cody snapped, flinging his arms wide in a burst of frustration. The motion was so abrupt it silenced the rising noise. Jimmy and Jey snapped their mouths shut; even Damian, still hovering, held back.

Roman’s head spun. How the hell did everyone but him seem to know the cheat code for wrangling his cousins now?

“Ro…?” Cody turned back, eyes locked onto him, pleading in a way Roman didn’t know how to decode. Something desperate sat behind those eyes, and Roman had no manual for it.

“Rhodes,” Roman said, tone polite as he dissected the man from head to toe. When had they become close enough for Cody to sit on his bed like this? His gaze lingered on the platinum hair, an anomaly that gnawed at him. “Why are you blond?” he added, the question slipping out insistently, as if the hair color was the key to unraveling the disorienting fog in his mind.

Roman watched the horror bloom across Cody’s face as he turned, slow and disbelieving, to stare at Jimmy and Jey, something collapsing inside of him.

Chapter Text

“You want me to what?” Cody snapped, his voice sharp with impatience, cutting through the sterile air of the med bay.

He was one step away from repeatedly slamming his head against the wall, half-hoping the pain would jolt him awake from this nightmare or, at the very least, maybe the repeated concussions would gift him the mercy of his own amnesia. Either way felt preferable to whatever hell he was currently living.

He didn’t even realize he’d been backing the doctor into a corner until Damian’s hand clamped down on his jacket and yanked him back with a warning tug.

“His memory simply needs a subtle jolt—” the doctor began, smoothing down his coat, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.

“So if I go out there and slap him really hard, we’re good?” Cody cut in, eyebrows raised. His voice carried a flicker of desperate hope, but even he knew better than to trust his own wishful thinking. When did life ever hand him something that easy?

“He has a head injury, Mr Rhodes.” The doctor shot him a look, like he suspected Cody wasn’t very bright. “I’d refrain from jostling him about so soon.”

Cody barked out a humorless laugh, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Doc, but it sounds like you’re asking me to take home someone who—let’s be real here—for all intents and purposes, has no goddamn clue who I am.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated himself for it.

“He remembers only Jimmy, Jey, and…” Damian’s mouth snapped shut at the last second, biting his tongue just in time. But not before Cody’s sharp, confused glance darted his way. “…and has no idea he’s supposed to be living with Cody,” Damian finished cautiously, his tone carefully diplomatic.

“Take him back to wherever he thinks he’s supposed to be living then,” the doctor suggested, shrugging with infuriating nonchalance. “Let him work his way forward to the present. Sometimes, familiarity is the best fix.”

Cody’s patience snapped. “He clearly thinks it’s 2017, Doc,” he shot back, his voice rising. “How the fuck are we supposed to know where he thinks he should be living?”

There was a long pause, broken only by the slow hum of machines nearby. Damian took a cautious step back, dreading the news he was about to deliver.

“…Seth,” he muttered finally, his voice barely above a cough.

Cody froze, his head whipping toward Damian with a damning fury. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Damian raised his hands in surrender, his expression pleading for mercy. This was not his fault. Roman had woken up, eyes glassy with confusion, and the first name he’d croaked was Seth’s, all desperate and vulnerable. Cody had better not kill the messenger. 

“He thinks he’s still with Seth,” Damian repeated, ensuring he was out of arm’s reach from the craze brewing in Cody’s glare.

Cody’s lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile, his gaze swinging back to the doctor, who visibly shrank under the intensity. “Of course he thinks that,” he said, his voice low and venomous, each word dripping with resentment. “Of course it’s Seth.”

Roman’s eyes darted between Jimmy and Jey, positioned at opposite ends of the room in timeouts. Damian had banished them there before leaving, to keep them from storming off in search of whoever the ‘Brons’ were. They sounded important too, like something Roman should be aware of. The air was silent, save for the unspoken tension mixed in with the faint beeps of monitors underscoring his growing frustration.

Sami, however, sat dutifully in the chair closest to Roman’s bed, a polite smile plastered on his face. Roman didn’t know whether to be comforted or creeped out by it. The whole thing reeked of babysitting, like everyone expected him to break if left alone for more than two seconds. He hated the feeling of being trapped in a curated little gallery, every person stationed just so, every answer thoroughly rehearsed.

“When do I get out of here?” Roman snapped, completely done.

“As soon as the doc discharges you,” Sami replied instantly, like he had been waiting for Roman to voice the very question.

Roman’s eyes narrowed, but he decided to take advantage of Sami’s willingness. The guy seemed at least halfway cooperative. “Is Seth in the arena?” he asked, voice sharper than he intended.

“Sami, you answer that, and I swear to God—!” Jimmy barked from his corner before Sami could answer, his eyes flashing with warning.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Roman whipped back to his cousin, tone laced with irritation.

“Motherfucker,” Jimmy sneered, stalking a step forward, “as far as you’re concerned, you are talking to me. I’m the CEO, COO, and head booker of all things currently Roman Reigns related.” His smirk was edged with something violent, and for a moment it took Roman by surprise.

“I’ma be straight with you, Uce,” Jey cut in from his exile at the far wall. “You and Seth have been done a while now. Ended almost ten years ago.”

The words hit Roman hard, and his chest squeezed, breath catching. There’d been a time when he’d envisioned forever with Seth, complete with rings and vows, the whole nine yards. That dream had shattered with the steel chair to his back, sure, but learning Seth was gone from his life entirely felt like a fresh wound in the haze of his fractured memories.

“Just gotta wait for the doc to get back,” Jey muttered, dragging Roman back from the haze of memory. “Then you’re coming home with me or Jimmy.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have a home.” Roman’s tone was defensive.

Jimmy let out a manic laugh, his head shaking as if Roman had delivered the punchline to some cruel inside joke. Roman turned desperately to Jey, searching his face for a clue, but Jey’s scowl promised no explanations.

A vicious growl ripped from Roman’s throat, startling even him. The sound echoed off the white walls, silencing the entire room. He blinked, dazed, his hand instinctively rising to his neck as he realized it had come from him.

“What…?” Roman’s voice trailed off, his eyes searching Sami’s face, who was suddenly leaning back, wary where he had once been eager.

“You—basically, you and Cody live together. So uh, going back to your… Florida would mean…” Sami scratched at his messy hair, fumbling for words. “Yeah.”

Roman’s brain short-circuited, his eyes widening comically huge. “I’m dating Cody?”

Jimmy mimicked a buzzer sound, complete with an X-shaped gesture of his arms. “Try again, Uce.”

Jey finally pushed off his wall. Without a word, he dug into his pocket and pulled out something small and metallic, letting it clatter onto the bedside table. Roman watched it spin lazily, glinting under the fluorescent lights, before he reached out to steady it. Lifting his palm revealed a simple silver wedding band.

Cody rolled his eyes as Bron Breakker stalked toward him, bare-chested. He was always bare-chested, his chest puffing out in what was meant to be an intimidating display. Instead, the kid always flushed an amusing shade of crimson, looking to Cody, like a peacock trying too hard during mating season. Which is to say, the results were always the far opposite of intimidating.

“You lost, pretty boy?” Breakker taunted, circling Cody with predatory steps even as Cody pressed forward, undeterred. “Or have you come for your own ticket to the ICU?”

Cody halted mid-stride, and the flicker of triumph in Breakker’s smirk was almost insulting. The boy wanted Cody to lose his cool.

Cody drew in a slow, deliberate breath, exhaling to release the rage building in his shoulders. He was here for Roman, he reminded himself. Roman needed Seth, and smashing Breakker’s head through the concrete wall wouldn’t coax Seth into helping. It would only sabotage his mission to fix this nightmare.

“Where’s Seth?” Cody asked once the urge to throttle Breakker tamped down to a simmer.

“What’s it to you?” Breakker crowded in closer, backing Cody against the cold wall, his breath hot and reeking of overconfidence. Cody’s fingers twitched, inches from hospitalizing the boy; they’d regrettably have to find another way to jog Roman’s memory.

“Bron!” Bronson’s voice barked from the entrance to Seth’s locker room, just a few paces away. “Boss says let him in.”

Breakker’s lips peeled back in one last snarl before he grudgingly stepped aside. Cody made a deliberate show of straightening his suit jacket before striding past him into the locker room.

Inside, Seth lounged on an actual throne. Some gaudy monstrosity draped in scarves of every violent color, and some glittering fabric Cody couldn’t bother identifying. The air smelled faintly of cologne and ego, the room’s dim lighting casting dramatic shadows that suited Seth’s flair for the theatrical.

Seth let out a sharp cackle as Cody entered, his eyes lighting up with malicious amusement. Paul Heyman had claimed the only normal chair in the room, perched like the sleezy advisor that he was. Cody glanced at the benches shoved into the corner, probably reserved for the brute squad.

“I have to say, Nightmare,” Seth purred, twisting the nickname only Roman had the right to use into a mocking barb, “as far as revenge plots go, this one is a dump.”

“I need your help,” Cody blurted, ignoring the nonsense. “Actually, Roman needs your help.”

Seth stilled mid-laugh, the mocking grin slipping off his face.

Heyman leaned forward, his small eyes glinting with opportunistic glee. “You can go back and tell Roman that Seth Rollins is incredibly—”

“Shut up, Paul,” Seth interrupted, his voice slicing through what promised to be a rambling tirade. Heyman’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

Seth rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “Matter of fact—everyone get out.” His voice carried no room for debate.

Heyman rose swiftly, scuttling to the door to join Bronson to wrangle a still-fuming Breaker, who thrashed and cursed like he was being led to his execution. The exit was an overexaggerated whirlwind of grunts and shoves. Absurdly dramatic and utterly pointless, in Cody’s view.

As the door clicked shut behind the lackeys, Cody turned back to Seth, schooling his features into cool indifference. He wasn’t about to let Seth glimpse the turmoil tearing him apart.

“Apparently, your minions lack the finesse you seem to boast,” Cody said, his voice edged with testy sarcasm.

Seth’s expression shifted, the mockery finally fading away. His brows knitted in genuine concern. “What’s wrong with Roman?”

Chapter Text

Roman was unraveling. Nothing at all seemed to make any sense in this new place he had woken up to.

He had a beard now, something that made him look like Jason Momoa’s slightly more exhausted cousin. Dean was nowhere to be found when his snarling face should’ve been the first thing Roman woke up to. He and Seth hadn’t been a constant in almost ten years. After all the times they had both attempted to unsuccessfully wean themselves of the other, it had finally happened. The reason: One Cody Rhodes, now inexplicably blond by the way, and the silver wedding band that had nearly sent Roman back into whatever coma-sleep thing he had originally woken up from.

It had taken a while for Roman to realize that the frantic beeps and shrills piercing the air were due to his dangerously racing heart rate. By the time he blinked away the haze clouding his vision, the room had emptied; Jimmy, Jey, and Sami banished from the room, while the doctor, Roman thought he smelled nice, encouraged him to breathe, and not starve his lungs of the required amount of oxygen.

Now he was curled up in a pathetic fetal ball on the bed, eyes squeezed shut, trying to will himself to sleep, so the Roman whom these problems actually belonged to could magically reemerge and fix it all.

A gentle hand suddenly threaded through his hair, distracting him from the tug of the IV on his arm, and Roman leaned into it before his brain could catch up. He should have more situational awareness than this, he realized, but the pathetic truth was, he needed someone right now. Someone to lean into without judgment, or the weight of ridicule hanging over him.

With Herculean effort, his eyes fluttered open, meeting Seth’s gaze leaning over him, a small, intimate smile softening his features. Roman exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his free arm rising to loop around Seth’s neck, and pull him desperately close.

The sob tore out of him raw. And Seth was there, the sound muffled against Seth’s shoulder as arms enveloped him in return, shushing him ever gently. God, he still smelled the same. Like home, and that cursed bottle of expensive spicy cologne Roman had never forgiven him for spilling all over his gym bag years ago.

Seth held him with tender care, avoiding the IV as he eased onto the bed beside Roman, his hand resuming its soothing strokes through his hair.

“It’s alright, I got you, Ro,” Seth murmured into his hair, his voice a warm rumble that vibrated through Roman’s chest. 

Roman’s grip tightened greedily, anchoring himself to the familiarity. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, long enough for Roman’s sobs to erode into quiet shudders, his breaths evening out. When he finally felt grounded enough, he pulled back slightly, taking in Seth’s face. 

It was unsettling. Seth looked the same and yet completely different. His beard was thicker and much darker. Roman seriously needed to ask someone about the current beard obsession, because he just wasn’t getting it. Then there was Seth’s outfit: a chaotic fusion of feathers, leather, and glittering accents, with asymmetrical sunglasses tucked into the collar.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” Roman asked hoarsely, punctuating it with a wet sniff.

Seth huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Boy, are you gonna flip when you see your sweatpants-slash-sneaker collection.”

Roman tilted his head, meeting Seth’s gaze with wide-eyed curiosity. “I have a sneaker collection?”

Cody sat on the stiff bench outside the Med Bay, watching Jey wear a groove into the linoleum. The pacing didn’t annoy Cody. If anything, he ached to pace himself. He wanted to throw himself into motion until his body burned off the turmoil rattling in his skull. But he didn’t trust his legs not to carry him straight into Roman’s room, not after the way Roman had recoiled from him, that cold, unrecognizing stare slicing deeper than any hurt ever had. And certainly not while Seth was in there, playing the comforter’s role that should’ve been Cody’s.

So he settled for fidgeting instead, anchoring his bottom to the bench as his legs bounced in frantic rhythm, his thumb tracing the smooth silver band on his ring finger that had been a constant for two years, now feeling like a fragile tether to a life Roman had forgotten.

Damian approached, his heavy hand landing on Cody’s shoulder in a reassuring squeeze. Cody managed a bleary smile, the effort straining his face. Anything more might shatter his composure, and he wasn’t about to sob in a stadium corridor.

“Cody, you sure this is a good idea?” Jimmy asked, his brows furrowed into a tight knot, his usual easy grin replaced by a hard line.

Seth had barely slipped past Jimmy’s guard earlier, which was shocking in its own right. Cody was accustomed to Jey’s unhinged fury, but seeing the perpetually cheerful, wisecracking Jimmy descend into that feral mania, stunned Cody. A reminder of how deep the family’s protectiveness ran.

But this was for Roman. The man needed any scrap of familiarity, even if it came from the ex-boyfriend who’d landed him in that bed to begin with.

“No, I’m not sure,” Cody admitted, exhaustion bleeding into every syllable. “But what the hell can I do?”

“Easy.” Jey halted beside Sami, breaking from his pacing long enough to gesture sharply toward the exit. “We take him home with us.”

Roman was already wary of them, and it had only been ninety minutes since he’d stirred. The man had woken up with questions that were growled at, and to faces that he couldn’t recognize. Obviously, it would make sense for him to latch on to the one shred of familiarity he seemed to remember, the familiarity being Seth. God, what Cody wouldn’t give for Moxley to barrel in now, all gruff loyalty and no-nonsense fixes.

“And if he refuses?” Cody tried to keep his voice from snapping, “Do we drag him against his will like a child?”

Damian’s hand gave a quiet squeeze, grounding him again.

“I think we at least give him a moment to get his bearings together,” Damian, bless his diplomatic heart, said, “Then we try again.”

“Y’all don’t get it,” Jimmy shot back, irritation flaring as he tugged at his braids, “I don’t like the fact that it’s Seth in there. I mean, what’s to stop him from reprogramming Roman to suit his preferences?”

Cody’s jaw clenched, the implications of Jimmy’s words washing over him. What would truly stop Seth from turning this into his own selfish do-over indeed?

“So, just to reiterate…” Roman’s brows furrowed as he recalled all the information he had been force-fed in the last forty-five minutes.

“Dean—” He lifted a finger, but Seth made a sharp noise of correction. “Moxley?” Roman adjusted, exhaling a shaky breath when Seth nodded in confirmation.

“Moxley’s alive, just doesn’t work here anymore…” Seth nodded once, his fingers pausing briefly in Roman’s hair before resuming their gentle rhythm.

That one single fact had been enough to keep Roman’s lungs working. The way Jimmy, Jey, and Sami’s faces had crumpled at the mention of Amb—Moxley had sent a cold spike through his chest, conjuring nightmares of loss he wasn’t ready to face. But then Seth had called him. And Roman had heard that gravelly voice on the other end of the line, promising he’d get there as soon as possible. It was a wonderful reminder that not everything from his past had crumbled.

Roman lifted another finger, ticking off the next absurdity. “I have a rather impressive sneaker collection that I’m… rightfully protective of…”

“The most beautiful things I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Seth conceded with a teasing grin, pulling Roman closer in their tangled embrace on the narrow hospital bed.

Roman huffed a weak laugh. “And I had a four-year championship reign that was wildly successful…” This part gnawed at him. The part he wished his brain hadn’t stolen. He wanted nothing more than to summon the rush of thousands of people chanting his name. It sounded intoxicating, and now it was gone, a mere story he was being told second-hand.

“...But was defeated by Cody Rhodes, whom I somehow ended up married to.” Roman finished, his tone disbelieving, as he stared at the silver band glinting on the bedside table.

“Don’t make that face,” Seth said, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and empathy. “I was at your wedding, and trust me, it was the happiest day of your life.”

“I thought the SHIELD debut was the happiest day of my life…” Roman muttered.

Seth cackled softly, the sound vibrating through their shared space. “Ro, believe me when I tell you—you’ve got career highlights that put anything vest-related to shame.”

Roman’s curiosity piqued, but so did a nagging unease. “Are we… are we good together, me and Cody?” he asked.

Seth paused, lips twitching as he debated between honesty and mischief. Mischief won. “Well, there was that one-year stretch where you tortured him.”

“What.” Roman bolted upright, disentangling from Seth’s hold with a jolt, the IV line tugging sharply at his arm. His heart hammered again, the monitors beeping in protest. “I did what? Seth, please tell me you’re joking.”

Seth only grinned wider, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he whipped out his phone, fingers flying across the screen with suspicious glee.

Seconds later, a YouTube playlist filled the screen. Roman barely made it fifteen minutes into the first video before his stomach rebelled.

“I can’t. Nope,” he muttered, pausing the video and shoving the phone back at Seth.

“You haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” Seth’s tone was aggrieved

“What the hell, Seth?” Roman snapped, his voice cracking with self-loathing. “Why did you let… that happen to me?”

Seth reared back, affronted. “Why did I let—” He scoffed, eyes blazing. “Perhaps you need to finish the video, Roman, because trust me, you weren’t ‘letting’ anyone do a damn thing to you.”

Roman closed his eyes and heaved, trying to erase the haunted looks on Jimmy and Jey’s faces from the video, but the images were burned into his brain. The way Jimmy gasped for air in his chokehold, Jey’s helpless rage. His family, broken by his own hands.

“And Cody still agreed to marry me after all that?” His voice cracked, disbelieving.

Seth scoffed, his jaw clenching as he pocketed the phone. “He proposed.”

Roman’s mouth snapped shut.

Not only had Cody endured the torture, Roman hadn’t seen the full extent yet, but so far, Seth hadn’t lied to him; he’d chosen to enter a relationship with the man who’d orchestrated it all. Proposed, even. And now, in the wake of Roman’s amnesia, Cody had swallowed his pride, readily fetching the dreaded ex-boyfriend, simply because the amnesiac husband had asked for him.

Well, if that wasn’t a poor excuse for a lifetime companion, Roman didn’t know what was.

Chapter Text

Roman trailed behind Cody, arms crossed tightly over his chest, as his husband, still a surreal word, led him through the sprawling house they apparently shared.

The foyer alone screamed his presence: the grand photo wall tracing a family tree. His gaze snagged on the branches of the tree, his own image staring back at him from more than one frame. He’d had the strangest sensation scanning the faces. Some he recalled, most he couldn’t quite remember when they had gotten on the plaque.

His eyes swept the living room, catching on details that sparked uncanny recognition. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew without knowing, which side of the couch was his. He could look at a lamp and tell it had been chosen by him, even if he couldn’t recall when or why, instincts clawing through the fog of his amnesia. His tastes had evolved, bolder than the 2017 version of himself he clung to, but the certainty was indisputable.

Then there was the sneaker room. When Cody had flung open the door, revealing rows of pristine kicks meticulously displayed, Roman’s jaw had nearly hit the floor. Seth hadn’t been exaggerating; there were actually hundreds of pairs, rows upon rows, boxes stacked high in colors he’d never have associated with himself once upon a time. Roman had stood frozen in the doorway, unable to remember the first pair he bought. He couldn’t even recall when it started, yet something in him tightened with certainty.

Déjà vu, muscle memory, or his mind wrestling free of the haze, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that the pull to Cody had been strong enough to override bunking with Jimmy or Jey. Why? He couldn’t say, not even with a gun to his head. It just felt… right. And the way Cody’s face had lit up with a tentative, hopeful smile when Roman agreed to come home with him was seared into his mind. Roman found himself wanting to replicate the phenomenon, perhaps make the joy settle in those blue eyes this time.

Cody was mid-sentence about the kitchen, some half barb about a state-of-the-art espresso machine Roman had allegedly insisted on, when he turned to leave, not noticing Roman still rooted in place, distracted by a framed photo of them on the counter. Roman barely registered Cody’s pivot until their bodies collided, Cody barreling into his solid frame. Instinct kicked in, and Roman’s hands shot up to steady Cody, fingers gripping his biceps as their limbs tangled clumsily.

For an awkward fifteen seconds, they fumbled to disentangle, Roman’s pulse quickening at the unexpected closeness. By the time they carved out an interesting gulf between them, Cody’s face was bright red, his hand rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Roman suspected his own shade of tomato wasn’t too far behind.

“Sorry,” Cody mumbled, his voice soft with embarrassment. “Honestly, this is your house, so I don’t know why I’m playing tour guide.” His brows knit suddenly, a thought catching him off guard. “Then again, I don’t even know when you bought it,” he muttered, almost to himself, his gaze dropping to the hardwood floor.

Roman shifted, the silence stretching uncomfortably until something bubbled up at the back of his mind. 

“2017,” he said, the word slipping out before he could question it.

Cody’s head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, always so ready to hang on Roman’s every word, even when they were sparse. “There, see?” He threw his hands up in mock resignation, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Tour wasn’t even necessary.”

Roman shrugged, his arms folding back across his chest defensively. “Not really. I just remember buying it. Whatever furnishing took place must have happened sometime after.”

“Oh.” Cody blinked, lips pressing together as though he’d expected something more.

Roman tilted his head, catching the disappointment and smoothing it over quickly. “So the tour wasn’t useless at all,” he added teasingly, chasing that fleeting grin he’d glimpsed earlier. When Cody’s face lit up again, that wonderful smile breaking through, Roman’s chest tightened with a strange warmth.

Roman – 2; Amnesia – 25. The scoreboard wasn’t in his favor, but at least he was playing.

“So uh…” Cody cleared his throat, hands shoving into his pockets. “I, uh, took the liberty of moving into the guest room. You know, since I wasn’t sure if you’d remember our—your—bed, and sleeping in it alone…” He trailed off, cheeks blushing as his rambling spiraled out of control.

“Why the guest room?” Roman cut straight through the nervous ramble, watching in mild amusement as Cody’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

“Well, I—” Cody’s face crumpled into something almost apologetic. “I just thought—I can leave if you’d be more comfortable?”

Roman’s stomach twisted. “Leave?”

“Yeah,” Cody nodded quickly, though it sounded like it pained him. “It’s no problem at all. We’ve actually got another… setup in Georgia, so—”

“Cody,” Roman said softly, “I’m not asking you to leave.”

The reassurance didn’t seem to stick, and Cody fidgeted. “Jimmy and Jey are going to be staying over for a while,” he countered weakly. And it sounded like he wanted Roman to actually kick him out of the house.

Roman’s nose scrunched, his eyes narrowing as he studied the blond man before him, inexplicably tied to him by a ring he couldn’t yet comprehend. Acting on instinct, he stepped closer, his hand lifting to gently tilt Cody’s chin. A full-body shudder ripped through Cody at the touch, startling Roman into yanking back his hand.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” Roman blurted, his heart lurching with guilt.

“No, no—” Cody waved the apology away, flushing even redder than before, “—it’s my fault. Really.”

“Are you insane?” Roman’s brows knitted with self-reproach. “You don’t just touch someone without their permission. Not even if you wanted a glimpse of their… very oddly placed tattoo.”

That at least earned him a startled laugh, Cody’s surprise melting into amusement. His lips twitched as he tilted his neck, inviting Roman to look again.

Roman hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Knock yourself out.” Cody waved a hand, playful glint in his eyes.

This time, Roman kept his hands to himself, leaning close enough to inspect without touching. The tattoo was bizarre. Wings sprouting from a skull, painted with uneven strokes of red, white, and blue. And it was truly the oddest placement for the oddest tattoo Roman had ever seen.

He squinted at the spot, one word bubbling up unprompted from the depths of his mind. “Nightmare.”

Cody reared back, his eyes widening in surprise.

It was a random word that had simply floated into Roman’s head upon glancing the tattoo. From the look Cody was giving him, you’d think Roman had discovered penicillin.

“I take it, from your face, that word means something?” Roman asked carefully.

“Y—yes.” Cody stammered, briefly, “‘American Nightmare.’ That’s my moniker.”

Roman huffed, unimpressed. “That’s just the opposite of ‘American Dream.’”

Cody laughed, cutting through the tension like sunlight. “Yes, Roman, it’s already been established I’m unoriginal and corny, so we can move on,” Cody said, rolling his hand with a playful flourish. Then he stilled, a mischievous glint sparking in his blue eyes. “Interesting enough…”

He trailed off, his fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt, deftly undoing them one by one. Roman’s jaw slackened, his heart thumping against his ribcage. 

Was this… a proposition? The thought sent a jolt of panic through him, his mind spiraling. Would it be wrong to refuse? Not that he wanted to refuse, they were married after all, so sex was probably a regular part of their life, considering married people did this… regularly. It’s just… Roman would have really enjoyed getting to know Cody first. Again, that is.

Meanwhile, Cody, too oblivious undoing buttons to bear witness to Roman’s internal meltdown, shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it pool on the hardwood floor. In one fluid motion, he tugged off the undershirt beneath, revealing a chiseled torso marked by scars and ink. Roman swallowed hard, his eyes instinctively mapping the lines of Cody’s body.

“—looking for right here,” Cody’s voice cut through Roman’s daze, his finger pressing firmly over the Dream tattoo inked across his chest. 

He lifted his gaze, catching Roman’s wide-eyed stare, and instantly froze, realization dawning. “Oh my God!” His face flushed a vivid puce, the color creeping to the roots of his blond hair.

Cody flailed, snatching his shirt from the floor like a scandalized Victorian maid, and immediately fumbled to pull it back on, clutching it closed with both hands. 

Roman finally blinked at the loss of bare torso.

“I promise, I did not do that on purpose,” Cody groaned into his palm, voice muffled by embarrassment.

Roman exhaled. “You sure? I mean, considering the…” his hand gestured vaguely at his own neck.

“Roman, I assure you, this isn’t payback,” Cody insisted, stretching out a hand, his eyes pleading for understanding.

“I know, Cody. I was joking,” Roman replied, letting his amusement break through his guarded exterior.

“Are you kidding me.” Cody shot flatly, his eyebrows knitting into one straight line.

Roman’s laugh bubbled out, filling the room. He stepped forward gently. “Let me see the tattoo.”

Cody hesitated, then sighed, begrudgingly parting the shirt to reveal the ink. Roman leaned in, admiring the elegant curves of the lettering over Cody’s heart.

The front door swung open, shattering the moment. Jimmy and Jey strode in, lugging suitcases, followed by a blur of fur, bounding straight for Roman with unmatched enthusiasm.

“Pharaoh, wait!” Cody scolded, but the dog paid no heed.

Roman dropped to a crouch just in time, catching himself as Pharaoh barreled into him, nuzzling against his chest with joyful abandon. Roman’s hands sank into the dog’s soft fur, a laugh bubbling up as Pharaoh licked his face, the familiar warmth of the animal stirring something deep in his fractured memory.

Jimmy rolled his suitcase to a stop in front of Cody, his eyes flicking pointedly to the open shirt, the discarded undershirt on the floor, and Cody’s still-flushed cheeks. 

“Did we interrupt something?” he asked, his smile snaking wide, dripping with mischief.

Cody rolled his eyes, his fingers already working to rebutton his shirt. “I was just showing him my tattoo,” he said, his tone tinged with exasperation.

Jey rolled in next, halting halfway through the doorway when his gaze landed on the vest discarded across the floor.

“If y’all are good now, you need to say something, because I am not about to sit through ungodly sounds echoing down the hall—”

“Shut up, fool.” Jimmy cut him off with a sharp smack to the back of the head. Jey jerked forward, clutching the spot, face already set to revenge, when Jimmy tilted his head subtly towards a bereft Cody.

“I have a dog?” Roman’s voice broke the uncomfortable silence, the question carrying a disarming innocence that yanked all eyes back to him.

“Yeet,” Jimmy replied, his grin returning as he abandoned his suitcase for Jey to deal with, in favor of strolling toward Roman. “Technically, he was Cody’s dog, ’til you swooped in and stole all the love.”

Roman straightened to his full height, while Pharaoh, loyal as ever, padded behind him diligently, tail wagging in confirmation of Jimmy’s words. Roman looked down, eyes darting from the dog to Cody. The crease in his brow deepened.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured sincerely, as though the dog’s devotion was another debt he hadn’t meant to incur.

Cody snorted, “Please. I stopped getting those 5 a.m. wake-up nudges for walks, and that’s more than enough for me.” He crouched briefly, giving Pharaoh an affectionate rub behind the ears, before pushing back up to his feet.

“I’ll show both of you to your prison quarters.” He cackled as he gestured for Jimmy and Jey to follow him. Jimmy and Jey exchanged a look and fell into step, their energy loud and boisterous in contrast to the subtle strain lingering around Cody.

Roman’s gaze lingered on them as they disappeared up the stairs, a contemplative shadow crossing his face.

Chapter Text

Roman blinked at the men in front of him, his eyebrows narrowing and unfurling as he tried to piece together what their presence implied. Either 2017 Roman had been the most oblivious bastard on the roster, or this was a more recent development, tied sometime in the hazy gap of years he’d lost.

“Are both of you married too?” Roman asked at last, still testing the waters of this new reality.

“Well, we would be if Randal here would get his head out of his ass long enough to simply propose.” John Cena flashed his trademark grin before swiveling to pin Randy with a crooked glare.

“And what exactly is stopping you from proposing?” Randy fired back without missing a beat, eyes never leaving Roman.

The exchange was quick and well practiced, playful jabs threaded with the sort of softness that only years of banter allowed. Roman had the creeping suspicion that he had once been caught in the middle of one of these heatless sparring matches before. Probably even forced to mediate at some point.

“Hey, Big Dog.” Randy’s voice suddenly cut through, and he feinted an abortive jerk in Roman’s direction, sending Roman jolting upright with an involuntary flinch.

“Randy…” Cena sighed, his tone heavy with long-suffering exasperation.

“Holy shit, Dimples, he really is a wimp again.” Randy turned to Cena, bemusement and concern warring for purchase.

“What do you think we’re here for?” John asked incredulously, throwing up his hands.

Randy shrugged, not at all chastened. “Could’ve been some hidden Bloodline angle. Who’s to say?”

“What’s a Bloodline?” Roman cut in, curiosity piquing. He shifted in the oversized armchair, recently redesignated as Jimmy and Jey’s non-negotiable throne for him to carry out all lounging duties.

Roman didn’t understand why the chair had suddenly become law, but he also wasn’t about to test Jimmy’s resolve. In the weeks since his… accident, his cousin had revealed himself to be a more formidable taskmaster than Jey.

“Uhh.” Cena’s searching gaze bounced to Randy, hesitation flickering in those steel-blue eyes. Randy met it with a lazy shrug.

“The Bloodline,” Cena started carefully, rubbing the back of his neck, “is a faction consisting of you, Dwayne, Jimmy, Jey, Sami, Solo—”

“Solo?” Roman’s head snapped up. “He wrestles?” The name was family, that much he knew, but attaching it to a wrestling ring was something else entirely.

Cena’s forehead rumpled into deep furrows. “Are we really supposed to be telling you this?” He glanced sidelong at Randy, voice dropping to a mutter. “Isn’t piecing stuff back together better for the healing of the mind or something? I’m not a doctor, but I watch Grey’s Anatomy, and this feels like a bad idea.”

Randy snorted, eyes flicking back to Roman. “How the hell do you not know what the Bloodline is, when there’s a damn family shrine at the entrance to your house?”

Roman sat up straighter, the automatic protest spilling from him without thought. “It’s not a shrine. It’s a carefully curated archive of one of—” His words slowed, brows knitting tighter as he reached into some buried archive in his brain and pulled something out on muscle memory. “—the greatest wrestling families in history.”

Cena’s face split into a genuine smile, eyebrows arching high as the pieces clicked. Randy simply tilted his head, lips tugging into a knowing smirk. He looked far too smug for Roman’s liking, as though this entire exchange was something that happened on the regular for him.

Roman’s chest tightened with the strange certainty that this wasn’t the first time he and Randy had had this exact conversation.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cena said softly.

Roman stared at his own hands for a moment, fingers flexing as he deliberated. “…Huh,” he muttered to himself, the sound carrying more weight than intended.

“Cody.” Cena’s gaze flicked to a point just past Roman’s shoulder.

Roman twisted in the armchair to find Cody Rhodes leaning against the wall. From the faint flush dusting his cheeks, Roman had a sneaking suspicion the man had been standing there longer than he cared to admit, eavesdropping on every word.

“Sorry,” Cody said sheepishly. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You can interrupt all you like—it’s no fun when he can’t banter right back.” Randy waved a dismissive hand.

“At least he remembered the opening argument from all your little weekly debates.” Cena gestured vaguely at the sprawling photo wall behind them.

“You weren’t here last week,” Roman said, almost accusatory.

Cena blinked, caught off guard, before his gaze slid to Cody pointedly. Cody shifted, shoulders rising in a small shrug as he moved to stand at Roman’s side. “Yeah, that one’s on me. I canceled.”

“And the week before that,” Randy added dryly, earning a cutting glare from Cody, lips pressed tight.

Roman’s brows knitted, a low simmer of frustration bubbling in his chest. It had been two weeks of Jimmy and Jey’s relentless hovering, their faces filling every corner of his fractured world. They were a lot more... intense than he remembered; always ready with jokes and petty arguments to fill the silence Roman sometimes wanted to revel in. Almost like they’d made it their civil duty to distract him from the fact that he was missing valuable time and memories he might never get back. Patience thinning, Roman had nearly thrown an outright tantrum, demanding a visitor who wasn’t bound to him by blood. John and Randy had shown up the next day, an impromptu visit that reeked of Cody’s careful orchestration.

And now, watching Cena and Randy glance periodically at Cody like he held some unspoken veto power over Roman’s life, Roman was getting the inkling that Cody was … coddling him. Curating who he saw, and what he heard, as if Roman couldn’t handle the weight of the outside world alone.

“Stay for dinner,” Roman said suddenly.

Cena and Randy’s heads snapped up in unison, their eyes darting to Cody for permission, and Roman rankled.

“I’m sorry, is Cody the amnesiac here, or am I?” His voice carried dryly, beneath it pulsed something dangerously close to hurt. He felt Cody shift beside him, a faint rustle of discomfort.

“Nobody knows what I’m ready for but me, and I want both of you to stay for dinner.” Roman finished tersely.

The silence that followed was deafening, thick with layered glances and unspoken arguments. Finally, Cena and Randy exchanged one last look, some wordless agreement passing between them, before Cena nodded.

“Then we’ll stay for dinner,” Cena nodded in agreement.

“Roman, can you step into the kitchen for a minute?” Cody leaned in quietly, just low enough so Randy and Cena, mid-bicker about something absurdly trivial, judging by Cena’s excess hand-waving, wouldn’t overhear.

Roman pushed up from his seat without argument, trailing behind Cody. The moment they crossed into the kitchen, Roman leaned back against the wall and silently watched Cody wear a path into the tile with his restless pacing. It went on long enough that Roman almost sighed. Finally, Cody stopped short, turned, and fixed wide, guilty eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

Roman blinked, head tilting. “What for?”

“I’m not trying to control you, or—or anything,” Cody rushed out, his voice tripping all over itself. “I just didn’t know if you wanted people…” His hands lifted in a half-shrug before falling uselessly back to his sides. “...You usually hate people seeing you vulnerable, so I thought—”

“Cody.” Roman cut in, baffled. “This might sound weird—Lord knows it does to me—but I’m not that guy… or, at least not yet.” He scrunched his face at the absurdity of the situation.

Cody’s shoulders dropped slightly, eyes flickering downward. “I realize that. Believe me, I do…” His voice softened to almost a whisper.

Roman shifted forward off the wall, voice soft. “Then perhaps you should stop making decisions for me based on what the other Roman would want, and simply ask me. ’Cause I’m starting to feel a bit coddled here, Nightmare.”

Cody’s head snapped up, eyes widening in a mix of hope and something extremely brittle. His mouth opened, a question poised on his lips, but a sudden commotion from the living room stole his thunder. 

A barrage of voices erupted, Randy’s low growl clashing with another, gruff tone that cut through the moment instantly.

“Where is he?”

Roman barely had time to register the demand before Dean—Jon burst into the kitchen, all wild energy and broad grin, sporting, of course, a very grand beard, keeping with the trends, and a bald head.

“Aw, Rome,” Jon said, his voice warm and tender, before yanking Roman into a bear hug that squeezed the air from his lungs. Roman laughed despite himself, clapping Jon’s back as the familiar scent of leather and faint cigarette smoke hit him like a time machine.

Jimmy and Jey appeared a moment later, somehow managing to comically wedge themselves in the doorway as they tried to push through side by side. What followed was a hail of grunts and petty name-calling mixed with tangled limbs, until pride gave way to practicality. With twin huffs of defeat, they abandoned the attempt entirely and stalked back toward the living room.

Jon watched all this with no hidden amount of amusement, while Cody shook his head in resignation.

“You good?” Cody turned again to ask Roman. “’Cause I was gonna head back out.” He jerked a thumb toward the living room.

Roman, however, was too busy cataloging the changes time had carved into his best friend. The beard was new, a wild contrast to the scruffy lunatic he remembered from their Shield days. And the baldness, holy shit—

“Why are you bald?” he blurted, unable to hold back.

Jon reared back in mock affront, hand flying to his bare scalp protectively. 

Cody cracked, the laughter bubbling out of him before he could stop it. “Don’t even worry about it. All he could talk about when he saw me was my hair color,” he assured Jon.

Jon pivoted, pinning Roman with a look of exaggerated indignation. “Well, not everyone is Samoan and blessed with an eternal hairline from the Polynesian hair gods, Roman.” He gruffed, voice thick with no small amount of offense. “Some of us mere mortals have to make our peace with getting our Stone Cold on later in life.”

“Alright, fine, fine.” Roman raised both palms in surrender, chuckling. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you better fucking be,” Jon shot back, jabbing a finger at him playfully.

“That’s my cue,” Cody said, backing out of the kitchen. “Yell if you need anything, and Jon is being useless.”

“Rude,” Jon called after Cody’s retreating back, more amused than offended. When he turned back, Roman’s eyes were still locked on the doorway, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. Jon’s hazel eyes glinted with mischief, his wolfish grin making an appearance. “Do you remember hittin’ that, or do you find yourself wantin’ to hit that?”

Roman’s head snapped toward him, having to actually blink himself back into the room.

“What?” he asked eloquently.

“Hey man, I will not fault you for falling in love with your spouse all over again.” Jon raised his hands. “Makes for one hell of a RomCom movie.”

Roman huffed. “He’s been stressed.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Jon drawled, reaching for a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water from the sink.

“I can’t give him what he wants,” Roman admitted after a long pause, voice roughened with frustration. “Hell, I don’t even know what he wants from me.”

Jon tipped his glass back, eyes flicking sideways at Roman without looking too obvious about it. “Do you care about him?”

“Of course I do,” Roman said instantly, like it was the only thing he was certain of. “This is a very uncomfortable situation for anyone to be in.”

“Then do something for him,” Jon said simply, placing the empty glass back with a clink.

Roman opened his mouth, then hesitated, his mind grasping for past solutions. “What would I usually do when he—”

“Listen, forget all that.” Jon cut in plainly. “What do you want to do for him?”

Roman blinked, caught off guard by the question’s simplicity. “I don’t know? Get him a massage?”

Jon’s brows rose, impressed despite himself. “Then voila, you got your good deed. Whenever you’re ready, I’ve got this wonderful coconut oil thing that feels like heaven—” He trailed off when he caught Roman’s look. “What?”

“Get, Mox. I said, get him a massage.” Roman’s brow arched.

Mox squinted at him. “And why the fuck won’t you do it yourself?”

“Because I don’t know how to?” Roman said, frustration edging in. “If I ever did, that knowledge is currently not making itself available.”

Jon snorted, leaning back against the counter. “So, what, YouTube’s only good for watchin’ clips of me kickin’ ass?”

“I don’t even watch clips of you,” Roman deadpanned, lips fighting a smile.

“Then watch a fucking massage tutorial, and oil up your fucking husband.” Mox flailed for emphasis. “Who knows? Maybe those magic hands of yours will knock loose a flashback or two.” His grin turned feral.

Roman tilted his head, genuinely considering it, brow furrowed in calculation.

“By the way,” Jon said suddenly, apropos of nothing. “You called me ‘Mox.’” His gaze locked onto Roman intently, trying to peel back his current layer of skin.

Roman replayed the last few minutes of their conversation and realized Mox was right. 

He hadn’t even known when the man in front of him had gone from Dean to Jon to Mox. It was something his mind had supplied, and he had inadvertently found his lips curving familiar with the word. That he had thrown it in unknowingly during conversation was simply instinct.

“Oh?” Roman asked carefully. “What do I usually call you?”

Jon’s grin softened into something rare and unguarded, lacking all of its usual aggression and hidden subtexts. Roman could tell because his dimples were out, deep as could be.

“Mox.” He said simply, that one word carrying a warmth that filled the entire kitchen.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.

At the moment, Cody couldn’t decide if he appreciated the fact or despised it. On one hand, the silence granted him free rein to wallow, drawing frustrated sigh after frustrated sigh from him by the minute. Jimmy and Jey had whisked Roman off to visit his mother, a trip Cody’s current headspace couldn’t begin to handle. He loved Roman’s family, but right now, their warmth and vibrance felt like a spotlight on his own fractured state.

Of all the fears and doubts he’d wrestled with before diving heart-first into a relationship with Roman, nothing could have ever prepared him for this. For looking into Roman’s eyes and finding no trace of the man he’d built a life with. Having him right in front of him, yet feeling him so impossibly far away, wasn't a nightmare he'd ever expected to live in. 

Which brought him around to his second point. Being around Roman. It hurt these days whenever the man was in close proximity. It wasn't Roman's fault, Cody was aware; he hadn't asked to be jumped by Seth's delinquents, hard enough to knock eight years of memory clean out his skull. And still he was trying harder than he had a right to. God, Cody could see he was trying in every strained smile, every hesitant question about a life he didn’t remember. The fact of the matter remained; it just wasn't the Roman he ached for.

Cody exhaled sharply and pressed his head into his hands, elbows digging into the small dining table they never used. He couldn’t help the wave of shame that crashed over him. Here he was, drowning in self-pity, selfishly yearning for the man he’d fallen for, while Roman was grappling with a reality where he’d woken up married to a man he barely remembered speaking to back in the day. Eight years, erased. And Roman was handling it with a resilience that made Cody’s own brooding feel pathetic by comparison.

Another sigh escaped him as he stared at the grain of the table, willing it to offer some kind of answer.

“Heyya, Cody.”

Cody dragged his gaze upward, blinking through the heaviness of his thoughts to find Moxley leaning casually in the doorway. The man held a bottle of something amber and two empty glasses. His jeans looked like they’d been through numerous heavy-duty washloads consecutively, and he still somehow managed to wear the faintest smirk, basically indicating he was here to cause trouble.

“Need company?” he asked, tipping his head toward the table, a sign he wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

Cody rubbed both hands down his face, his fingertips dragging across his eyes until colors sparked behind his lids. “I don’t know if I’m going to be much fun at the moment, Jon.”

Mox shrugged, shambling into the room either way. “Eh, it's just Apple cider.” He dropped both glasses on the table, poured for Cody without asking, and slid the half-full glass across the wood until it stopped right in front of Cody, sloshing dangerously. “Peace offering.”

Cody's gaze dropped to the table, head lolling along with it. He toyed with his eyelids, forcing them open with the pads of his fingers as he blinked at the glass.

“I can make it Irish if you'd prefer?” Mox tilted his head, scrutinizing his own glass after a less-than-disappointing sip.

Cody’s shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug, hands flapping in universal fuck it mode.

“Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not?”

Seth had knocked. At least, that was the story he’d stick to if anyone asked.

It certainly wasn’t his fault the door had simply given way at the first try. If anything, that was more on Cody and the current clown circus of people he insisted on housing, each collectively lacking the basic skillset of locking a door.

What Seth did not expect, however, was to find Cody Rhodes and Jon Moxley strung out and half-drunk, swapping slurred wrestling stories while attempting to bake. That was a curveball even he hadn't seen coming. These days, though, Seth was getting better at rolling with the punches, both literal and otherwise.

"I didn't know there was a party," he commented dryly, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

Cody and Mox both spun toward him. Well, Mox spun. Cody, on the other hand, seemed to be wrestling with the concept of spatial awareness and made three full rotations in the wrong direction. The expressions they wore were questionable at best. Surprise mixed with something that Seth was charitably choosing to identify as acceptance.

It took nearly thirty seconds, but Cody finally cracked the theory of displacement and staggered into something vaguely resembling ‘facing Seth.’

“Seth!” he crowed, throwing his arms up so violently that a storm of flour cascaded down around him like snowflakes. Then he squinted, frowned, and leaned toward Mox in what he probably believed was a whisper. 

“Is this a drunken apparition, or do you see Seth too?”

Mox braced himself against the kitchen counter to avoid toppling over, his gaze sliding sideways. “The only reason I haven't hit him yet is because I'm currently seeing four of him.” Mox returned in the same not-a-whisper volume, “So I'll get back to you once I crack that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Cody nodded, satisfied with this logic. He turned back to Seth with a wide grin. “We’re making brownies.”

Seth raised a brow at the pair, amused despite himself. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Cody confirmed with exaggerated solemnity. “Though it’s more flour than brownie right now. Jon thought to add pot, but then we realized we didn’t know where to get the w-weeds.”

“It’s just weed, boy scout. One weed. Not the plural forest you’re asking for,” Mox corrected, stumbling away from the counter with the focus of someone walking through an earthquake. He seemed to be making a beeline for Seth, although his zigzag route could’ve covered three counties.

“Where's Roman?” Seth asked, head swiveling around, noting the absence of the usual Reigns-family chaos.

“The twins took him to see his mom,” Cody said, back to stirring his questionable batter with renewed focus, as much focus as he could muster, really. His eyes were narrowed in exaggerated attention, yet the batter still sloshed out over the sides. “Jon and I stayed back to wallow. There were a lot of curses aimed your way, actually."

Seth moved to set the takeout bags he’d brought down on the table. Mox swore under his breath as he arrived at Seth's previous spot, only to find empty air. He blinked owlishly, reassessing the room before resuming his graceless shuffle toward Seth’s new location.

"Me?" Seth prodded, fully intending to exploit Cody's current filter-free state. "Why's that?"

Cody huffed, waving the spoon about. “First you had… Baron—Brian—” he tapped the spoon against the bowl, frustrated at the elusive name.

“Bron?” Seth supplied, voice full of great patience.

Cody snapped his fingers triumphantly, sending more flour into the air.

“Those them! They speared all the memories of me out of Roman,” he declared with a petulant pout, “so you could try and get back with him.”

Seth hummed as he digested the information. It was no secret that he still harbored lingering feelings for Roman; he had made his peace with the fact that he always would. But he and Roman together were volatile. No matter how many times they had tried, no matter the permutation, it never seemed to stabilize.

He could admit to being jealous of Cody and the quiet, frustratingly easy domesticity he and Roman had fallen into, even when it wasn’t perfect. There was a time he had wanted that. And maybe some stubborn part of him still did. But even stripped of memories, featuring clean slates and second chances, he and Roman would never be the match they once pretended to be.

He opened his mouth to say as much, it didn’t matter; Cody was probably too drunk to remember anyway—when Moxley finally stumbled his way over, one hand gripping Seth’s shoulder for balance. Seth turned at the touch, mostly to ensure Moxley didn't fall flat on his ass. 

Huge mistake.

Because in turning, he walked straight into Mox’s too-wide, drunken left hook that otherwise would have missed him. The fist connected with his jaw harder than anyone that drunk should have been able to swing. Stars burst across Seth’s vision, and his knees buckled before he even knew what was happening. He hit the floor with an undignified grunt.

“Nailed him!” Mox roared in triumph, staggering with both hands raised in the air, and somehow still vertical. He turned to Cody with glee, eyes wild. “Boy Scout, I found the real Seth!”

Seth growled from the floor, one hand clutching his throbbing jaw. He had officially reached his limit. He lunged, diving for Mox’s legs in a graceless tackle. Mox yelped a high-pitched, undignified sound and flailed wildly, grabbing onto Cody for support as his balance deserted him. The three of them went down in a tangle of limbs and curses, the basin of brownie mix tipping over in the chaos, splattering chocolatey batter across the floor

A brief, breathless scuffle ensued, filled with snarling, maniacal cackling, and a lot of flailing from Cody, before they all collapsed exhausted, lying side by side on the sticky kitchen floor. Each one hollowed out in their own way.

“You still fight like a bitch,” Mox slurred over Cody’s head, grinning at Seth with an absurd amount of cocky bravado, for a man who could barely sit upright.

“Sober up and get back to me,” Seth shot back sharply.

“That basically just means I’m so awesome, I don’t even need to be conscious to pound the shit out of you.” Mox flexed drunkenly, one arm wobbling midair before he flopped it back down on the tile.

Seth blinked at him, incredulous. “That doesn’t even make any sense—”

Cody clapped his hands together between them. He almost missed, palms skimming past each other, but the sound that did manage to echo snapped the bickering men to attention. His expression was scandalized as he tilted his chin up. “See? Now you’ve gotten batter on the ceiling.”

Seth twisted his head, following Cody’s line of sight, and sure enough, there was a fat brown stain splattered across the once-pristine ceiling. He let his head thunk back against the floor with a groan.

For a while, the three of them lay there, staring up at the evidence of their disaster, breaths slowed. The adrenaline of fists and flour snowflakes drained away, leaving only exhaustion and the faint smell of the takeout Seth had brought.

Eventually, Seth exhaled, the words tumbling out of him like a confession. “I still love Roman.” His eyes fixed on the ceiling, voice stripped bare.

“No shit,” Mox mumbled, eyes closed, one hand splayed lazily over his bare stomach where his shirt had ridden up.

“But.” Seth turned his head, glare narrowing in Mox’s direction. “Roman chose you, Cody. And memory loss or not, I’ve learned to make my peace with it.”

The room plunged into another stretch of contemplative silence, each of them sunk in their own problems.

Then Cody sat up abruptly, his movements sluggish, but determination seemed to be winning out; he reached for the upended bowl of spilled brownie batter and the wayward spatula. He eyed the gooey mess for a long moment, contemplating life's deeper mysteries, or maybe if the damn thing was salvageable, before dipping in and licking a generous glob off the spoon with shameless abandon.

Seth and Mox both turned their heads at once, eyes horrified and transfixed.

Cody chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then shrugged in acceptance. “Brownie?” he offered, holding the bowl out to them.

“Fuck yeah,” Mox said instantly, scrambling upright into a cross-legged sprawl. He dug into the bowl with no hesitation, smearing chocolate across his knuckles.

“This is the dumbest rock bottom I’ve ever hit.” Seth groaned, dragging a hand down his face, before joining them in the impromptu floor picnic.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck?” Jimmy barked; his voice cut through the mess before him. His eyes narrowed as they fell on Cody, Mox, and Seth sprawled across the tile floor, a sticky massacre of half-congealed brownie batter splattered across their clothes, faces, and somehow the damn ceiling.

His glare sharpened even deadlier when it landed squarely on Seth, and he repeated himself with twice the venom. “What. The fuck?!”

Jey growled low from Roman’s left side. He looked one step away from either tearing Seth off the floor with his bare hands or pounding him back into it. Unwilling to watch any of those options play out, Roman thrust an arm out, halting Jey in his tracks.

Jimmy’s head snapped to him, suspicion flaring hot. “Roman, I don’t like—”

“Will you calm the fuck down and figure out what’s going on before you pounce?” Roman snapped, voice commanding as he effortlessly slipped into a role he didn’t even remember knowing how to play. The sudden ferocity startled even him.

Jimmy and Jey both turned to him, wide-eyed. For a fleeting second, Roman could swear there was dread flickering there, like they’d caught a glimpse of some ghost they remembered all too well. But the dread was gone when he blinked, replaced with begrudging, tight-lipped acceptance.

Cody, on the other hand, immediately perked up at the sound of Roman’s voice. He scrambled upright, tripping over his own feet, and stumbled straight toward him.

On the ground, Seth rubbed batter from his eyes, grimacing. He was far too sober for whatever madness this night had spiraled into. All he had meant to do was swing by with peace-offering takeout, check on Roman, maybe smooth a few ruffled feathers while he was at it, and then slip away back into his meticulously curated life. But no. Somehow, he’d gotten strong-armed into sharing greasy food with Cody and Mox, watching the bag empty faster than they realized, not to mention the before-party that involved them rolling around in dough. He had listened to drunk confessions, had poured his own heart out to the drunken pair in turn, and was now currently contemplating homicide. Definitely not on his to-do list for the day.

He sat up stiffly, watching Jimmy attempt to wrestle Mox from the ground. Mox, however, was having the time of his life, swishing his arms through the flour, making flour angels.

“What happened?” Jey asked, his tone an unconvincing attempt at calm. His arms were crossed in his wide stance, eyes locked reproachingly on Seth like he was the prime suspect.

“No need to help me, I’m fine,” Seth deadpanned sarcastically, dragging himself upright with as much dignity as possible. Hard to manage with brownie batter plastered to his formerly, perfectly styled hair.

Across the kitchen, Cody’s knees buckled, and Roman’s arm shot out to steady him before he could crack his head on the counter. He barely registered the stickiness seeping into his skin; all he saw was Cody’s flushed face and the mess of batter clinging to him like a child.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Cody muttered, swatting at Roman’s arm with uncoordinated hands, even as he leaned into the support, his coordination shot to hell.

“There’s no need to apologize, Nightmare.” Roman’s laugh was soft, his grip tightening just enough to keep Cody upright. “Hell, if I’d been here, I probably would’ve joined in.”

Cody stilled, before crumpling into a frown. With surprising strength for someone barely upright, he shoved Roman back a few feet, hard enough to make Roman blink in surprise. And he couldn’t help but marvel; drunk or not, Cody’s strength was something else.

“Stop calling me that,” Cody slurred, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes. He teetered backwards again, and Roman had no choice but to steady him once more.

“I don’t know about you guys,” Mox’s voice broke in with drunken mischief, “but those were the best brownies I never had.” He grinned wildly, batter smeared across his face, one arm slung heavy around Jimmy’s shoulders. Jimmy groaned under the weight, muttering curses, as Mox leaned even heavier into him.

“I’m going to need to use your shower,” Seth declared, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to massage away the headache pounding at his skull. His clothes clung in unpleasant patches of brownie batter, his hair was stiff with sugar, and he somehow felt every bit as wrecked as Mox and Cody despite not touching a drop of liquor all night.

He flicked his gaze across the kitchen, sizing up each man with substantial disdain. “And I’ll be borrowing from whoever has the least offensive clothes.” Without waiting for a reply, he strutted out of the kitchen, his sticky sneakers squeaking against the tile. His retreat up the stairs left five men blinking in his wake, the silence ringing almost as loud as his declaration.

“He’s really nice,” Cody whispered far too loudly into Roman’s ear, breath warm against his skin, “but he doesn’t like it when people know that.”

“Is that right?” Roman murmured, warm with amusement.

“It is right,” Cody insisted, nodding with the solemnity of an oath-taking.

Up ahead, Jey’s growl shattered the soft moment. “I know that motherfucker ain’t usin’ my room shower.” His jaw set as he spun to stomp out after Seth, but was yanked to a halt by Jimmy’s sharp noise of protest.

“You expectin’ me to lug him up the stairs all by myself?” Jimmy demanded, tilting his head as best he could to gesture at Mox, who was currently attempting to burrow into Jimmy’s neck, arm still slung lazily over his shoulders.

“I don’t say this enough,” Mox sighed happily, face pressed into Jimmy’s neck, “but God, Samoans smell nice.”

Jimmy’s eye twitched, but he kept hold of him anyway.

Cody seemed inspired by the pronouncement. He leaned forward until he collapsed fully into Roman’s chest, smearing a streak of sticky batter across the other man’s shirt. With a dramatic inhale, he buried his nose against Roman’s collarbone and let out a dreamy exhale.

“Yeah,” Cody agreed, voice muffled, “they do.”

Roman met his cousins’ eyes over Cody’s head, sharing a perfectly balanced look of fondness and exasperation. Jey, muttering under his breath, finally grabbed Mox’s other arm, and between him and Jimmy, they hauled the grinning lunatic out of the kitchen. Mox made no effort to help, swinging joyfully between them instead.

For a few quiet minutes, it was just Roman and Cody in the wreckage of the kitchen, the air permeating with the sweet scent of batter. Cody’s weight pressed against Roman like he’d found the most comfortable spot in the world. Roman’s arms stayed firm around him, holding him steady, until his own legs began to ache from standing too long.

“Cody,” Roman called softly.

“Mm.” The sound was muffled against his neck, lazy but thankfully still conscious. At least he wasn’t asleep, so that was one worry off Roman’s plate.

“You wanna go upstairs?” he asked.

The silence stretched long enough that Roman almost repeated himself. Then Cody’s voice came, small and tinged with a vulnerability that made Roman’s chest tighten. “Are you going to come with me?”

“Yes,” Roman answered without hesitation. That single word seemed to be all Cody needed, because he nodded against him, letting Roman guide him out of the kitchen.

They walked slowly up the stairs, Cody narrating a well-documented breakdown of the evening. Seth had crashed his and Mox’s ‘brownie party.’ Cody had tripped, sending batter flying everywhere. Then came what Cody described as a ‘deep, soul-baring heart-to-heart,’ the contents of which he was sworn to silence over, though he made sure Roman knew just how life-altering it had been. And finally, in what Cody admitted might have been a mistake, they’d devoured all the food Seth had meant to bring as a peace offering.

Roman listened with rapt attention, nodding and offering well-timed hums of acknowledgment. Other than the occasional stumble, Cody was a surprisingly coherent drunk, his storytelling ability almost sharper in this state, complete with animated hand gestures, dramatic pauses, and terrible impersonations of Mox’s gravelly voice.

By the time they cleared the last flight of stairs, Roman had steered them instinctively toward his own room.

A while later, Roman maneuvered Cody into the adjoining bathroom, gently easing him onto the closed toilet. Cody slumped a little, legs splayed, looking every inch the exhausted disaster he was, but his eyes still tracked Roman with stubborn brightness.

“I thought you remembered today,” Cody said suddenly, words veering off the brownie tangent he’d been rambling about for the past five minutes.

Roman paused mid-motion, hand braced on the wall. “What?”

“I also thought you remembered when John and L-lllandy were here,” Cody slurred, frowning hard at his incoherence.

“You mean John and Randy,” Roman corrected gently, crouching down to better meet his gaze.

“Yes.” Cody nodded with great earnestness. His face pinched. “It hurts when you call me ‘Nightmare’ and you still don’t remember.” He huffed in frustration.

“It does?” Roman asked softly, mostly to keep him talking as he coaxed Cody’s sticky shirt over his head.

“Yes, Ro.” Cody rolled his eyes, and Roman never wanted to witness a drunk person roll their eyes again. That shit was straight out of a horror movie.. “It hurts because I keep missing you, while you’re right here.”

Cody’s hands flung uncoordinatedly outward in emphasis, forcing Roman to duck out of the way. When Cody slumped again, Roman crouched low, settling in front of him until they were eye to eye.

“I like calling you ‘Nightmare,’” Roman said, voice low with the confession.

“Really?” Cody’s tone was skeptical, beneath it a childlike plea.

“Yeah.” Roman let a small smile tug at his lips. “It’s one of the only things that’s felt natural since I… woke up. That, and watching you steal my clothes when you think I’m not looking.”

Cody’s mouth twitched, betraying a quiet laugh, and then his hand found Roman’s shoulder, tugging him forward until their foreheads pressed together. His eyes screwed shut, and his breath, sweet with sugar and liquor-free indulgence, fanned across Roman’s face.

“I miss you, Ro,” Cody whispered, so soft it nearly broke Roman.

Roman closed his own eyes, inhaling the closeness. “I’m trying as fast as I can,” he whispered back.

Cody let out a soft sigh, his whole body draining with the action, and pulled back. He blinked down at himself, only now noticing his bare chest. His brows knitted, confused, like he had no idea how the shirt had disappeared.

“I’m going to leave you to take a shower,” Roman said, his hand resting lightly on Cody’s knee. “Think you can manage that?”

Cody straightened at once with an unnecessary amount of dignity, puffing his chest out even as he swayed. “I am the Undis—located Champion,” he declared proudly.

“Right,” Roman drawled, lips curling despite himself. He patted Cody’s knee and rose to his full height. “Just try not to slip and dislocate anything.”

His smile lingered as he turned and left the bathroom, the sound of running water and Cody’s muttered grumblings following him out the door.

Chapter Text

Cody groaned, the sound vibrating all the way through his ribs and into the marrow of his bones, a primal protest against the sunlight peeking through the curtains and angled directly at his face. Wonderful mornings like these were exactly why he paced himself ninety percent of the time, keeping his drunken nights few and far between. The punishment never failed to outweigh the fun.

He shifted, attempting to swing his feet off the mattress, only to find himself thwarted by the solid weight of an arm around his waist. Before his brain could supply panic, his body leaned back instinctively, recognizing the familiar warmth pressed against him, the steady breath ghosting across the back of his neck.

It took an embarrassingly long minute before Cody blinked fully awake and remembered just where the hell he was. Roman’s room. Well, their room, once upon a time. But he had moved out weeks ago, giving Roman the space to rebuild himself without Cody crowding his every breath. So what in the hell had last night been that he ended up back here, tucked tight against the very man he had promised not to smother?

He tried again, easing more carefully this time, hoping to slip free without stirring Roman. The moment he shifted, the arm clamped tighter, Roman’s face nuzzling not so unconsciously into the crook of his neck. Cody went still, a spark of heat cutting through his hangover. Despite the jackhammer pounding in his head, he immediately knew Roman was faking sleep.

“Roman,” Cody rasped, his voice rough with disuse, “unless you magically have a cure for hangovers hidden in those pajama pockets, I suggest you release me.”

The quiet chuckle vibrated against his skin, and Cody felt it in places that had been starved for attention for far too long. He rankled briefly at his body’s humiliating betrayal.

Roman loosened his hold at last, his fingers reluctantly trailing off Cody’s side. Just as well, Cody had been about one heartbeat away from grinding back against him on principle alone.

He perched on the edge of the bed, back to Roman, elbows on his knees as he dropped his head into his hands, willing the clanging in his skull to quiet.

“Good morning,” Roman’s sleep-rough voice croaked from behind him, and it only made Cody’s already precarious libido worse.

“I’m never touching alcohol again,” Cody muttered, massaging his temples with a groan. “I hope Mox’s head falls off his shoulders for enabling me.”

“I actually enjoyed drunk Cody,” Roman murmured, lazy amusement in his tone.

That made Cody look back over his shoulder, instantly regretting it. Roman was sprawled across the bed like sin incarnate, shirtless, his neck arched slightly as he worked out a cramp, the movement pulling every muscle into sharp relief. The tattoos shifted across his chest, each line drawing Cody’s gaze until he tore his eyes back to Roman’s face, fighting the heat threatening to crawl up his neck.

“Please tell me we didn’t have drunken memory-loss sex,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush of mortification.

“Ouch?” Roman raised an eyebrow, a flicker of hurt crossing his features.

“No—I didn’t mean—” Cody pinched the bridge of his nose, desperate to course-correct. “Believe me, I want nothing more than to—” he waved his hands vaguely, encompassing Roman in all his impossible entirety, “—but not the way I was yesterday. And not until you’re…” He swallowed the word you, forcing out instead, “comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” Roman said softly, eyes sweeping over him with unflinching intent.

“Well, I am hungover,” Cody shot back, standing and hoping distance could save him from whatever spell Roman was weaving, “and I need coffee. Yesterday.”

He sighed when he glanced down and saw the too-long pajama pants hanging off his hips, Roman’s, of fucking course. Apparently, drunk Cody had decided raiding Roman’s closet was a brilliant idea. At least he’d managed to grab a shirt too, sparing himself the indignity of another hunt through drawers this morning.

Without daring another look, Cody strode to the door, keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on the man still watching him. He could feel Roman’s eyes on his back, heavy and questioning, all the way out.

Cody pinched the bridge of his nose as he trudged down the stairs, the echo of the painfully awkward discussion with Roman still rattling around in his skull. His brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders at the moment; matter of fact, it didn’t seem to be firing at all. Which meant introspection would wait until he had had something strong enough to jumpstart his system.

He was greeted in the kitchen by Jimmy, perched precariously on a chair, stretching to swipe at the ill-fated batter splatter crusting the ceiling from the night before. Damian hovered below, arms half-raised in perpetual worry, ready to prevent any Jimmy-related disasters from his spot on solid ground.

They had a full house this morning. Damian and Sami had arrived sometime during Cody’s blissful delusion of comfort, when he’d been wrapped in Roman’s arms upstairs. That memory burned hot and soft in his chest, and he quickly shoved it down before his face gave him away.

“Jimmy, I love you,” Cody blurted, because his filter had abandoned him somewhere between the bed and the stairs.

The declaration startled Jimmy enough that the chair wobbled dangerously, but Damian’s reflexes kicked in, and he caught both Jimmy and the chair smoothly, steadying the entire precarious setup.

“Come on, man,” Jimmy groused, hand clutching his rag against his chest, willing his racing heart to calm.

From the sink, Sami twisted around, his grin already too amused for this early in the morning. He was elbow-deep in the dish pile Cody, Seth, and Mox had created during their midnight antics. “How’s your head?” he thankfully called out lightly.

“Coffee,” Cody rasped, every ounce of desperation he felt packed into the single word.

He nearly wept with gratitude when Jey materialized and thunked the coffee pot onto the counter. Cody snatched it up immediately, raising it toward his mouth with full intention of drinking straight from the source.

Before salvation could reach him, a hand intercepted, stealing the pot right out of his grip.

Cody made a noise of pure betrayal as he turned, finding himself eye-to-eye with Mox, who looked disgustingly awake, wearing his resting smug face. The man was thriving in the very adversity Cody was trying to crawl out of.

Mox poured the coffee into a mug like an actual responsible adult, thrust it into Cody’s hands, and made sure his fingers were wrapped securely around the handle before letting go. Cody immediately brought the mug to his lips, downing a heroic amount despite the scalding burn.

“Easy, boy scout,” Mox drawled in amusement. “Before you melt your insides right out.”

Cody finally lowered the mug, turning his offended glare on Mox. “And how exactly are you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed right now?”

“Not even a hangover can keep me down,” Mox snorted, clapping him on the back with a jolt that almost spilled the precious liquid. “I’m just that awesome.”

Across the room, Jimmy’s scrubbing resumed with renewed vigor, the rag attacking a particularly stubborn glob on the ceiling. “What I wanna know is how y’all tried to bake on the roof.”

“I told you to let me do it—” Damian began.

“And I told you to sit your ass down,” Jimmy cut in, jabbing the rag against the ceiling with such force it squeaked.

“You realize I’m taller than you?” Damian muttered under his breath, smirking.

Jimmy simply huffed, doubling down on the scrubbing.

“Must have been one hell of a brownie batch.” Sami chimed in from the sink, stacking a gleaming plate on the drying rack with a clink.

“It didn’t even make it to the oven,” Cody admitted, pouring himself another cup of coffee before dropping into the chair across from Jey. This one, he promised himself he’d sip like a civilized human being.

Jey snorted, leaning back in his seat. “Believe me, we saw. My only regret is not taking a picture to blackmail you with later.”

“Deadass, drunk Mox is pure comedy,” Jimmy chimed in, easing down from the chair with a grunt, one hand clamped around Damian’s outstretched palm for that extra steadiness.

Mox’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing into slits that promised retribution. “I thought we agreed not to mention that ever again?”

Sami squinted up at the spot on the ceiling Jimmy had wiped, the patch gleaming a touch too clean. “Roman’s gonna notice,” he said, foreboding.

Every head in the room snapped upward, eyes following his gaze.

Roman’s obsession with a flawless domain was not brand new information. The man could, and often would, spend an unholy number of hours obsessively wiping a single spot. As far as Cody was concerned, Jimmy had done a commendable job. But Roman could walk into a room, hone in on the tiniest imperfection like a beacon, and instantly deduce that something was amiss.

“Roman Roman or… present Roman?” Mox asked, and six sets of eyes swung to him with identical expressions of disbelief.

“What?” Mox shrugged innocently. “It’s a valid question.”

“Just slap a fresh coat of paint on it, for God’s sake.”

All heads swiveled again, this time to the kitchen doorway, where Seth had apparently materialized from nowhere. Cody blinked, certain he’d hallucinated him showing up. He hadn’t even realized Seth had stayed the night. Yet there he stood, decked out in Cody’s pajamas like he had a lasting invitation to Cody's house, a gaudy pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses perched on his nose at a perfectly impossible angle. The fact that he’d made it through the night without a twin-sized beatdown was a minor miracle; Cody offered a silent mental round of applause to Jey and Jimmy for their restraint.

“And here I thought recalling you being here last night was a nightmare,” Mox quipped dryly.

“I wouldn’t do you the pleasure,” Seth shot back smoothly, striding in and swiping Cody’s coffee out of his hand without so much as a please.

Jey leaned forward with the promise of escalation should Seth say the wrong word. “What exactly is your excuse for acting like an ass? It’s not like you were drunk last night.”

“Like he needs an excuse to be an ass,” Jimmy muttered as he rinsed the rag at the sink.

“My pajamas?” Cody finally managed, narrowing his eyes in disbelief.

Seth glanced down at himself as though just remembering. “I figured since you wouldn’t be using your bed last night—”

“—And?” Mox cut in instantly, his whole body practically vibrating with nosy anticipation. “How did that go? Are we back on the right track?”

Every head in the room swiveled again, this time toward Cody. He could practically feel the weight of their collective expectation pressing him into his chair.

“We simply slept,” Cody said flatly, snatching his coffee back from Seth and taking a sip.

The declaration barely had time to land before Seth scoffed and wandered toward the fridge, all set to raid it for his breakfast.

“Yes, but together?” Mox asked again, unwilling to relinquish hope.

“Yes—we slept. Together. As in side by side. That’s it,” Cody clarified, voice final.

Damian leaned back slightly in his chair, “It’s probably time we start leaning towards the ‘bonk him on the head’ option,” he said in an attempt at a joke.

Cody snorted, so he supposed it must have worked.

“Hold on now,” Mox cut in quickly, unwilling to let the moment drift. “What exactly is wrong with him as he is now?”

Sami’s brow furrowed. “Are you joking or…?”

Mox waved a hand. “Granted, he’s missing a significant number of years, but y’all act like he’s… I don’t know, less for it.”

From the fridge, Seth’s muffled voice drifted out, his mouth stuffed with whatever dubious breakfast item he’d pilfered. “Figures they’d prefer the Diamond to the coal,” He didn’t even bother to swallow first.

“That guy is a dick,” Mox snapped a finger at him, “and you know it’s a problem when dicks start making points.” He grinned wolfishly at his own double entendre, clearly proud of himself.

A chorus of groans rolled through the kitchen. 

Cody reached across the table and snagged Damian’s wrist, squinting at his watch. It was a Friday, SmackDown day. Which meant, due to his insistence on always showing up hours before the show began, he had to leave for the arena soon. The thought that the venue was only a four-hour drive was almost a relief. Any longer and he would’ve been a nightmare of a plane passenger.

“I need to shower,” Cody announced, pushing to his feet. “Damian, Sami, you both have your bags, right?” Both gave him quick, affirmative nods.

“I’ll have to text Heyman to get me a change of clothes,” Seth chimed in, still chewing God-knows-what as he rummaged deeper in the fridge. “But I’ll take that ride.”

“The car is full,” Jimmy quipped instantly, arms crossed, posture broadcasting finality.

“It’s a fucking SUV,” Seth scoffed, clearly unimpressed by the senseless blockade. “Try again.”

Before Jimmy could retort, a quiet voice cut through the kitchen.

“Oh.” 

Every head swung toward the doorway. And Roman stood there, blinking at the crowd, surprise softening his features. “I didn’t realize it was a full house,” he finished, slightly sheepish, though the effect was ruined by the fact that he was very, very underdressed.

He had no shirt on, which in Cody’s humble and deeply biased opinion was practically the same thing as being naked. Tattooed muscle flexed and stretched under golden-brown skin, with every shift of his shoulders, drawing attention to himself like a fucking oblivious spotlight. And that sleep-mussed, disheveled hair, set in just the right way that made Cody want to do very PG18 things every single morning, was the cherry on top of Cody’s unraveling self-control.

And Roman truly had lost his memory, because there was no universe in which the man Cody had married would waltz downstairs in front of guests looking so sexily haggard, parading himself like this. That was a sight, contractually reserved exclusively for Cody. He had made damn sure of it.

The kitchen had gone remarkably silent, and Cody found some small comfort in the fact that he wasn’t the only one suffering. Against his better judgment, he darted a glance at the others.

Mox was blinking owlishly, looking like he’d forgotten the entire concept of speech. Every time he managed to look away and school his expression into indifference, some other part of Roman’s everything would draw his eyes back. Cody’s lips pressed thin, judging the hell out of him.

Seth, however… Seth’s soul had flat-out vacated his body. The man stood frozen mid-chew, jaw slack, eyes wide and completely fixated on Roman’s form. Cody could make out the unfortunate masticated pieces of bread and cheese stuck in Seth’s mouth, and he shuddered at the image.

“Uce.” Jimmy cleared his throat, drawing Roman’s attention. His gaze flicked pointedly at his cousin’s bare chest. “Shirt.”

“Ah.” Roman’s response was maddeningly casual, like Jimmy suggesting he cover up was a friendly suggestion. He pivoted smoothly on his heels and exited the kitchen, leaving the group in a haze of half-formed thoughts.

Cody’s teeth clicked as his jaw clenched. He turned his glare on Mox, lips pressed into a line.

“Look, I might not be attracted to him, but fuck, he is fine in the morning,” Mox admitted shamelessly.

As if Cody had ever requested a review of his husband’s appeal. He opened his mouth to tell Mox exactly that.

“I’m attracted to him.” Seth interrupted flatly, hand raised.

When everyone turned to stare, he just shrugged, lips curling into something unholy. “My sentence ends there.” His cackle afterward was equally proud and evil.

“I should throw your ass the fuck out,” Jimmy growled, feeling his blood pressure spike.

Cody didn’t stick around for the melee. He slipped out of the kitchen, making his way to his room’s bathroom.

Chapter Text

“I see you brought the whole family.”

Randy's voice cut through the hallway as he came to lean beside Cody.

How he was supposed to perform with the bone-deep exhaustion he felt, Cody had no clue. But champion does what champion must.

Roman hadn’t very much cared for the fact that he was on Raw, insisting vehemently on accompanying Cody to SmackDown. So they had all piled into the second car, with Jimmy behind the wheel. Mox was never one to be left behind or miss the opportunity to scale any mountain that dared block his way. So he was currently in Hunter’s office, pleading his case, complete with bullet points and all, as to why his feral presence in a WWE arena was essential for Roman’s continued survival, while Cody wilted outside in the hallway.

He let out an unamused laugh, “Like I had any choice in the matter.”

“You look like shit,” Randy offered, oh-so-helpfully, his eyes flicking over Cody’s disheveled posture.

“Yes, well, Jon decided it would be a great idea to get me drunk yesterday, so I’m still nursing that unfortunate hangover.” Cody’s hand massaged his temple.

“I told you not to listen to that idiot.” Randy scowled.

Cody wasn’t even going to attempt to unpack whatever violent, mutually accepted enemy-slash-brotherhood connection Randy and Mox had cultivated for over a decade. Whatever bizarre blood-soaked logic worked for them, good for them. He didn’t have the mental bandwidth.

“He’s been helping Roman a lot,” Cody said instead, letting the words hang like a flimsy defense.

“And who’s been helping you?” Randy shot back instantly.

Cody’s fingers dragged down his face. “I’m not the one with amnesia.”

“No,” Randy countered mercilessly, “you’re just the one whose husband has no idea who he is.”

Cody dissected that statement. The first couple of weeks had been brutal. The early days when Roman seemed to always seek out Seth’s presence had been a knife twist. But lately, Roman had shifted. The man almost always wanted to be around Cody now, stealing glances accompanied by small, tentative smiles, and seizing every opportunity for casual skin contact. Cody’s indifference to this development was not lost on him. He probably needed to discuss it with someone level-headed who wouldn’t judge.

“He’s been doing good,” Cody said finally. “He’s wearing his ring again.”

“Nobody cares about the damn ring, Rhodes. I’m more concerned about how he’s been treating you, and the toll it’s been taking on you.” Randy responded, probing.

Cody cared about the damn ring. He’d spent a month dragging Sami across the country in search of the perfect pair. He was certain Sami would riot if he knew it was just a prop in Randy’s eyes.

“We slept together last night,” Cody blurted before he could think better of it.

Randy’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening like saucers. “What?”

The door to Hunter’s office banged open before Cody could elaborate, and Mox stepped out, trailed by a visibly stressed Hunter, who looked like he’d aged a year in the span of their conversation.

“We’re on track, Boy Scout,” Mox crowed with unhinged triumph, clapping Cody on the back hard enough to rattle his hangover. “Boss man here just needs me to have some kind of guarantor, because apparently he thinks I might black out and ‘accidentally’ smack somebody about.”

Cody threaded his fingers across his hair, tugging at the roots. What was one more grown man for him to babysit?

“I’ll do it, Hunter.” Randy piped up before Cody could even breathe a word.

Cody blinked. “Randy—”

“Shut up.” Randy cut him off, the words oddly casual. He turned back to Hunter. “You can rest assured, I’ve got my eyes on him. Both of ’em, if it comes to that.”

Hunter rubbed his temples, the lines of too many crises etching deeper into his forehead. “Why does that sentence make me want to find a third party to babysit you two?”

“I support that idea,” Mox chimed in, his grin twisting into something downright demonic as he glared at Randy. “I’d very much like a witness present all throughout my stay with Randy.”

Randy’s smirk curved into something wolfish. Without warning, he clamped a hand around the back of Moxley’s neck, dragging him forward like a misbehaving mutt. “We’re going to have so much fun together, Psycho.”

Mox twisted just enough to lock eager eyes with Randy, his lips jutted into a pout. “You promise?” he asked Randy, almost childlike.

Hunter actually shuddered as the two disappeared down the bend, bickering already echoing faintly down the hallway. “The property damage is going to be biblical with those two,” he muttered.

When his gaze slid back to Cody, it softened. Cody hadn’t moved, still rooted in place, eyes glassy and unfocused, staring at the spot where his chaotic entourage had disappeared..

“You realize I can send you home for a mental health break?” Hunter said firmly, snapping Cody back into the present.

“My mental health is fine, Hunter,” Cody replied automatically.

Hunter hummed dubiously, a balanced mix of skepticism and care. “How’s Roman? Is he remembering stuff yet?”

“Yeah.” Cody’s answer was vague and noncommittal. “He’s been taking things in stride. Very Roman-like.”

Hunter’s expression softened further, lines easing on his face as he reached out to rest a large, reassuring hand on Cody’s shoulder. “We’re all rooting for him. You need anything—you don’t hesitate to ask. Not a single thing.”

He nodded sincerely, a faint smile breaking through the exhaustion. “Thank you, Hunter.”

“My pleasure.” Hunter’s lips quirked into the ghost of a smile before he gave Cody a playful shove away from his office. “Now go get ready. You’re opening the show.”

Cody winced as the nurse pressed an ice pack to the angry bump on his temple. He lifted his hand to take over, freeing her up to whip out the mandatory penlight and shine it straight into his pupils in search of a concussion or some other nonsense. And wasn’t this a perfect cap to a hangover morning? The irony was not at all lost on him.

The fact that he hadn’t anticipated an ambush felt like a personal failing. He should’ve seen it coming. Bronson and Bronson being in the building ought to have been signal enough. 

“No concussion, thank God,” the nice nurse lady murmured, flicking off the light with a relieved click. “Just keep the ice pack on to reduce the swelling. Feel free to lie here until you’re steady enough to walk.”

She turned and found Jimmy and Jey pacing the length of the room, heat still radiating off them. Both twins looked like they were ready to tear the building apart with their bare hands. Her posture stiffened; she looked like she wanted to clear the room but couldn’t summon the authority. Cody thought she was lucky. The only reason Damian and Sami were absent was that they had segments on the show, and Mox had taken Roman out on some ludicrous errand before the whole thing went sideways, a small mercy for reasons Cody couldn’t afford to explain now.

“Don’t worry,” he said, because reassurance was a reflex at this point. “They won’t be any problem.”

The nurse managed a small nod, all business, and slipped out of the room, the door swinging shut behind her. For a small moment, the only sound in the room was the twins’ heavy breathing and the throb in Cody’s skull. Then Jimmy’s voice snapped.

“That’s it,” Jimmy broke the silence, his voice a low rumble of pent-up rage. “I’ve had it up to here.” He sliced a hand across his throat in a sharp gesture. “I’m beating the shit out of Seth the next time I see him.”

Seth must not have been a religious man, because whatever higher powers existed had clearly abandoned him in that moment. The door swung open, and there he was, striding in to his imminent doom, dressed in an overcoat dripping with frills, hair pulled back neatly, and sunglasses that somehow glowed Vision in LED lights perched atop his head.

“What—” was all Seth could get out before bare hands closed around his throat.

Jimmy pounced, wrestling Seth to the ground with surprising ferocity, straddling him and squeezing. The angry veins bulged in his neck as rage took the wheel.

It was becoming a real chore, but Cody decided intervention was necessary before things escalated to manslaughter.

“Jimmy!” he barked from his perch on the exam table, the ice pack slipping in his grip.

Jimmy seemed to have gone deaf and unresponsive with fury. Luckily, Jey was clear-headed enough for both of them tonight, wrapping his arms around his twin’s torso and prying him off Seth’s heaving body with a grunt of effort.

“Jesus Christ,” Cody muttered from where he sat, fingers still cold from the ice pack. “Are you alright?” he asked Seth, with surprisingly more concern than civility.

Seth wheezed, one hand to his throat, the other scrubbing at the fabric of his designer coat as if it had suffered as well in the assault. “Are you fucking insane?!” he spat at Jimmy, voice raw.

Jimmy launched himself forward again, but Jey’s arm locked around his waist and held him.

“You keep that lunatic away from me!” Seth yelled, eyes wild.

“Say something else about my brother and he’ll be the least of your problems,” Jey snarled back, his own temper flaring in defense.

Seth scoffed, the sound brittle and offended. “I just came to see how Cody was doing—”

“To score the job your hitmen carried out?” Jimmy cut in, voice ragged.

“I never asked anyone to jump you,” Seth shot back firmly.

Cody let out a humorless laugh. “Is this you admitting to having no control over the faction you formed?” he asked, words flat.

“Yes.” Seth’s answer was instantaneous, the single-syllable confession dropping like a stone.

The room plunged into a stunned hush. Even Jimmy’s fury seemed to evaporate at the weight of that admission.

“Jesus.” Seth’s shoulders hunched, despair spilling into his next words. “I realize I’ve done some awful things in the past, but you can’t honestly believe I would do this to Roman.” He sounded desperate for someone, anyone, to believe him.

“Seth,” Cody said softly.

Seth let his hands fall to his sides, defeated. “I’m way in over my head,” he admitted, the words tumbling out free and unfiltered. “There—I said it.” He swallowed. “I started The Vision to help younger wrestlers. Yes, there was an element of revenge in how I ran things for a while. But, I—I screwed Punk and Roman at the main event of WrestleMania, and I took someone important from each of them. That was as satisfying as it could get. All these petty acts of violence... that is not my M.O.”

“Whose M.O. is it, then?” Cody pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Seth’s laugh was bitter and derisive. “Whose do you think it is?”

The door burst open, slamming against the wall and revealing a harried Sami, his red hair disheveled and falling over an equally red face, flushed with exertion. He bent at the waist, hands on his knees, taking a solid minute to catch his breath before straightening up.

“We have a problem,” he panted ominously.

Cody felt a cold dread coil in his stomach. “If Jon’s found either of the Brons, I’d like one of you to just knock me out now,” he muttered, humorless. The idea of being rendered senseless by pain seemed like mercy compared to what Hunter would unleash on him for the fallout.

“Mox is pissed, but that’s the least of our worries,” Sami said. What could possibly be worse than a rampaging Moxley?

“Roman has a handicap match.” The twins turned as one, expressions splitting into alarm and disbelief. However, Sami wasn’t satisfied with the number of bad news for the day. “Against the Brons.”

Cody groaned loudly, collapsing back against the bed, the ice pack clattering forgotten to the floor. He wondered idly if he could sweet-talk the nurse into sedating him just for a day or two, long enough to escape this nightmare.

Chapter Text

“With all due respect, the man is unwell!” Damian barked at Aldis, one broad hand flung toward Roman. His voice boomed off the walls of the GM’s cramped office. “No offense, Roman.” Damian whirled back instantly, the apology tumbling out with earnest awkwardness.

Roman only arched a brow.

Mox stood guard beside Roman, his posture rigid and predatory, looking for all the world like he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Aldis’ throat and squeeze until the smugness drained away. Roman mirrored the intensity, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyebrows furrowed in that signature scowl that telegraphed his mounting annoyance. Randy flanked Roman’s other side, rounding up the three-man brooding sandwich

“I would love to see him get offended right now,” Mox challenged, words twisting into a dare as he whipped angry eyes toward Roman.

Roman’s response was a threatening growl that vibrated in his chest.

“I am not a fucking child, Mox,” he bit out.

“No,” Mox fired back instantly, “just a fucking amnesiac who’s way in over his fucking head.”

Roman bristled and lunged, a surge of raw instinct propelling him forward, but Randy was right there, inserting himself between them and prying both of them apart.

“Children, please,” Randy drawled, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement, though his eyes flashed with genuine irritation as they shot toward Aldis. “Nicholas! You need to fix this right now!”

“I’m sorry, where were either of you before the graphics went up?” Aldis asked coolly, the hand holding his glasses gesturing pointedly between Damian and Randy, his English accent somehow making the words land even harsher.

“Right beside this idiot,” Mox waved a dismissive hand at Roman, his voice a whipcrack of frustration, “telling you the huge mistake you were making!”

“You don’t work here,” Aldis replied, the calm dismissal fanning Mox’s flames.

“It’s not like it’s been hidden information what’s wrong with Roman—” Damian started, his frustration boiling over into a raised voice.

“You’re right,” Aldis interrupted smoothly, cutting him off with a raised hand. “Which is why I insisted on his latest scans and check-ups before greenlighting the matchup. I’m not an amateur. Health-wise, Roman is exceptional.”

“Except for the small fact where he’s missing eight years of ring awareness,” Randy countered, his voice a low hiss.

“Thankfully, he has been wrestling longer than that,” Aldis replied smoothly, and boy did he have an answer for every point. “He’s in the right frame of mind, his body’s in top shape, and—most important of all—he consented. I saw no objections. I gave him the match.”

Aldis met the eyes of everyone in the room before sliding his glasses back onto his face. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a show to run.”

He strutted out of the office, leaving a trail of English swagger in his wake, the door clicking shut behind him, the final punctuation mark.

“Roman, I should pummel the fuck out of you right now.” Mox snarled, voice low and dangerous.

Technically, Mox wanted to pummel the shit out of Aldis, but going after Aldis would be one hell of a hazard for Cody and Randy’s jobs, and Mox cared about them too much to do that. So the next best thing would be settling for pummeling Roman.

He fully understood sticking up for the ones you loved. Heck, he perfectly understood delving headfirst into situations you had no chance of winning. Lord knows he’d written checks his ass couldn’t cash more times than he could count; it was a testament to his grit and resilience that he had come out swinging every time.

Roman had that same iron core; the man had tormented the entire wrestling industry for four years, for fuck’s sake. The problem, however, was that the Roman glaring back at him lacked the cold and calculated cruelty that had made that impossible feat accomplishable. This version hadn’t yet been forged by countless betrayals and isolation; he’d woken to a world brimming with unexpected love and companionship. From the looks of it, this Roman might never need to rebuild that impenetrable shell around his heart.

“The smart thing to do would’ve been to at least look for a tag partner,” Randy at least tried to be practical.

“Who exactly would I have asked?” Roman asked exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in frustration.

The door opened again, admitting Jimmy and Jey in a rush of familial energy, their identical faces etched with unamused scowls.

Roman snapped to attention. “How’s Cody?” he demanded urgently.

“With Sami and Seth,” Jey answered curtly, his eyes scanning the room.

“You left him with Seth?!” Mox’s eyes bulged with fresh anger.

“He didn’t do it,” Jimmy said firmly. And the sheer anomaly of Jimmy defending Seth stopped everyone in their tracks, the room falling into a stunned hush. “He was with us when it happened.”

“Ever heard of this thing called a premeditated attack?” Mox asked incredulously, his sarcasm biting.

“He didn’t do it,” Jimmy repeated, his tone final. “Trust me, Uce.”

“What did Aldis say?” Jey asked the room at large, steering the conversation back to the crisis at hand.

“That the graphics have already gone out. And unless Roman were to suddenly drop dead of a disease, he wasn’t changing an entire PLE card for anyone,” Damian relayed, his voice flat with resignation. The man wasn’t even kidding; Aldis had spat out that sentence word for word with infuriating detachment.

“Technically, the only option we have would be teaching Roman to fight,” Randy mused.

“I know how to fight,” Roman groused. He had his pride after all.

Randy’s response was a gentle hand on Roman’s shoulder, steering him toward the door. The look on Randy’s face informed everyone that Roman was about to sit through one hell of a crash course.

“Trust me, Chief,” Randy said, the door swinging open to the hallway’s loud hum. “You don’t.”

As soon as the door clicked closed, Moxley whirled on the remnants of the room, eyes resolute.

“We need to find a way to knock him the fuck out and bring the original back.” His voice landed, leaving no room for debate.

Jimmy blinked, one brow almost escaping his forehead. “I thought you was advocatin’ for ‘the coal’ or whatever nonsense you was on, this morning.”

Mox rubbed a hand over his face, the action coated with half-annoyance. “Look, I realize I don’t know Roman as much as both of you,” he admitted, “but you have to admit he’s been at peace these last few weeks. Without the weight of all his crap weighing him down.”

Jimmy and Jey shuffled silently, exchanging uneasy glances, Mox’s words hanging heavy in the air.

“And it pissed me off,” Mox went on, voice lowering. “All of you treating him like he was two different people, forgetting this is the baseline for the guy you all grew to respect.” he finished.

Damian folded his arms. “Then why the insistence on getting him back now?” he asked. Practicality dripping off the question.

Mox’s laugh was bitter. “Come on, man. This Roman is not going to do whatever is necessary to survive.”

“But this is the guy who defeated Hunter and the Undertaker.” Damian countered, “So we’re just going to have to work with what we’ve got.”

“Paul!” Seth thundered as he stormed into his locker room, the slam of the door against the wall rattling the frame.

Heyman yelped, scrambling up from his chair. He clasped his hands in front of him, stiff spine, every feature arranged in his best fear and trembling act.

“Y-yes, my Visionary, how may I—”

“Cut the shit, you weasel.” Seth snarled, stalking forward with malicious intent, until he stood nose to nose with the smaller man. He’d never gotten over the contradiction of Paul Heyman: an unassuming frame, pudgy and soft, yet with a brain that could twist the words like a pretzel, dismantling empires. The man had his uses, no doubt. His entire frame vibrated with untapped brilliance, but lately Seth was starting to believe it came with a rot that spread faster than it paid off.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” Seth demanded, eyes narrowing below the perch of his sunglasses, now pushed up into his hair.

“On the contrary,” Heyman stammered, lips wetting with nervous tics. “I wanted you to find out. Sometimes kings are far too busy dealing with the grand matters of state, and have no time for trivialities.”

Seth laughed, a sharp, humorless bark. “We’re supposed to be a dominant group, Paul. Winning championships, breaking records, rewriting history. That’s the mission.” He jabbed a finger with every word, punctuating his disgust. “Whatever this lynch mob cosplay is, I didn’t okay it!”

“This, my dear Seth, is how we establish dominance,” Heyman countered, his voice finding an edge even through its tremor.

“This is not the Bloodline!” Seth snarled, fury eching off the walls, “Now I know you miss him, and that’s your business, I am the last person to fault you for that. But you are not going to authorize any other meaningless attack without my permission.” He pressed in, chest nearly grazing Heyman’s. “Do we have an understanding?”

Paul’s entire frame shook, fingers knotting around one another until they turned white.

“I said—” Seth leaned closer, voice a low growl that vibrated between them. “Do. We. Understand?”

“I…” Heyman’s breath came out heavy, almost mournful, and his eyes flickered away. “I really wish you hadn’t said that.” His head shook slowly, disappointment coating his words.

“Do we have a problem, Bossman?”

Bronson Reed’s voice rumbled from behind Seth.

“No,” Seth snapped without turning. His focus was locked on Heyman, unwilling to yield the staredown. “Get out.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Bronson drawled again.

Seth pivoted sharply to face the threshold and the mountain that filled it. Bronson Reed loomed there, his massive frame filling the doorway, eyes narrowed to predatory slits. He’d somehow ballooned to occupy the entire space, leaving scant room for Bron to pace and snarl.

Seth’s gaze flicked back to Heyman. The man wasn’t trembling anymore; instead, he was smoothing his suit, aligning his tie, straightening his cuffs—any excuse really to avoid meeting Seth’s eyes.

“Him?” Seth scoffed, “Heyman over me?”

Bronson tilted his head, unbothered. “We’re not an either-or sort, Seth. Honestly, we’d rather have both of you. But…” He gave the faintest shrug. “It seems you’ve been... less focused these past couple of weeks.”

Ah. Word of his… fraternizing with Cody and the misfit crew in wake of Roman’s amnesia had gone around, it seemed. Not that Seth was surprised, wrestlers made for the best gossips. Still, knowing and hearing it were two different things. And judging from the looks on their faces, these little side-trips weren’t exactly sitting well with his little group.

“You gave the man amnesia, the least I could do was check up—” Seth started, his tone heated.

“How many times did Roman check up on the lives he ruined?” Breakker cut him off. He didn’t even look at Seth, eyes angled instead straight at Heyman. “Huh, Paul?”

“Zero,” Heyman delivered, all too proudly. He almost preened, shoulders rolling back as though the number was the highest badge of merit.

Seth’s lip curled as Breakker took two steps forward, into his space, their foreheads nearly colliding. “Looks to me like you’re not at all cut out for this job.” His words hissed between clenched teeth. “Which makes you the rest of them.”

The mantra. Of course. Us and the rest of them. Heyman had drilled it into their skulls until it hummed like gospel. If Seth had been a smarter man, he’d have seen what was coming from the first sermon. That brain-rot of an initiation speech hadn’t ever been in their favor.

Seth simply laughed for lack of anything else to do. 

It started as a choked, almost brittle chuckle before mutating into his crazed, infamous cackle. The confusion on Bronson and Breakker’s faces was at least a small mercy, a thin balm to soothe the pain in his chest.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Seth reached up, sliding his Vision sunglasses from their perch in his wild hair down to the bridge of his nose. Then he clicked the LED lights on. The lenses flared to life, twin beams of harsh light that cut through the room. Heyman flinched instinctively at the sudden glare, and Seth savored his recoil, delighted in it even.

“Gentlemen,” Seth drawled, his voice pitched with mockery and farewell.

Then he strutted out. Right down the middle, between Bronson’s bulk and Breakker’s bared teeth.

Chapter Text

Roman was trying to kill Cody. There was no other explanation for this entire dumpster fire of a day. Roman fully intended to stress Cody Rhodes into curling up into a withered husk and perishing.

The front door flew open, rattling the frame and startling Pharaoh and the poor kid they’d scrambled to hire as an emergency dog-sitter earlier that morning. The pup and the poor boy gave a little yelp in unison as Cody swore, chest heaving from the adrenaline still burning through him. His hands were trembling so badly he couldn’t even retrieve his keys from the keyhole, and after three failed attempts to yank them free, he abandoned the effort entirely. One of the thousand people who apparently lived in this madhouse could deal with it.

He stomped toward the stairs, Roman right on his heels. Behind them, Mox had peeled away to do damage control, crouching to reassure the kid who looked one emotional breakdown away from quitting this particular side hustle forever. Pharaoh leaned heavily into him, ears still pinned back, tail thumping nervously. Jimmy and Jey brought up the rear, with Jimmy, ever the pragmatist, plucking the abandoned keys from the lock and pocketing them.

“Cody, wait—” Roman’s hand shot forward, reaching for Cody’s wrist.

Cody yanked it back violently, spinning around a step higher on the staircase so he could glower down at him, voice pitched darkly. “Roman, I would very much prefer if you didn’t touch me right now.”

Roman froze, his hand lagging in the air for a heartbeat before he let it drop.

Roman getting himself booked into a handicap match against Bronson and Bronson was headache-inducing, but not the ultimate doomsday that everyone was making it out to be.

Matter of fact, as soon as Jimmy and Jey had stormed off to Aldis’s office, Cody and Sami had marched straight to Hunter, ready to cash in the favour Hunter had promised. Anything to make your life easier, he had said, and canceling Roman’s suicide mission would definitely have fulfilled the quota.

The problem, you ask? Was Roman’s stubbornness and his inherent, infuriating insistence on making Cody’s life unlivable. The man had flat-out refused to cancel the match, lips pressed into that unyielding line as he stood his ground. No amount of pleading, coaxing, and downright begging had been able to shift his resolve. In the end, Hunter had simply met Cody’s gaze with a world-weary sympathy and shrugged in resignation.

Now, here they were, Cody vibrating with the weight of the entire day, one that had begun with a hangover and was determined to end with a goddamn meltdown.

Roman had the audacity to speak first.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said carefully, almost diplomatic, even. “But I sure would appreciate your support.” 

Cody almost laughed, because who knew the man was capable of political jargon like this?

“My support?” Cody spat, the word a venomous crack, “Against the same pair of people who broke you the first time around?”

The air dropped a few degrees between them. Roman’s face hardened instantly, frown lines deepening as his jaw tightened. “I’m not broken.”

Cody nodded with exaggerated sarcasm, letting out a bitter little laugh, “Right. Waking up missing eight years of your life is totally normal. Could have happened to anyone.”

Roman’s gaze hardened with raw hurt, “I agree, I’m missing vital information. Yes, I have no idea when your birthday is, or how I felt the day you proposed to me—” his eyes flickered next with something defiant, “—but I am not broken. I was Roman Reigns before all that, and I was thriving.”

“Okay, guys, why don’t we settle down for a moment?” Mox’s voice cut through, the rasp in it strangely grounding. He stepped behind Roman, tugging him down a step so he wasn’t toe-to-toe with Cody.

Cody blinked the red sting from his eyes, realizing in the silence that the dog sitter had long since fled the scene. The poor kid must have bolted at the first sign of screaming. Jimmy and Jey were slumped together on the sofa, watching with the hollow grief of witnesses. Pharaoh was curled beside them, head in Jimmy’s lap, Jimmy absentmindedly stroking his ears.

“Let’s not say shit we’ll regret in the morning,” Mox said firmly, sweeping his eyes across both men.

“Well, what does he want, Mox?” Roman’s voice cracked, his frustration spilling out as his hands flew up in defeat. He turned back to Cody, eyes burning. “What do you want? Because I am trying my absolute best, but I feel like everyone is just waiting for me to go to sleep and wake up the correct version—or whatever the hell you all call it when you think I’m not listening.”

Cody’s throat tightened. “I want my husband back.”

Roman’s face twisted, anger flaring even hotter. “Well, tough!” He snapped, venom dripping from the single word. “Because I’m all you’ve got. And you’re all going to either have to deal with it—” his gaze swept the room, daring Jimmy, Jey, even Mox to challenge him—“or go fuck yourselves.”

The silence that followed was devastating. Roman tore himself from Mox’s hold, shoulders heaving, and shoved past Cody up the stairs. The slam of his bedroom door rattled the walls, drawing a startled whine from Pharaoh that cut straight through Cody’s chest.

Mox exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face before turning to Cody. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Cody… you really shouldn’t have said that.”

“You know what, Jon? Don’t even.” Cody’s voice cracked, sharp with exhaustion and grief. “I feel like everyone’s starting to forget that I’ve also been affected by this as well.”

With one last glare, he stomped up the stairs, his own door slam echoing like a final punctuation. Mox stood alone at the base of the stairs for a long beat, the weight of the fallout settling on his shoulders. For a short while, the only sound was Pharaoh’s restless shifting and the twins’ quiet breathing.

Mox finally broke the silence, hand scrubbing over his bald head as he turned to Jimmy and Jey. His voice was dry, almost absurd in its normalcy. “Who’s hungry?”

“Where is Roman?” Seth demanded, stomping into the kitchen like he had any business being there.

Mox nearly dropped the contents of his sandwich, jerking back in his chair. “Jesus—” He scowled at Seth, brows furrowed. “You do realize you don’t live here, right?”

“Or that it’s polite to knock?” Jimmy added flatly from his perch on the counter.

“We’ve got more important things to worry about than your poor response time.” Seth brushed them both aside with a dramatic wave. “Like, say for example, Payback, which—” he glanced meaningfully at each man “—is in two weeks. We need to get Roman up to speed, get strategy going, see if we can jumpstart even a sliver of the self-preservation he once had—”

Seth trailed off, realizing he was the only one in the room with any sense of urgency. Mox, Jimmy, and Jey just stared back at him. Jey even had the nerve to take an obnoxiously loud bite of his sandwich, chewing pointedly. Even Pharaoh readjusted his lazy curl, ears perking at the sound.

“Why is no one moving?” Seth snapped.

“Maybe because this doesn’t concern you?” Jey replied through a mouthful of bread and meat, disinterest in his eyes.

“Not to mention the entire thing being your fault,” Jimmy added sharply.

Seth’s jaw twitched, but he held his ground.

“Look, Seth,” Mox sighed, his tone frayed around the edges. His eyes flicked to one bored twin, the other, simmering, and then back to Rollins. “It’s late, and you wouldn’t believe the day we’ve had. So, if you don’t mind…” He set his sandwich down slowly. “… we’d like you to get the fuck out now.”

“I am trying to help here,” Seth bit out, voice rising, “while the rest of you sit around on your asses!”

Mox shoved back his chair with a scrape, rising to his full height. He stalked over to Seth with murder in his eyes and fisted a handful of his collar, hauling him half off his feet.

“Wait! Wait, Mox, wait!” Seth yelped, scrambling free with surprising agility. He darted behind Jimmy, using the man as an impromptu human shield.

“Jimmy,” Mox growled, shoulders heaving, “hand him over.”

Jimmy half-turned, a wicked grin tugging at his mouth. “Gladly.”

But before he could shove Seth forward, he twisted away again, hopping just out of reach. “You need to reconsider!”

“Why exactly, Seth, do we need to reconsider?” Mox asked, completely fed up with the day.

Seth swallowed audibly, eyes darting between the three of them. Finally, he exhaled and blurted it out.

“Because…” He paused, unnecessary theatrics hanging thick in the air. “I’m Roman’s tag partner for Payback.”

Chapter Text

“Does anyone else feel like this is a long con?” Mox asked, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as he followed the scuffle in the ring. “Seth has literally no stakes in this.”

“If you’re not comfortable with it, you probably should’ve said something last week,” Damian replied without looking up from the ropes.

“I did say something last week,” Mox growled, jaw ticking.

In the ring, Roman hit the mat with a loud thud, the sound echoing just as sharp as the slam itself. He exhaled through gritted teeth, eyes scrunching shut against the wave of soreness radiating through his body.

“I’ve been saying something all week,” Mox finished, pushing off the wall and strolling to the apron. He leaned forward, forearms resting on the edge as he checked Roman over, eyes combing for anything worse than bruised pride.

“You alright?” Mox called down.

“No,” Roman snarled back, voice ragged.

They’d been running this routine every day for the past week. Wake up, get pummeled, rinse, repeat. His body hurt in places he didn’t even know had names, and he was utterly exhausted from the constant barrage of instructions yelled at him from ringside. They’d rotated him through sparring sessions with each of them, turning what should have been a straightforward fight prep into an endless dress rehearsal.

Now, Roman wasn’t one to shy away from a brawl; this was his day job after all. But this was different. They wanted him to act out a script, embodying a version of himself he barely recognized. It felt infantilizing, being handed homework as a grown man. He’d been forced to binge-watch his own matches from 2020 onward, studying the evolution of his in-ring persona. But instead of inspiration, all it stirred in him was churning disgust. A deep, profound disdain for the monster he’d apparently become.

Sparring had been the absolute worst. With Jimmy, it was a relentless push to master trash-talking; an art he’d supposedly honed later in his career, dismantling opponents with venomous words as much as with his fists.

Jey focused on drawing out the punishment, teaching Roman to savor the dominance. According to him, Roman went through some darker phases where he stopped caring about the three-count. If someone needed to be taught a lesson, he’d refuse the pin and he’d prolong the agony, breaking his foes down methodically until they were nothing more than cautionary tales.

Mox, at least, had been pragmatic and mostly focused on survival. “Sometimes, if you can’t win it, disqualify it,” he’d said with a wry grin. “There’s no real stakes here—the goal is just to come out on top, or mostly just come out, in your case.”

Roman had pored over footage of Seth’s crew, particularly the raw ferocity of Bron Breakker. The kid reminded him uncomfortably of himself, except without the concept of control. That lack of restraint could very well be Roman’s undoing come Saturday.

Now, flat on his back after Seth had felled him three consecutive times in a row, Roman was starting to grasp their urgency. Seth fought with a fluidity he didn’t remember, sharper and more adaptive. Jey, Jimmy, and Mox, all of them had evolved too, while Roman’s old style felt archaic and blunt.

“Well, you’ve got one more week of this, so— suck it up,” Mox offered a helping of tough love.

Sami extended a water bottle toward Roman, who waved it off with a grimace.

“Have you tried watching the videos?” he asked as Roman rolled onto his elbows and sat up.

“I have watched the videos, Sami,” Roman snapped, patience fraying. “I’ve watched myself choke out Jimmy, torture Jey, strangle Seth until he blacked out—” He ticked off the horrors with mounting irritation. “—I’ve watched myself humiliate you in front of your hometown, and I’ve watched myself whip Cody like a damn dog.” He arched a brow, thick with pained sarcasm. “Any more video suggestions to round out the collection? Perhaps one where I nail Mox to a cross?”

Mox snorted, grinning despite himself.

“Look, I realize some of those clips look… bad,” Damian cut in carefully. And wasn’t that a fucking understatement? “But they’re necessary.”

“I know,” Roman sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve seen the Breakker kid. I know it won’t be easy.”

“Try impossible,” Jimmy muttered. “No offense, cuh, but he’s basically a newer, more improved version of you. The only edge you ever had was that you were… more methodical in your cruelty.”

Roman winced at the reminder of his current-past self.

“Again—a necessity,” Damian reminded.

“Where Breakker is an axe, you’re a scalpel.” Seth leaned lazily on the ropes, gaze fixed on Roman. “Technically, he’s current you. But the you he knocked to sleep had already evolved past that, and you knew how to play it to your favor.”

Roman blinked, still lost. “So… you want me to whip him with a weight belt?”

“If that’s what it’s gonna take, then yeah,” Jey deadpanned.

“What if we just find a way to get him angry?” Sami suggested, at Roman’s stricken face.

Mox scoffed. “You think he’s a comic book character? Make him turn green and angry and simply unleash him on his enemies?”

“No, but Sami’s onto something,” Jey said, holding up a hand. “He just needs to snap—usually it’s like flipping a switch.”

Jimmy snapped his fingers. “Brock Lesnar.”

The suggestion immediately ignited an explosion of unanimous protests, the group erupting in vehement refusals.

“Don’t bring Brock here.” Roman bristled, muscles tensing automatically at the name.

“How about Punk?” Damian offered.

Roman raised an unimpressed brow. He had zero attachment to CM Punk, emotional or otherwise. He’d seen the tape where Heyman had been the sore point between them and cringed hard. Aligning with Heyman at all had been… a choice.

“Hear me out.” Mox raised his voice over the chatter, stilling the group. “We bring Cody.”

Roman’s face twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “I take it back—bring Brock instead.”

He hadn’t spoken to Cody in over a week. The last glimpse he’d had was Cody packing a bag and heading off to Randy and Cena’s place without so much as a goodbye or explanation. Roman understood. To Cody, he was nothing but a painful reminder of everything missing, but the rejection still stung.

Subconsciously, he caught himself searching for Cody in small ways and stray habits, or maybe it was just his growing attachment in the here and now. But Cody clearly wanted nothing to do with him until he was him again, and Roman would respect that. He didn’t like it, but he would respect it. 

“Listen.” Mox pressed on, calming the group once more. “Cody was the only one who could tame Roman, right?”

“Both in the ring and in life,” Damian agreed without hesitation.

“So we simply ask him to give Roman pointers on… how to be more Roman.” Mox gestured vaguely, hoping the concept would explain itself.

“Okay, but who’s gonna ask him?” Sami questioned, glancing around.

“Not it!” Jimmy and Jey chorused instantly, throwing up their hands.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ll do it.” Mox rolled his eyes skyward, then nodded toward Seth. “Run him through again. He at least needs his reflexes up to current par.”

Seth extended a hand, hauling Roman to his feet with a firm grip as the others filed out with Mox. Probably already plotting how to rope Cody back in. Roman felt a pang of isolation settle in.

“Hey,” Seth said, drawing Roman’s attention. “I know everything feels awful right now, but there’s literally no place left to go from here but up.”

“Until Cody decides he wants a divorce,” Roman muttered.

“Nah, he’s not gonna do that,” Seth dismissed with a wave. “He loves you too damn much to even entertain it.”

Roman worked his jaw, chewing on the doubt.

“Do you seriously think knocking me out would help?” he asked, half-serious, half-desperate.

Seth snorted. “That’s not how this works, Ro. This isn’t a movie.”

Roman clicked his tongue. “It’s worth a shot.”

“The only thing you’d get is a concussion,” Seth said dryly. “And trust me—you don’t want one of those a week before your match.”

Roman exhaled, settling into a fighting stance. “So what’s your suggestion? Everyone else hasn’t been shy about theirs.”

“I believe whatever edge you need to survive this will surface the moment you need it the most,” Seth shrugged, mirroring his posture. “We just need to find a way to keep you breathing until then.”

They clashed again, Seth smoothly maneuvering Roman into a rear-naked choke. Roman thrashed, his hands clawing futilely at the iron grip around his neck.

“Seth?” he rasped.

“Hm?”

“Thank you… for helping me,” Roman managed, sincerity breaking through the struggle.

Seth’s smile curled, sharp but sincere. “You’re absolutely welcome.”

Chapter Text

The door swung open to reveal John Cena, and Mox decided that was as good a sign of fortune as any. Cena’s megawatt smile ignited at the sight of him, broadening as he swung the door wide, ushering Mox inside with an effortless grace.

“Jon,” Cena greeted warmly as he clapped a meaty hand on Mox’s back, propelling him over the threshold. “Good to see you, man.”

Mox gave a noncommittal hum, pivoting to watch Cena ease the door shut. “Randy’s not in, is he?” he asked warily.

Cena snorted. “Nah. He had things to do.” With a shrug, he strolled deeper into the house.

Mox trailed after him, the air thickening with the cloying sweetness of baked goods; vanilla and cinnamon, undercut by a hint of overripe banana. They hit the living room, and Mox ground to a halt, a heavy sigh escaping as his callused hand rose to rub the smooth dome of his shaved head, chasing away the tension knotting his temples.

“Well, if it isn’t the ghost of colleagues past,” came the familiar, needling voice.

CM Punk was sprawled across Cena’s couch, utterly indifferent to decorum, and grinning like he was lounging in his own house. He had a plate of muffins balanced in his lap, munching through them with zero regard for etiquette. Mox’s nose twitched; from the sugary haze blanketing the room, he pegged it as Cody’s handiwork. He had been stress-baking again.

He turned a brow on Cena, silently demanding an explanation. Cena only shrugged, palms up in mock surrender.

“I’m not about to pry him out of the kitchen,” Cena said. “If Randy tried and failed, who the hell am I?”

Punk snorted, sinking his teeth into another muffin. “You’ve got a guy whose form of stress relief is baking,” he mumbled through a mouthful, “and you’re complaining about it. Ungrateful much?”

Mox ignored him completely, eyes still on Cena. “What is he doing here?” He jabbed a finger toward Punk.

Cena tilted his head, all innocence. “Well, the excess pastry had to go somewhere.”

“I’d judge you less if you boxed them up and sold them,” Mox deadpanned.

“Then again, you’ve never been very bright,” Punk fired back without missing a chew.

Mox inhaled sharply as he whipped around, already taking a step forward, unsure whether he wanted to just loom over Punk or knock him out flat. He’d decide when he got there. But Cena slid between them, as if by magic, holding yet another plate of muffins that had somehow materialized out of thin air.

“Muffins?” Cena offered, his smile strained, desperate to cut off the fight before it started.

“No.” Mox snapped. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

With a final scowl at Punk, he spun on his heel and stalked off, tuning out the loudmouth’s ongoing critique of Cody’s sugar ratios.

Cody glanced back over his shoulder at the creak of the kitchen door swinging open.

Upon finding Mox there, his lips thinned into a straight line, and an instinctive urge hit him to beat the dough harder. So he did, palms driving into it with a force that made the bowl clatter faintly against the counter.

It had been eleven days since he packed up and left the house, and he had been dreading and at the same time desperately expecting this visit.

Although he’d expected it would come later. Maybe after the PLE he had no intention of watching. He’d pictured Mox showing up with news that Roman had been knocked further back into his past and now only remembered being sixteen. Or something even more dreadful, like Roman lying broken, paralyzed from the neck down, courtesy of Breakker’s brutality.

A lot of people thought Cody distancing himself from Roman’s madness was an overreaction; Cena had suggested as much in the nicest way possible. But what none of them understood was simple: there was no way an amnesiac Roman facing off against two of the company’s most ruthless predators was going to yield anything other than less than positive results.

Call Cody a coward, but he refused to sit through it. He wouldn’t stomach another instance of watching Roman get torn apart, not after the amnesia fiasco had already drained every last drop of optimism from him. He wasn’t about to accept a front row seat to watch the final shards of his heart splinter for good.

His frown deepened when he noticed the dough collapsing under his hands, structure ruined by his overzealous kneading. His banana bread didn’t deserve the punishment, but here they were.

“What are you doing, Rhodes?” Mox, never one to beat around the bush, slid up beside him at the island counter.

Cody opened his mouth, ready with a quip about Mox being blind, or having lost his sense of smell, given the banana-sweet air, but the words caught in his throat. He knew what Mox was talking about, and it had nothing to do with banana bread.

“How is he?” Cody asked instead, grasping for even a sliver of intel on the man who was unknowingly trying to carve out Cody’s soul.

“You’d know if you were there,” Mox replied, not unkindly. He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. “Seth’s tagging with him, so at least that problem’s handled.”

Cody rolled his eyes skyward. “Of course, Seth is the knight in shining armour.”

“He’s helping, alright?” Mox said, tone edged with reluctant acceptance. “Anything’s better than Roman soloing both those lunatics—hey, don’t make me defend Seth!” He stopped himself mid-sentence, scowling as though realizing what he’d just admitted. His brows pinched together in an annoyed ‘V’. “I’m supposed to be the paranoid cynic in this group dynamic.”

A laugh escaped Cody before he could stop it.

“He needs your help,” Mox said quietly, his tone stripped of its usual bite.

Cody’s laugh was brittle, cracking around the edges. “What does he need me for? He’s already got his SHIELD brothers and his real brothers.”

“We must be doing something wrong then, because nothing’s sticking.” Mox dragged a hand over his head, fingers lingering at the back of his neck, the mere admission paining him. “It’s like everything we say goes in one ear and out the other. We were kinda hoping you’d shed some light on the situation.”

Silence stretched between them. Cody stared at his hands, at the clumps of dough still clinging stubbornly to his fingers. He picked at them idly, but his mind spun elsewhere.

He would most definitely end up screwing himself if he stepped in, setting himself up for the inevitable heartbreak of watching Roman return broken and battered by the match. Leaving him to gather the pieces of himself afterward.

Then again, he was already screwing himself, being away knowing Roman needed him, and he wasn’t there.

A heavy sigh slipped from him. Like he had ever truly been capable of staying away in the first place.

“He needs something to fight for,” Cody said at last.

Mox tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Explain.”

“When I came back to WWE, and I made it clear I was gunning for his championship, I studied him. I even went back through the old SHIELD days.” Cody lifted a hand to scratch sheepishly at his hair, then stopped halfway realizing the dough on his fingers. He let the hand fall back to his side.

Mox’s brow shot up. “You consumed that much Roman Reigns media and still wondered how you fell in love with the guy?”

Cody scoffed softly. “Anyway. The one thing I noticed over and over was this: Roman always needs something to fight for.” He started ticking off examples on his fingers. “At first it was for acceptance, a chance to prove himself capable. Then it shifted into fighting to keep family by his side. After that, he was obsessed with fighting to dominate. And finally, it became about not losing everything he’d built.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mox muttered, equally impressed and horrified.

Cody lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I was intent on beating him. I did my homework.”

“A little too well, it seems,” Mox said dryly. “I was in a faction with the man, and I don’t think even I clocked half of that.”

“That’s not your fault,” Cody said, his tone softening despite himself. “He hides it well. Under those perfectly timed scowls and scrutinizing eyebrows. Roman tends to lash out when he feels threatened. And I mean really lash out, not the cheap barbs he throws at everyone when he’s pretending to be uninterested. And he’s not exactly shy about crossing certain lines as long as it means whatever he’s trying to protect or accomplish is in good order.”

“You’ve got Breakker and Bronson breathing down his neck,” Mox said, bracing an elbow against the counter. “Two of the most imposing guys around right now. So why the hell haven’t those instincts kicked in yet?”

Cody shook his head, hands spread in a helpless gesture. “What are the stakes? Fighting for honor? Sure. To prove he isn’t any less for forgetting a few things? Also true. Because they laid hands on me? Absolutely.” He shrugged. “But he’s not going to be any less Roman if he loses. And I’m not exactly tied to a chair dangling over a vat of acid. So again, what exactly is he fighting for?”

Mox fell silent, scrubbing a hand through his beard as the weight of Cody’s words settled. Then his eyes lifted, pinning Cody in place.

“You’re coming to practice tomorrow,” he declared, no room for argument.

Cody blinked. “Tomorrow is Thursday, this match is supposed to take place on Saturday.”

A wild smirk spread across Mox’s face as he clapped a heavy hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Then that gives you approximately forty-eight hours to whip your husband back into fighting shape, Boy Scout.”

Chapter Text

“Nobody move,” Mox announced the second he pushed through the doors of the Performance Center, arms stretched wide in giving. “I come bearing gifts.”

He sidestepped with a dramatic flourish, revealing Cody in his wake; clad head-to-toe in a sleek black tracksuit, the fabric whispering against his muscles as he adjusted the gym bag slung over one broad shoulder.

A roar erupted from their friends in the corner, Jey hollering "Yeet!" on a loop as he applauded Cody's entrance. Jimmy broke first, barreling forward to crush Cody in a hug that probably could crack ribs, his massive arms locking like a vice around Cody's frame.

“Uce, don’t ever do that again,” Jimmy muttered into Cody’s shoulder, voice muffled in both reprimand and relief.

Cody's arms rose instinctively, wrapping around Jimmy's back in a firm pat. “I won’t,” he murmured, the word heavy with the weight of twelve days of regret. “I promise.”

Across the room, under the unforgiving fluorescents, Roman and Seth stood and watched from the ring. Seth had a small smirk in place despite himself. Spotting Cody, that smirk deepened fractionally, drawing a silent exhale from him. Seeing Cody back was steadying in a way. If anything, that was one thing off the monumental list of other things that were currently feeding off Roman’s already frustratingly scarce focus.

Cody extricated himself from Jimmy gently, the group's energy buzzing like background static, and let his gaze drift inexorably to Roman, and the world narrowed to that singular point.

Roman stood statue-still in the ring's center, arms folded tight across his bare chest. His brows were knitted in that telltale furrow that Cody knew to mean that the man was anxious. He knew Cody was going to be here today, at least Mox had confirmed as much when Cody had asked. Repeatedly, in fact. But knowing Cody was coming and seeing Cody standing there were two different battles entirely. And Roman never liked not knowing what to do with himself.

“Am I awesome or what?” Mox crowed, strutting toward Damian.

Damian slapped him a high five, then launched into some elaborate string of claps, snaps, and finger wiggles that apparently made up some sort of secret handshake.

“Never doubted you, brother,” Damian said, lips tugging into a grin.

Seth slipped out of the ring. He landed light on his feet in front of Cody, pausing just long enough to give him the kind of unnecessarily complicated head-to-toe inspection that only Seth Rollins could pull off.

Finally, he stretched a hand out.

Cody lingered just long enough to weigh the handshake before clasping Seth’s hand with earnest strength. Seth gave a single nod.

“He’s all yours,” Seth said, clapping Cody on the back before drifting toward the others.

Cody's stare lingered on Roman, devouring the sight he'd been starved of for twelve days, hadn’t touched in even longer. Roman looked the same and yet not at all. The broad chest, the tattooed arm folded across it, the unreadable stare pinning Cody in place. And beneath it all, Cody could feel the silent tension buzzing in the air between them. The fact that he was here for the sobering purpose of making sure Roman lived past Saturday was the only thing keeping his mind from straying too far into dangerous territories.

He shrugged off his gym bag and let it drop to the ground before unzipping his jacket, passing it off to Sami without a word. The American Nightmare tank underneath stretched across his chest as he flexed his shoulders, cracking his neck, wiggling his fingers loose before he rolled into the ring.

Roman didn’t move as Cody straightened across from him. His arms were still crossed, posture heavily guarded.

“Cody,” Roman said, low and simple.

Cody tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I hear you’re a nightmare to train.”

“I hear you’re the only one who has accomplished a small semblance of the fact.” Roman retorted.

Cody snorted. “Roman, I don’t think even your mother was capable of leashing you. I simply learned to understand you.”

Roman let his hands drop to his sides, in resignation. “Give me your words of wisdom, oh wise one,” he muttered with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

“Break.”

“Ow—!”

“Break Roman!”

Cody had one knee jammed between Roman’s shoulder blades, the other braced for leverage, while his arms wrenched Roman’s into a position that looked medically inadvisable at best and lawsuit-worthy at worst. Roman’s chest heaved against the mat, his teeth bared equally in frustration and pain.

“Any direction you twist, it’s gonna hurt worse,” Cody barked from above, voice straining with exertion. “So just break!”

“I can’t!” Roman roared, muscles straining as his fingers clawed uselessly at the canvas.

The crowd that had somehow materialized, filled with some half-trainees and half-crew, sucked in a collective breath. Every time Roman tried to buck Cody off, Cody only cinched tighter.

“Holy shit,” Sami muttered from the sidelines, eyes going cartoon-wide as Cody slid into yet another lock. “He makes it look so easy.”

“It is easy,” Jey confirmed, unimpressed. “At least, you know… right now it is.”

“Anyone else think maybe we should clear the audience?” Mox murmured, eyes narrowing at the fascinated crowd. “Because this is starting to look more like foreplay.”

Roman gave a yell as Cody hooked in deeper, and sweat slicked his hair to his face.

“Only you would think getting beat up was foreplay,” Seth shot back, though his voice lacked conviction.

In a burst of desperate torque and sheer willpower, Roman somehow tore himself free from the lock, scrambling across the mat until his back hit the ropes.

“Cody—time out.” He stretched his palm out in plea, chest heaving. “My head is pounding.”

He wasn’t even exaggerating. He’d been nursing a weeklong headache that only grew worse every time he moved too suddenly, and Cody dropping him square on his skull five minutes ago hadn’t exactly helped matters.

“Gee, I hope Breakker falls for that one,” Cody shot back without mercy, before lunging forward.

Roman barely had time to blink before Cody's iron hands clamped around his waist, hoisting him skyward in a breathtaking arc, and planted him into the mat with an impressive suplex that echoed through the entire Performance Center.

“Goddamn!” Jimmy yelped, hand clamping over his mouth in reflexive shock.

Roman groaned, eyes squeezing shut as his head felt like it was about to split clean in half. His stomach churned, and for one reckless moment, he thought he might just vomit and pass out simultaneously.

Damian grimaced from the sidelines. “Shouldn’t we maybe—”

Mox’s arm shot out, his eyes never leaving the ring. “Hold on.”

Cody loomed over Roman, sweat dripping down his face, before dragging him upright again.

Blood roared in Roman’s ears, bright lights that he could swear did not belong to the Performance Center blaring far too bright above him. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he wasn’t in Orlando anymore, Michael Cole’s voice calling the play-by-play of their current session like some cruel hallucination.

Then Cody wrenched him into position, the crowd of trainees murmuring as he set up for the CrossRhodes. He spun Roman and drove him into the mat with devastating force.

Roman’s lungs rebelled. He gasped, sucking in air in greedy gulps, vision spotted with stars.

“Mox,” Damian drawled, unease creeping higher.

“Wait,” Mox said, hand waving with a sense of urgency. His grin was growing.

And then Roman, against every screaming nerve in his body, staggered back to his feet. His stance wobbled, but his eyes locked on Cody with molten defiance.

“That move sucks. That move don’t beat nobody.” The sentence came to him with blinding clarity. And the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

“That move sucks.” He muttered, gaze boring into Cody’s in challenge.

The audience collectively gasped. murmurs fracturing into a low buzz across the Performance Center.

Cody’s nostrils flared in anger, the man turning a very alarming shade of annoyed pink. Without a word, he yanked Roman into position again, clearly intent on disproving his point with another CrossRhodes.

Roman found himself moving on instinct, overriding the dizzying haze of his migraine. He twisted, reversing the motion, his muscles clearly remembering what his aching head was trying to forget. In a wild counter, he hooked Cody instead, pulled out a rather impressive reversal, and slammed him with the CrossRhodes.

The mat thundered beneath them.

For a heartbeat, both men lay sprawled side by side, sweat-soaked and spent. Of course, Cody pushed himself upright first, dragging in heavy breaths. Roman, meanwhile, sank into the mat not wanting to move, not like he could anyway. He was very much content with lying there and becoming one with the mat.

“Roman…”

He blinked up to find Cody offering him a hand. Against his better judgment and every muscle screaming protest, Roman took it. Cody hauled him upright with surprising gentleness.

“Hold on. You’re bleeding.” Cody’s tone shifted to frantic in a second. He swiped at Roman’s nose, smearing red across his thumb.

Roman barely had time to register it before his entire body betrayed him. Violent shudders ripped through his chest, white-hot pulses that stole his breath and blurred his vision. His knees buckled, and the last thing he heard was Cody’s voice breaking into panic. Then the lights cut out, and everything went white.

“Roman.”

The voice didn’t so much cut through his thoughts as it reverberated inside them, making the pounding in his skull echo louder.

“Come on, Ro—open those eyes for me.”

The sound was closer now, warm breath brushing over his cheek, hands gentling his face as it successfully coaxed him back from someplace far away. Roman squinted, lashes fluttering against the light, and when he finally pried his eyes open, because his flesh was weak, the sight that greeted him made his chest unclench.

Cody’s face filled his vision, blocking out the harsh overhead fluorescents. The man’s blond hair haloed in the glow, brows knitted tight in worry, and it was the best thing Roman had ever seen. He would readily take this view over the sun if there was some way to barter sunlight for a healthy dose of Cody Rhodes.

“Are you okay?” Cody’s voice was soft but edged with urgency.

Roman grunted, voice gravelly. “No.” He could hear his head pounding. Nothing good ever came from a diagnosis like that.

“Shit,” Cody swore, lowering himself into a kneel beside him, his palms briskly skimming Roman’s shoulders, chest, ribs, as he cataloged whatever damage only he seemed to be looking for. “If you could just stay still for a moment. Mox has gone to get medical.”

Roman wasn't in control of the arm that snaked around Cody's neck and pulled him into a kiss. He wasn't in control of the way his grip held Cody in place as Cody tried to tear back. And he most certainly wasn't in control when Cody finally melted into the kiss and attacked his lips with a ferocity that Roman would pay to have bottled and sold for ready access.

It went on longer than it should have. Long enough for Roman’s want to burn off, long enough for clarity to come crashing down on him. 

Right. He was supposed to be furious with the man he was currently kissing, he realized as the entire puzzle of the last month and a half clicked into perfect precision in his head. 

Roman tore away with a sharp smack. Hurt eyes locked onto Cody’s stunned expression.

With a suddenness that startled even himself, Roman surged upright. He tested his vertical placement: no signs of dizziness or nausea, save for the splitting headache, and the sticky awareness that he was extremely sweaty in a practice wrestling ring. His gaze snapped from Cody to the sidelines. Sure enough, rows of wide eyes blinked back at him.

Well, that wouldn't do at all.

“I'm sorry,” he snarled, the words a guttural rumble laced with his signature growl-snarl hybrid, “are we handing out tickets to something?”

His glare swept the perimeter en masse, successfully scattering the small crowd, people hurrying back to whatever they were doing before Roman decided it would be a nice afternoon to make out with his husband. 

When the dust settled, only five remained. Damian. Jimmy. Jey. Seth. Sami.

"Roman…" Cody ventured, voice pitched low and wary as he rose to his feet with hands half-raised.

Roman’s head jerked around at the sound, only to catch sight of Mox standing frozen in the doorway, A medic beside him. Looking for all the world like they’d just been dropped into the middle of a show with no script to follow.

The sight of Cody’s worry, all the wide eyes, and the medic’s uselessness all twisted into something molten. He couldn’t breathe in here.

Without another word, Roman slid out of the ring, feet hitting the floor with a solid thud. His cousins instinctively shifted.

“Uce—?” Jey half-reached, voice searching.

“Don’t.”

The snap was sharp and final, Roman’s finger jabbing out in dark-eyed warning as he breezed past them. Past Seth’s sharp-eyed scrutiny, Mox’s unreadable stare, past the medic who, blessedly, flattened themselves against the wall to clear him a straight path.

And then he was gone, out the door, leaving silence in his wake.

Chapter Text

“That—that was Roman, right?” Sami’s eyes were wide as saucers, his voice pitching up in question. “I mean Roman Roman?”

“That was officially the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life.” Seth shook his head.

Cody didn’t bother dropping an opinion. Before anyone could blink, he’d dropped to the mat, rolled under the ropes, and was storming toward the exit with single-minded determination. His sneakers squeaked against the floor in poorly hidden desperation.

Mox, still muttering apologies to the bewildered medic he’d dragged into the mess, spotted Cody at the last second. He moved fast, catching Cody by the arm before the blond could slip through the door.

“Whoa.” His grip tightened around Cody’s bicep, firm enough not to warrant a fight. The last thing Mox wanted was a Cody with this level of desperation throwing hands with him.

“Where are you going?” He rumbled.

“After him,” Cody said, as if it were the only logical option in the world.

“Bad idea.” Mox’s veto was immediate. “Even you know that, Boy Scout.”

“Mox, you didn’t see the look on his face—” Cody’s voice cracked, raw with the need to unravel the image burned into his mind.

“I did.” Mox cut him off, waving the medic away and focusing squarely on him. His gaze was all hard edges and quiet warning. “Matter of fact, I think we all did.”

Cody’s breath stuttered. Because that look had carved a hole through his heart. And he thought he wouldn’t have to wonder about feeling that helpless until Saturday. Roman’s eyes had been molten with hurt and downright betrayal, and the weight of it had punched clean through Cody’s ribs. Cody needed to see him immediately because Roman needed to explain himself for making Cody feel like the bad guy here, when Cody was the one who had gone a month and a half without any form of peace or rest. Without Roman.

“Cody.” Damian’s voice broke through. “Perhaps… we could stand to give him a minute. Let him steady himself, get his bearings.” His eyes flicked toward Jimmy and Jey, both looking just as restless. “The good news here is that he’s back.”

“Hopefully you don’t start with that when you finally talk to him.” Seth’s dry interjection cut across the tension, his arms crossed tight. “Because all this talk about leaving and coming back certainly won’t flow well.”

Cody pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through clenched teeth. As much as he wanted to snap, damn it, Seth was right. Infuriatingly so. The guy could be a self-absorbed jackass on his worst days, but in these unraveling moments, he never failed to offer helpful words of wisdom. Even if the wisdom was wrapped in barbed wire and dripping with snark.

Cody had meant to apologize. He’d meant to take back the words he’d hurled on the night of their fight, the thoughtless knife of calling Roman broken. But the hours had stretched into days, and the days into a week of silence, until the apology had hardened in his throat. Now, the last memory Roman carried of him, aside from Cody driving him into the mat with merciless precision, was Cody’s voice branding him unwanted. 

The guilt chewed at Cody because the truth was, he hadn’t meant it. His lashing out had been a desperate bid to make Roman feel even a fraction of the emptiness that Cody carried every time he woke up alone. Hurt for hurt, and now the bill was due.

“Jesus Christ,” Cody muttered, the weight of the past six weeks crashing into his chest. “The last time we spoke, I basically told him I didn’t want him.” 

“That sounds about on-brand for all of you.” Seth’s remark came mercilessly quick, lips curled cruelly.

“Seth, I swear to God—” Moxley growled, stepping forward.

“You know what, Mox?” Seth cut him off sharply. “Spare me the righteous indignation.” His eyes swept the room, landing on each of them. “All of you. Because I did tell you. But like always, nobody ever seems to want to listen until it’s too damn late.”

“When he first woke up, you all managed to freak him out so superbly, he ended up latching on to me.” Seth jabbed a thumb at his chest, voice rising with incredulity. “And I must be either the most selfless bastard alive or the dumbest, because I handed him right back to you.” Seth leaned forward, his voice rising with each word. “Where you all then proceeded to spend the last month and a half, informing him of how utterly useless and insignificant you thought he was. Labelling him a liability, simply because he had lost the stomach for torture.”

The silence that followed was too heavy to ignore, the weight of Seth’s words pressing down on each of them.

Cody broke it first, voice heavy with surrender. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Seth snapped. His voice was undercut by a flicker of weariness, and his shoulders slumped when he spoke. “You should all listen to me more. Save yourselves a lot of grief.”

No one rose to meet his gloating. It wasn’t that they thought Roman-with-amnesia had been useless, not exactly; it was that they were used to their Roman. The Roman who was always in control, who turned chaos into order with a single command.

The man they got instead had been a fragile version, lost and fumbling through their world like it was foreign, and it was terrifying to watch. Because with the ghosts of his past looming over all of them, a softer Roman wouldn’t have lasted a day in the locker room, let alone a spear from Bron.

Damian exhaled, then shifted uneasily. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing toward the exit. “Is it me, or has he been gone for a while now?”

“I’ll check on him,” Mox muttered, before starting for the exit.

“Jon.” Cody’s voice halted him at the threshold. His lips parted, throat working like he wanted to say more, but the words died on his tongue. He settled for the bare minimum. “Just… make sure he’s okay.”

Mox nodded firmly and then strode out.

By the time Moxley stepped into the locker room, Roman looked infuriatingly flawless.

The man had swapped out of his sweat-drenched workout gear into joggers and a fitted tee that looked like it had been made specifically to taunt everyone else’s self-esteem. His skin had an infuriating glow; Mox couldn’t tell if he had taken an actual shower or just Roman being Roman, but the bastard smelled like fucking flowers. His hair was tied back in that razor-sharp, no-nonsense ponytail Mox hadn’t seen in months, not since before life as Roman knew it had spiraled out of control.

Something in Mox’s chest gave a heavy thud at the sight, the kind that caught him off guard and pissed him off just as quick.

Roman didn’t even give him the courtesy of an acknowledgment. He was hunched over his locker, shoving his belongings into his gym bag, looking for all the world like he’d rather be in a collapsing building than anywhere close by here. The only recognition Mox got was a fleeting flicker of dark eyes toward the doorway before Roman resumed packing like his life depended on it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mox asked, arms crossing over his chest. His tone carried a faint edge between curiosity and a dare. “Where are you packing all this shit up to?” For a moment, he wondered if Roman was just going to ignore him entirely.

“Home.” Roman snapped, the single, sharp word curling his lips in a snarl. 

“Were you really planning on ghosting without telling anyone?” Mox tilted his head, unimpressed. “You realize you came here with people, how the fuck are the rest of us supposed to get back?”

Roman hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, muscles tensing under the fabric. He finally looked at Mox, and the weight of the glare could’ve caved in walls.

“You can find yourselves a fucking Uber.”

And with that, Roman brushed past him, the faint scent of sandalwood and defiance trailing in his wake as he strutted out the door.

Chapter Text

Cody would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised to find Roman in his room. Well, technically, the room he’d moved into after Roman’s amnesia carved a hole between them, but still. The first place Cody had gone when he came home was Roman’s room, and he nearly had a coronary when the bed was empty, sheets still neatly in place, not a trace of him. His stomach had plummeted before his brain could even catch up.

It had taken Mox and the twins cornering him in the hallway to remind him of logic. Roman had driven home; his car was right there in the driveway, keys gone from the hook. That meant Roman was here. Cody just had to breathe like a normal human being and stop envisioning worst-case scenarios.

Once his heartbeat stopped trying to beat a hole through his ribcage, he’d fetched some painkillers. Considering the near constant training of the past week, the head spikes Cody had given him during practice, and the violent shudders that had wracked through Roman earlier when he passed out, Cody figured the man’s head would be throbbing like a bitch. He also knew Roman was the sort of man to neglect his health and hyper-focus instead, on whatever current thing had his attention. At the moment, Cody was certain he was the attention.

And so, Cody found himself standing beside his own bed with a glass of water, staring at Roman, who was positioned comfortably at the edge of Cody’s mattress, not moving or speaking. The man was simply sat there like it was the most natural thing in the world, eyes landing everywhere else in the room but on Cody.

Roman’s head finally turned, his gaze landing with an airy detachment that might’ve cut deep, if not for the sheer absurdity of the scene. Roman Reigns, Tribal Chief, sat cross-legged on Cody’s bed, hugging Cody’s pillow like a favorite teddy bear. His joggers and tee were pristine, hair still damp and drawn tight into his signature ponytail. The raw, boyish vulnerability of the look dulled the menace in his eyes, softening Roman into something achingly human.

Roman’s eyes roamed Cody appraisingly before he reached out, accepting the water and pills with a low grunt. He swallowed them with quick ease, the glass clinking softly on the nightstand when he set it down.

“How’s your head?” Cody asked softly, breaking the room’s electric hum.

Roman’s reply was barbed, but dulled by bone-deep exhaustion. “Why? Scared the real Roman somehow disappeared before you got back?”

The exhaustion was different from the angry mess Roman had been when he stalked out of the Performance Center. The exhaustion was a gift from the gods above. It meant Roman had stewed on the drive home, replayed the fractured weeks over in his head, and maybe grudgingly conceded that the last few weeks weren’t anybody’s singular fault. Cody was going to capitalize the fuck out of the exhaustion.

“Okay,” Cody exhaled, dropping onto the mattress beside him. The bed dipped under their combined weight, the small shift brushing Cody’s knee against Roman’s thigh. He toed off his sneakers, pulled his legs up, and crossed them loosely, tugging his track jacket off so he was left in the American Nightmare tank. He needed the space to breathe, for Roman to understand he wasn’t here for a fight.

He tilted his head, eyes steady on Roman. “We should talk. About the last month and a half.”

Roman hummed, a dubious rumble low in his throat, his fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the pillow before loosening.

“Roman,” Cody began, steadying himself, “these last six weeks… they’ve been the most frustrating stretch of my life. I was confused, I was exhausted, and I was angry at things I didn’t even know how to name. And in the middle of all that, I said things I absolutely shouldn’t have said.” He forced himself to hold Roman’s gaze. “For that, I am sorry. Truly.”

Roman stayed silent, the quiet punctuated only by the faint hum of the AC and Cody’s own pulse in his ears. When Roman finally spoke, it was with an edge Cody hadn’t anticipated.

“Why did you marry me?”

Cody blinked, caught so off-guard that he actually leaned back. “What?”

Roman’s eyes were steady now, cutting through Cody like glass. “Why did you marry me, Cody? Why do you love me?”

“Roman…” Cody’s voice dipped into caution, “Where exactly is this coming from?”

“It’s a very simple question.” Roman waved a hand dismissively, brushing away the excuses. “It doesn’t need explanations or overthinking.” His tone softened, but the weight of it only grew heavier. “Take me, for example. I love you because, even after everything I’ve done, all the shit I put you through—anytime you look at me, you look at me like I’m the best thing the world has to offer. And I married you because, even though I know, you know, that I’ve done nothing to deserve you—you’re still here. Always. Whenever I need you.”

His voice cracked on the last word, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it sort of thing, and Cody’s chest squeezed so hard it hurt.

Cody blinked fast, willing away the sting in his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry, goddamn it. Not when Roman had laid himself bare like that.

“So,” Roman pressed, lower this time, “why are you with me?”

Cody swallowed. His hand moved almost without thinking, resting on Roman’s thigh before he spoke. “You have a huge heart, Ro. Bigger than anyone else’s I’ve ever met. That’s what made me fall in love with you.” He gave a short, trembling laugh. “I’ve watched you try to hide that heart away from the world so many times, that I actually doubted you had one once. But when I finally got to feel the real you, feel the way you love—it was the best damn thing that ever happened to me. How the hell was I not going to marry you after that?”

His hand lifted, brushing against Roman’s cheek, thumb stroking gently. Roman’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch, his whole body sagging like someone had finally given him permission to breathe.

“I’ve probably forgotten to show you that in a while, haven’t I?” Cody murmured, thumb making lazy circles on Roman’s skin.

Roman’s voice dropped, a whisper meant only for him. “I actually thought you were going to divorce me.”

Cody’s heart twisted, a sharp ache blooming. He shook his head, leaning closer. “Ro, I’d need to go through my own bout of amnesia for that to happen.” That earned him the faintest flicker of a smile. Cody huffed out one of his own. “Then again, you did make me take an Uber home,” he added, wry humor cutting through the weight of the moment.

Roman’s nose scrunched, a spark of defiance flickering in his tired eyes. “You deserved it. All of you did.”

Cody pulled him into a hug, sinking into the solid warmth he’d been starved of for six long weeks. He breathed him in, memorizing Roman’s Sandalwood scent, the steady thud of his heart, the faint tickle of loose strands from the ponytail against his neck. In that embrace, Cody silently vowed to never let a moment with his husband slip through his fingers again, each second a treasure hard-won.

“I’m sorry I called you broken, Ro,” Cody murmured, voice thick with regret as he pressed a soft kiss to Roman’s temple, lips lingering on warm skin. “There’s no timeline that exists where I’d ever mean that.”

Roman hummed, a low rumble vibrating against Cody’s chest. “I guess you could say I was broken in a way.”

“Stop that,” Cody pulled back enough to firmly meet his eyes. “Even if all you remember is putting on diapers and sucking on baby bottles, that doesn’t make you any less Roman Reigns.”

Roman blinked at him, unimpressed. “That’s… an awful example.”

Cody huffed, trying not to grin. “Any version of you is and always will be Roman Reigns—though, I’ll admit, I’d prefer the version that actually knows me.”

Roman’s hands lifted, framing Cody’s face with careful reverence, thumbs brushing his jaw. “I’m sorry I forgot you,” he whispered. And then, as though words weren’t enough, he leaned in to scatter soft kisses across Cody’s forehead, cheeks, nose—each one punctuated by another apology. “I’m sorry I made you move out of our room. I’m sorry you almost drowned in whiskey and brownie batter because of me…”

Cody snorted, shoulders shaking with laughter. “God, don’t remind me.”

“And I’m sorry,” Roman continued earnestly, his lips brushing the corner of Cody’s mouth, “for every ounce of stress I’ve put you through since this whole mess started.” Finally, he pressed a slow, grounding kiss to Cody’s lips.

Cody leaned into it for a heartbeat, but then drew back with a frown. “Speaking of stress—you do realize you have a match in two days, right?”

Roman’s entire posture sagged as he groaned, dropping his forehead against Cody’s collarbone. “God. I have to work with Seth.”

“Don’t do that, he’s been a lot of help.” Cody scolded softly, threading his fingers through Roman’s hair and coaxing his head to rest against his chest. The low, involuntary purr Roman let out sent warmth flooding through Cody’s chest. God, he’d missed this.

“Yes, but—” Roman mumbled into his shirt, voice muffled and petulant. “I remember hating him, and now I also remember how decent he’s been these last few weeks, and everything feels… weird. Like, I can’t begin to reconcile both versions of—” His head snapped up suddenly, eyes wide as a dawning realization hit. “Ohhhhhh. I get it now. That’s what you all meant.”

“Mm-hm,” Cody said knowingly, suppressing a smirk. “Also, you need to apologize to Jimmy and Jey for stranding them.”

Roman wrinkled his nose immediately. “I’m not doing that. I told you, you all deserved it.”

“Fine,” Cody sighed dramatically, “but you still owe them something. An apology, a thank-you, whatever—it’s been weeks, Ro. They’ve been here for a while, you know? Mox too.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Jimmy threatened me. A lot.”

“Roman,” Cody warned in that mock-angry tone that always made Roman huff like a chastised teenager.

“Fine, fine,” Roman grumbled, throwing up his hands. “I’ll apologize. Or thank them. Or both. But later. Right now I’d just really like to… hold you.” The confession tumbled out on a frustrated exhale, like he hated admitting to something so vulnerable.

Cody’s heart swelled, his smile soft. “I would really like to just hold you too, Ro.”

And so they lay down, side by side, the tension ebbing away as they curled toward one another. Roman’s arm slid naturally around Cody’s waist; Cody’s hand settled over Roman’s heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath his palm. For a long, suspended stretch of silence, they just looked at each other; studying, memorizing, reacquainting themselves with details they’d been starved of. Neither dared blink, as though closing their eyes might risk losing sight of the other all over again.

Chapter Text

Seth eased into the room, the repeated whips of Roman’s jump rope cracking against the floor rhythmically, echoing off the concrete walls of the makeshift gym. Sweat gleamed on Roman’s bare torso, tribal ink stark against his skin, muscles flexing with each precise bound.

Seth had barely taken two steps when the rope’s hard plastic handle launched toward his skull. Only his reflexes saved him from the kind of concussion that would have gone down in history as both tragic and humiliating; he dropped into a crouch, the whoosh grazing his curls, heart thudding heavily.

“What the fuck, Roman?” Seth snapped from his crouch, voice spiking with incredulity, eyes wide as he glared up.

“You should know better than to sneak up on me,” Roman replied, calm as ever, not breaking rhythm as he reeled in the rope, winding it in with easy flicks of his wrist.

“Sneak up on you?” Seth sputtered, standing and slapping at the nonexistent dust on his black and gold designer track jacket. “Your back was to the door, you had ear pods in—how the hell else was I supposed to announce myself?!” He threw his arms out, gesturing furiously at the perfectly obvious logistics.

Roman hummed his infuriatingly smug lilt, popping the AirPods out and slipping them into his pocket. “Yeah, those weren’t even on. I just wear them so people don’t bother me with small talk during gym time.”

Seth froze mid-gesture, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You—” He cut himself off before his blood pressure spiked. Roman coiled the rope and tossed it aside, and Seth’s focus immediately snapped to the fact that Roman was, unfortunately, gloriously shirtless. Muscles glistened under the gym lights, tattoos flexing with every casual movement.

Seth audibly swallowed. “For the love of God, put a shirt on,” he groaned, screwing his eyes shut and pressing his fingers to his temples in an attempt to scrub the image out of his brain. “You’re killing me here.”

Roman snorted but mercifully complied. He snagged a black tee from the bench and tugged it over his head, dragging the fabric down slow enough to be evil.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, the question laced with mild curiosity now that that glorious torso was safely concealed.

Seth plopped to the floor cross-legged, dramatically exhaling. “Strategy session. Our match is tomorrow, remember?”

Roman stayed looming for a second longer, eyebrow raised, until Seth impatiently patted the mat in front of him, reminiscent of the way Roman usually summoned Pharaoh. With a scowl that was the direct opposite of Seth’s smirk, Roman reluctantly lowered himself to sit opposite him.

“So,” Seth started, adjusting his posture to focus solely on Roman. “What is the plan?”

Roman seemed to change his mind and instead stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands. “Don’t die?” he offered with a shrug.

“Mm. Genius-level stuff.” Seth rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping. “How long’d it take to cook that one up?”

Roman ignored the sarcasm, tilting his head in thought. Seth’s gaze flicked, against his better judgment, to the wedding ring glinting on Roman’s finger. For one dangerous second, he wondered if there was some alternate universe where he was the one who’d ended up with Roman. The thought lodged hot and sudden in his chest, and he quickly pushed down before it could bloom into something reckless. What he’d give to hijack that reality.

“Technically,” Roman broke the silence, pulling Seth back from his accidental daydream, “they’re younger and faster than we are. But we’ve got years on them. Experience, ring IQ… and we’ve known each other what—five years now?”

“Fifteen, Roman.” Seth corrected dryly, already bracing himself for the inevitable.

Sure enough, Roman’s mouth curved into that infuriatingly knowing smirk. The bastard.

“We’ll be fine,” Roman said, unshaken. “As long as we don’t try to match them blow for blow. You’re the expert at getting inside people’s heads, and I’m an expert in—”

“Making lives miserable?” Seth cut in, a grin tugging despite himself.

Roman’s smirk deepened, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Exactly.”

Seth rolled his eyes again, for lack of what to do. Who would have thought he and Roman could sit across from each other, talking like normal human beings, without it escalating to grievous bodily harm on both sides? Seth certainly hadn’t. And he wasn’t ashamed to admit, even if only to himself, that he had missed this. The walls and fluorescent hum felt almost sacred in this rare ceasefire.

This was the kind of easy camaraderie they hadn’t tasted since 2019. Give or take a few months of fleeting peace. Even then, it had been Mox holding the pieces together. The man had been leaving WWE and had insisted they each get their shit together and give him the perfect send-off, strategically wrangling them into something resembling brotherhood, one last grand high before the old wounds reopened. After he was gone? They’d crumbled right back into animosity and brutality, navigating each other with a hatred that Seth still wasn’t sure wasn’t forced. 

It wasn’t that they couldn’t work together; hell, history had proven they could tear the world down side by side. The problem was that it only took one stray memory of past wrongs for the whole thing to ignite, burning out before it could even find ground.

He wouldn’t dare say it within earshot of Cody or the twins, but Seth missed amnesiac Roman. That blank slate, unburdened by their tangled history, had been a chance to rebuild, even just as friends, without the weight of a decade’s mistakes dragging them under. Still. He was glad Roman had his memories back. They had to face the Brons tomorrow, and Seth needed the unconquerable Roman. But somewhere, in the chasm of his chest, he couldn’t stop wanting the other version who didn’t look at him like a walking grudge and dislike him by default. The one who might’ve chosen him, perhaps under different circumstances.

“What’s got your head in knots?” Roman asked suddenly, eyes pinning Seth so hard, Seth would’ve sworn he’d been reading every thought right off his face.

Seth let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “How the hell did you know?”

Roman simply raised his don’t insult me brow. They had only dated on and off for what? Seven years? He could read Seth in the dark with his eyes closed.

“Wondering how long it’ll take you to go back to hating me. After tomorrow.” Seth said, shrugging with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He landed squarely in vulnerable instead.

Roman’s gaze didn’t waver. “You realize all this nonsense is basically your fault, right?” He asked dryly.

Yes, he had recruited Bronson and Breakker. Inadvertently handing them over to Heyman to flip the script and turn them into his own personal puppets. Same old lecture, rerun to death.

“I’m trying to fix it, aren’t I?” he snapped before Roman could launch into chapter twelve.

Roman tilted his head, eyes dark and knowing. “Seth, have you ever wondered why you always find yourself in problems of your own making?”

“Because I’m an overachiever?” Seth replied with a wolfish grin, leaning into the accusation like it was praise.

Roman didn’t take the bait. “Because you’re never satisfied.”

Seth barked a short laugh, sharp enough to mask the sting. “You’re one to talk, Mr. I’ll be Champion forever.”

Roman’s mouth curved lazily. “See, the difference between me and you is I’m at least willing to admit my mistakes.” His shoulders rolled back, arrogance radiating off him in waves. “Also, I succeed far more than you ever do.”

“Oh, really?” Seth’s eyes glinted. “So I guess Cody is just chopped liver, huh? Didn’t beat you for the belt or anything?”

Roman leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a sly whisper. “Sure. But how many people did he have to recruit just to pull it off?”

“Fucking egomaniac,” Seth said, laughing despite himself, the sound free of venom. “I’m telling Cody.”

“Tell him.” Roman waved a hand, utterly unbothered, the silver of his wedding band glinting. “It actually gets him on.”

Seth’s nose wrinkled, grimacing theatrically. He did not want to know the finer details about Cody and Roman’s sex life, thank you very much.

“Fuck you, Ro,” Seth muttered heatlessly.

“I would hope you two would save the internal strife until after the match tomorrow,” Mox drawled as he sauntered in, hauling a packet of Cheetos that was, quite literally, the size of a toddler.

Roman immediately shut his eyes, head tilting back to the ceiling in prayer to whichever deity still tolerated him, why. Seth, meanwhile, could only gape unhinged.

“What the actual fuck, Mox?” Seth asked, gawking dramatically at the snack-monolith.

“You like?” Mox grinned wolfishly. “Had to KO some mall rat for this baby.” He plopped down cross-legged between them, completing their little circle. “The important thing is—he learned a valuable life lesson today. Do not get between a man and his Cheetos.”

He ripped the packet open, the sound loud enough to echo off the walls, and plunged his hand in up to the elbow. When he emerged with a mound of neon-orange curls, he shoved the entire pile into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously loud.

The chewing slowed when he noticed both Roman and Seth staring at him like he’d crawled out of a swamp. He tilted the giant pack toward them in offering. “Cheetos?”

Roman’s lips twitched. “No, thank you.”

“I feel like I always end up eating questionable shit around you,” Seth muttered, still glaring at the giant bag. But temptation won; he shoved his hand inside. The moment his fingers brushed the artificial dust, he shuddered, flashing back to the infamous brownie batter incident with Mox and Cody.

“Go wild, dude. Pay no attention to Rome and his newly acquired prissiness,” Mox said, deliberately loud as he side-eyed Roman.

Roman scoffed. “I’ve got a match tomorrow.”

“So does Seth,” Mox fired back immediately, mouth half-full. “And this stuff is, like, organic or whatever.”

“It most definitely is not,” Seth muttered mid-chew, orange crumbs dusting his usually meticulous beard.

“Fine. Give me one, if it’ll shut you up.” Roman relented, extending a palm with a mock sigh.

Seth plucked a single Cheeto from the bag and, with exaggerated ceremony, placed it in Roman’s waiting palm. Roman gave him a flat look but popped it into his mouth anyway.

Mox licked the neon dust from his fingertips with a loud smack, grinning wide. “Look at us—The SHIELD in one room. No bloodshed or fists flying. We’re basically mature adults now.”

Roman’s gaze lingered on Seth for a beat too long before he reached his hand back out for another. Mox, delighted, dumped a whole fistful into it.

“Seth’s been on a roll these last couple of weeks,” Roman admitted around a crunch, like it physically pained him to acknowledge out loud.

“Wow.” Seth blinked in mock astonishment. “Was that a compliment? I should write this down.”

“I know, it’s like someone exorcised him or something.” Mox squinted at Seth, trying to see if a demon would crawl out of his pores at any second. “That, or there’s some hidden agenda we don’t know about.”

“With Seth, I’ve learned to take whatever I get,” Roman said, agreeing sagely.

“There’s no hidden agenda,” Seth rolled his eyes, leaning back on his palms against the cool rubber mat. Not unless you counted cutting Heyman and the Bronsons down to size. But that was simply due diligence and barely constituted as a ‘vendetta.’ He was simply cleaning up a mess he had accidentally unleashed. 

“Just—” Mox started to speak, then huffed; a short, aborted sound that Seth knew all too well meant he was about to say something remarkably sappy. He and Roman had always been emotionally stunted to disturbing levels. Mox’s gaze flicked down, his hand diving into the Cheetos bag with a crinkle, almost hoping the neon crunch would shield him from this random bout of vulnerability. 

“Win or lose tomorrow…” Mox finally muttered, tossing another mountain of Cheetos into his mouth. His words came muffled, but the sentiment was clear. “I don’t care. Pretty sure Cody and the rest don’t either, so… just—try not to die, alright?”

Roman barked out a laugh, smiling wide enough that it softened all his usual sharp edges. “That’s the exact same thing I said.” His voice carried that rare, boyish giddiness that Seth hadn’t heard in years.

Seth shook his head, a resigned chuckle rumbling out. For once, he felt genuinely content in the moment. Right here, cross-legged in this makeshift triangle, trading jabs and junk food with the only two who’d ever seen him at his rawest.

Chapter Text

Roman adjusted his gloves, body thrumming intently with the usual pre-match electricity, when the hairs at the back of his neck prickled.

Someone was watching him.

He snapped his head up and whirled, only to find Paul Heyman at the doorway, fingers wound together in a nervous tangle, lips opening and closing before words stumbled out.

“My—my Tribal Chief,” Heyman stammered, his voice a nervous quiver.

Roman’s jaw ticked. Out of all the intrusions tonight, he hadn’t accounted for the concept of peace and quiet betraying him. He should have known better than to clear out Cody and the twins; at least one of them would have tackled Heyman into the hallway before Roman had to waste breath acknowledging him.

“If you’ve got a Bron hiding behind your back,” Roman said, voice dropping low, “tell him to wait till we’re in the ring. I’m not interested in games.” He pulled at the last buckle on his glove with a snap that echoed his irritation.

“I just wanted to talk.” Heyman shuffled forward hesitantly.

Roman arched a brow. “Talk?”

“How are you?” Heyman asked, the question landing strange and soft in the air. “I—I heard about the amnesia debacle. I couldn’t exactly visit, not with the Usos circling, and Cody, and Sami, and even Damian—”

“Paul.” Roman’s voice cut clean through the nonsense, heavy with warning. He slowed his words down deliberately, as if speaking to a child with a hearing problem. “What are you doing here?”

Heyman’s mouth worked, opening and shutting in little half-syllables: “It’s been a while,” he settled on, eyes darting nervously.

“Through no fault of mine, obviously,” Roman shot back, voice edged with the weight of betrayal.

“Things might’ve gotten a bit out of hand,” Heyman winced, his gaze softening with what might’ve been sincerity… or just another of his slick cons, polished to perfection. “But I never wanted us to end up like this.”

“Get out,” Roman said, voice hardening in anger. That apology was coming a little too late, considering everything he had been through since Heyman betrayed him.

That should have ended it. But Paul Heyman, in his infinite foolishness or infinite cunning, pressed forward.

“You can still join us.” He pressed on, relentless as ever. “The Vision is in need of a leader… I am not a leader,” He clutched his chest, shaking his head, his voice rising with fervor. “But with you, reining in the Bronsons, and channeling their raw chaos, we’d be unstoppable again. We could be family.”

Roman studied him, eyes narrowing to slits. He wondered if Heyman had taken a blow to the head recently, or if something more parasitic was crawling around in his skull, because only brain damage or an earworm explained why this man thought he’d sign up to pilot the very pack of wild dogs that had knocked him so hard, he lost the last eight years of his life.

“We can rebuild the Bloodline,” Heyman said, his hands flying and painting the air with a grand design only he seemed to see. “Return it to its glory days. With new and improved members—ones who don’t wrestle with conscience.” He sneered the word, voice twisting into a mocking lilt, as though the concept of morality irritated him.

“Paul—Paul!” Roman cut calmly through the delusion. He didn’t need to raise his voice for a man this pathetic. Heyman stopped mid-gesture. “I’m only going to say this once. Get. Out.”

The calmness and lack of anger Roman currently felt surprised even him.

Heyman’s eyes hardened, the sycophantic pretense peeling back to reveal something more sinister. “Roman. If you’ve never listened to me before, I am asking you to please listen now.” His hand stretched out, trembling with urgency. “Crossing my men is not a choice you want to make. Now I know you’re a smart man, so make smart choices.”

Roman straightened to his full height, shoulders squaring as he closed the distance. By the time he loomed threateningly over Heyman, the smaller man had to crane his neck to keep eye contact.

“Get out,” Roman rumbled low, “before I remove you myself.”

Fear, quickly disguised as wounded disappointment, flickered across Heyman’s face. He shook his head, lips pressed into a sad purse, and began to back toward the doorway without turning his back to Roman. Thankfully, smart enough to know Roman’s restraint hung by a thread, Roman wasn’t sure he would have stopped himself from actually kicking him.

At the threshold, Heyman stopped, his voice dropping into a grave, foreboding tone. “You’re making a huge mistake, Roman. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when the Vision—”

Roman stalked forward and slammed the door in Heyman’s face with enough force to rattle the frame and echo down the hall.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Roman stood there for a bit, staring at the door, at the phantom image of Heyman’s pleading face. Then he rolled his shoulders, exhaled sharply, and turned inward.

Now he had a match to meditate for.

“Jesus.” Cody breathed out the second he stepped into Medical. His eyes locked on Roman, scanning for damage with an urgency that drowned out every other thing in the room. His hands automatically twitched once his eyes had revealed nothing physical, ready to launch into their obligatory body pat down.

Just as he moved to close the distance, a firm hand caught his shoulder. Cody blinked and registered Adam Pearce at his side, his brow furrowed in relief and frustration both.

Only then did Cody notice Seth Rollins sprawled out shirtless on the adjacent bed, a battered mess of red welts crisscrossing his bare chest, his stillness jarring for a man who thrived on anarchy. In his tunnel-visioned sprint toward Roman, Cody hadn’t even clocked another soul in the room.

“Thank God you’re here, Cody,” Pearce exhaled, relief softening his stern tone. “We need to reset his shoulder before we risk nerve damage. But Roman—” he glared daggers at the man perched smugly on the bed “—wouldn’t let anyone touch him until you got here.”

“Legal requirements and what you please,” Roman quipped, waving his good arm. “I need my emotional support Nightmare for all medical-related issues.”

Cody grimaced when his gaze dropped to Roman’s injured shoulder. It was grotesque, swollen, and angry, the joint bulging wrong in ways that made Cody’s stomach churn. On first glance, it barely even looked like an arm anymore. Roman clutched it to his chest with proprietary protectiveness, fervently attempting to will it to behave.

Roman turned his head and pinned Cody with a look far too smug for a man holding his own limb hostage. “Well, someone sure took his sweet time.”

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Cody scowled, stepping closer anyway. “Because if you don't need that left arm, I can think of about fifty things I’d like to use it for.”

Seth croaked from the next bed, his voice thick with exhaustion, “Nope. Absolutely not.”

Cody finally looked at him properly. Seth lay flat on his back, every rise and fall of his chest shallow. His torso was a patchwork of angry welts and deep bruises, his hair plastered damp against his forehead. It was a brutal testament to the match’s toll that Seth’s usual frenetic energy had been reduced to a stillness Cody couldn’t reconcile with him.

“Adam,” Seth groaned without opening his eyes, “either order them to shut up, or kick them out. I refuse to lie here and suffer through whatever twisted masochist foreplay they’re about to embark on.”

“You look half dead,” Cody said bluntly, concern creeping into his voice.

“I feel half dead,” Seth rasped back, wincing as he shifted slightly. “So that checks out.”

Pearce pinched the bridge of his nose before beckoning the nurse over. The poor man in scrubs stopped a foot away, gaze darting to Roman with the silent ask of someone who’d learned the hard way. Roman gave a curt nod, and the nurse edged closer, positioning himself behind the injured shoulder. Cody didn’t even want to imagine what had gone down earlier, when he had possibly tried to touch Roman without his consent.

Roman, meanwhile, had eyes only for Cody, a bright, defiant smile breaking through the pain. He leaned forward, his good hand shoving Pearce lightly out of the way to snake around Cody’s waist. He pulled Cody close, nestling him between his legs, the warmth of his touch grounding in the midst of every other thing in the room.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Roman said, eyes twinkling with enough charm that he hoped it got him out of the scolding he was certain he would receive.

Cody huffed, half annoyed, half fond. His hands hovered over Roman’s shoulders, careful not to jar the injury. “Don’t bribe me. You know I hate it when you don’t take care of yourself.”

Roman grinned wider, and Cody was finding it really difficult to stay mad at him. “Which is why I signed the ‘till death do us part’ thing.” Roman teased, shrugging his good shoulder. “Technically, taking care of me is your job now.”

Pearce groaned aloud, while Seth muttered something profane into the ceiling. The nurse looked like he’d rather be wrestling a wild animal than be here.

“Ready?” The nurse asked cautiously, hands poised over Roman’s swollen wreck of a shoulder.

Roman laced his fingers with Cody’s and gave the man a sharp nod. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”

The nurse hesitated for only a second before starting his count. “One, two—”

A sickening crack split the air as Roman’s shoulder snapped back into place, the sound sharp enough to make Cody wince, his stomach lurching. Roman’s groan rumbled raw and pained, his fingers tightening around Cody’s own as his head dropped forward, forehead thunking against Cody’s sternum. Even Seth, battered on the next cot, propped himself up an inch, his bruised face twisting in a sympathetic grimace.

The shoulder had been Bron Breakker’s parting gift: a spear into the barricade that had rattled the arena and made Cody’s heart stop mid-beat. Sure, Roman and Seth had pulled out the win, not that Cody had ever doubted them, but as with anything involving the Bronsons, ‘victory’ always came with a brutal toll on one’s body.

Seth had needed help limping backstage, favouring his right leg so heavily that Cody wondered if it was even functional. Roman, on the other hand, had strutted out of the ring like nothing could touch him, cradling his left arm with profound stoicism. From the TV, Cody couldn’t have guessed it was this bad.

“Roman, you still with us?” Pearce crouched down, trying to catch Roman’s eye through the shield of Cody’s arms, now looped protectively around Roman’s neck.

“Not if you’re going to keep talking,” Roman ground out, voice rasping around pained breaths.

Pearce, bafflingly, looked pleased with that answer. He clapped Cody on the back with a satisfied nod. “Good. Keep an eye on them.” Straightening his jacket with self-importance, he declared, “I need to oversee the rest of the show.”

And with that, he was gone.

The nurse, left behind and visibly rattled, bustled through a cabinet until he produced a sling. He started to offer it out, but froze under Roman’s sideways glare; one narrowed eye blazing from behind Cody’s arm. The poor guy quaked, his hands trembling as he debated whether to actually hand it over or return it to the cabinet. With a sigh, Cody freed one hand, plucked the sling out of the man’s grip, and gave him a nod of dismissal. The nurse didn’t need to be told twice; he scurried out so fast Cody swore he left skid marks. Convincing Roman to wear the damn thing was going to be future Cody’s problem; tonight was already stressful enough.

“Better?” Cody asked softly, rubbing soothing circles along Roman’s back.

Roman exhaled against his shirt, muffled. “Can we go home now?”

“Jimmy and Jey haven’t had their match yet.” 

“They can take an Uber,” Roman muttered, and if the low whine in his voice wasn’t proof of how much pain he was in, Cody didn’t know what was. Roman Reigns didn’t whine in public—ever.

“Just thirty more minutes,” Cody promised, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of Roman’s head, lips brushing damp hair. He turned his head. “Seth, what’s the verdict?”

“I think I busted my knee again,” Seth lamented flatly.

“You got someone to take you home, or are you coming with us?” Cody asked.

That earned him Roman’s head snapping up, eyes narrowing into a full-on glare. “You realize you’re supposed to be clearing the house out, not collecting more strays?”

“Did that oaf just call me a stray?” Seth’s voice was indignant. Cody didn’t have to look to know his eyebrows were probably doing some kind of insulted knot-work of their own.

“I’d rather stay out of this one,” Cody muttered quickly, choosing Switzerland.

“Considering I took a barricade spear for you, you’re whatever the hell I want you to be,” Roman shot back.

That had been the shocker of the night. Roman, self-crowned king of self-preservation, had shoved Seth out of the way, stepping straight into a Bron Breakker spear that could have split a tree in half. Cody still wasn’t over it. He wasn’t sure anyone in the building was. The crowd had gasped as one, and even Seth’s wide-eyed and slack-jawed face was worth the thousand replays it got. Roman Reigns taking someone else’s punishment, much less one for Seth Rollins, nemesis extraordinaire, wasn’t something that happened outside of fever dreams.

By the time Cody had finished turning the aberration over in his head, the room had plunged into a sudden silence.

“Thank you,” Seth said at last, the words weighted. “I never… I wouldn’t have ever predicted you doing that.”

Roman’s answer was dry, almost incredulous. “Neither would I.”

Cody glanced between them, torn between wanting to poke fun and wanting to preserve the rare moment. He settled for: “So… Seth’s coming with us?”

Seth let out a sigh worthy of a Shakespearean play. One might think they were dragging him away from champagne and Egyptian thread count sheets instead of rescuing him from what would be a lonely limp through an arena hallway. Considering his busted knee and current lack of any Heyman and/or Bronsons, Cody figured Seth should be groveling at their feet, preferably with gift baskets.

“Fine,” Seth said at last, rolling his eyes skyward. “I’ll come. Don’t wet yourselves with desperation.”

Roman turned to Cody with pleading eyes, expression dead serious. “Can I at least toss him out of the car? Just once. Then we can pick him up again and be on our way.”

Cody huffed out a laugh despite himself. “You’d probably need two working hands for that.” He smirked at the way Roman’s face soured, fingers threading gently through his hair in a soothing gesture that contradicted the tease.

Roman grumbled something inaudible into Cody’s chest, while Seth smirked smugly from his bed.

Chapter Text

When Cody blinked awake, it took him a moment to orient himself. He was in Roman’s—their room. The familiar weight of the comforter, the faint trace of cologne woven into the sheets, and most importantly, the warmth pressed firmly against his back told him everything he needed to know. Roman’s chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm, his breath brushing over Cody’s hair. Cody burrowed deeper into that warmth, letting it shield him from the narrow strip of sunlight sneaking through the curtains, casting a golden stripe across the tangled bed.

Roman shifted in response, Cody’s need for closeness instinctive to him, too. A strong arm wound around Cody’s waist, pulling him flush against Roman. The touch was grounding and protective enough to lull Cody back toward sleep. His eyelids fluttered shut again, the heaviness of lazy sleep tugging him down…

His eyes snapped open as the night before came rushing back in vivid fragments, way too intense to ignore. He twisted in the circle of Roman’s arm, only to find those dark, intense eyes already alert and watching him with an amused glint, for someone who should’ve been sore and groggy after what his body had endured the night before. 

Roman’s injured arm was tucked awkwardly between them, caught against Cody’s side. Cody’s gaze darted past him, landing on the side table. His eyes narrowed at the discarded sling abandoned there like an afterthought. Considering the pleading, bargaining, and full-on wrangling it had taken to get Roman to actually wear it last night, seeing it lying there uselessly felt like a personal insult.

“Good morning,” Roman murmured, his voice disgustingly bright for someone who was basically a walking bruise.

“That’s not where I left that sling last night,” Cody replied flatly, arching an eyebrow in mock sternness, though his heart skipped at the sight of Roman looking so alive, after weeks of absence.

“I figured more important things needed to take precedence,” Roman countered smoothly, lifting both hands, busted arm and all, wincing at the pull across his shoulder but stubborn enough to see the stretch through. The sound of his spine cracking carried through the quiet morning, a deep sigh escaping him in satisfaction. Cody, very much against his better judgment, felt his body react to the sound, to the sheer picture of Roman’s tattooed torso on glorious display, stretched out beneath him. It was unfair. Criminal, really. After nearly two months of forced deprivation of everything Roman-related, Cody couldn’t even scold himself for the way his body betrayed him.

Speaking of unfair…

Roman curled his good hand around Cody’s waist and tugged him forward, shifting him easily until Cody straddled his torso. Their bodies slotted together with alarming precision, like no time at all had passed. Heat radiated between them, wasting no time in igniting sparks that had been dormant for far too long.

“Hi,” Roman said softly, his breath warm against Cody’s lips.

Cody let his eyes trail downward, shifting slightly to drink in the expanse of tattooed muscles he’d missed so fiercely. He dragged his gaze back up to Roman’s face, meeting those smoldering eyes.

“I have morning breath,” he protested weakly when Roman’s arm snaked around his neck, drawing him inexorably closer for a kiss.

Roman snorted in amusement, not the least deterred, and pulled him the rest of the way. Their lips met, locking in a kiss that was far too easy to melt into. Cody leaned down, surrendering, lips parting as Roman deepened the kiss. The scrape of Roman’s beard against his skin sent sparks dancing down his spine, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Boy, had Cody missed this.

From the escalating heat and the way Roman’s hands roamed with purpose, Cody had a thrilling feeling they wouldn’t be leaving this bed anytime soon. Not that he minded one bit.

“Ro—” He broke the kiss with monumental effort, stifling a moan as Roman’s mouth latched onto his jaw, sucking and nibbling at those strategic spots that made his toes curl. His entire body arched involuntarily at one particular nip, giving Roman access when he should’ve been putting distance between them. “—your arm. Roman, your arm.”

He pushed back just enough to create distance from that dangerously distracting mouth, balancing on Roman’s torso with his forearms, palms splayed against the firm planes of his chest. Trying to keep his concern intact despite every nerve ending begging him to do the opposite.

“If I remember correctly, one of my main reasons for saving that arm was the about fifty things you needed me to use it for,” Roman recalled with impeccable timing. A throwaway Cody had muttered while they’d been fussing over Roman’s arm the night before.

“I can count at least forty-nine of those things you’re currently stopping from happening, Nightmare,” Roman added, narrowing his eyes in a heatless glare that held more promise than threat.

And damn, when Roman came at him with that kind of airtight logic, arguing felt stupid. Cody shrugged in playful surrender and dove back in, capturing Roman’s mouth with renewed fervor. His flesh was weak after weeks of neglect, his willpower shattered; resistance at this point was a lost cause.

He bit playfully at Roman’s earlobe, his hands tugging eagerly at the waistband of Roman’s sleep pants. Cody was a fingertip away from the home stretch when a rude, insistent banging shattered the moment. It took a few dazed blinks for him to process that someone was actively pounding on their bedroom door.

He spared a glance down at Roman, whose expression had darkened into something murderous. The man looked like he was about to sprint off the bed and tear the limbs off the unfortunate soul, after he had, of course, splintered the door for even daring to exist to interrupt him.

“Are you guys up in there?” Mox’s voice, officious and loud through the wood, followed the bangs. “Breakfast is ready, so they asked me to come get you before the twins finish everything. You know how Jimmy and Jey get with pancakes.”

Roman’s jaw tightened. Cody watched the lines knit at his temple with a private, fond ache. He loved how protective Roman could be, but this morning, the timing of everything was tragically inconvenient.

“Do you think he’ll go away if we ignore him?” Cody whispered, amused and half-conspiratorial.

Roman opened his mouth to reply, probably something colorful, when Mox, apparently aware of Roman’s temperament, added again: “And no, ignoring me will not make me go away, Rome. I will kick this door down and drag you out if I have to. I don’t give a shit if you have your dick out or not.”

Cody laughed, the sound muffled against Roman’s chest. He let his head fall into the crook of Roman’s neck because he could not be insulted; the safety of being held erased all tiny frustrations.

“You need to clear the house,” Roman declared with undeterred conviction, his voice vibrating against Cody’s skin.

“Yep,” Cody agreed instantly, lifting his head for one more kiss, a short, teasing press of lips that was barely satisfactory but enough to tide him over. “One for the road,” he added with a wink, chuckling at the bereft, almost pained look on Roman’s face. The man gazed up at him like he’d been handed a single droplet in the desert, and Cody filed that expression away to savor later. It’d get him through the day.

Roman’s eyes narrowed further at the smirk playing on Cody’s lips, plotting at least six creative ways to make Moxley regret his existence.

“Shirt before you come downstairs,” Cody warned, already halfway off Roman.

“Or—hear me out,” Roman’s voice floated over the bathroom door where Cody had relocated to, “we simply have sex on the dining table. If that won’t get everyone out immediately, I don’t know what will.”

When Cody strolled back into the room, teeth brushed and mouth minty fresh, he found Roman half-dressed and frowning in concentration. The man was wrestling a plain black T-shirt over his head. His good arm tugged relentlessly, his bad one stayed frustratingly stiff, and the shirt seemed determined to mock him at every step.

“I’d agree to that plan if I weren’t so certain it wouldn’t work on Jon,” Cody replied, stepping in to help. He gently tugged the fabric over Roman’s head, easing the sore arm through the sleeve carefully, mindful of every wince.

“He’d probably opt to stay and watch,” Roman muttered with a haunted look in his eyes, shuddering dramatically at the thought. Then his expression softened as Cody finished. “Thank you,” he said quietly, gratitude shining through.

Cody made a disapproving tsk as Roman leaned in for another kiss, shoving his face back with a playful hand.

“Brush your teeth,” he instructed, backing toward the door with a grin.

“You weren’t saying that ten minutes ago,” Roman shot back dryly.

“I hadn’t brushed my teeth ten minutes ago,” Cody countered smoothly. He pulled open the door to reveal Moxley perched cross-legged on the floor, clutching what Cody assumed was a steaming mug of coffee, and looking far too pleased with himself.

“Jon,” Cody greeted, his tone long-suffering.

“For a second, I thought you guys were getting it on in there,” Mox said, standing up and dusting off the back of his pants with his free hand. He handed the coffee to Cody as a peace offering, possibly for intruding so early. Cody sniffed at it and took a sip, if only to soothe the headache Mox’s presence was rapidly manifesting.

Mox leaned past Cody into the room, cupping his free hand around his mouth. “Morning, Rome!” he bellowed.

“Gedefuhkoutahere!” Roman rumbled from the en suite, the words garbled around a toothbrush. A furious spit into the sink followed, confirming he was indeed complying with the breakfast rally, albeit angrily.

“Is he always this cranky when the morning dalliance gets interrupted?” Mox asked Cody with a shit-eating grin, falling into step as they headed downstairs.

Cody sighed deeply, shutting the bedroom door firmly behind him before steering Mox with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not just Roman, Jon. Not just Roman.”

The house was full again today, brimming in a way Cody had come to crave: overlapping loud voices, chairs scraping against the tiled floor, and the unmistakable aroma of a feast that could fuel an entire arena. Laughter and complaints mingled in the air, thick with the scent of sizzling bacon, fluffy pancakes, and fresh-brewed coffee that promised to chase away the remnants of last night’s exhaustion.

The table was a war zone of food and elbows when Cody and Mox finally descended the stairs. Seth had commandeered one of the four seats at the modest wooden table, his braced knee sprawled lazily over another chair, an ice pack precariously balanced on top to soothe whatever fresh hell his body had endured. His dark eyes flicked up briefly, acknowledging their arrival with a nod before returning to his phone.

Jimmy and Sami occupied the remaining seats. Jimmy slouched comfortably with his arms crossed, exuding effortless charisma, albeit slightly tainted by hunger, while Sami fidgeted, his red hair tousled as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Restless as ever, Jey was perched impatiently on the granite kitchen counter, legs dangling, tapping his fingers against the edge in a rhythmic beat that betrayed his hunger. Damian shuffled around the island, carefully pouring glasses of orange juice from a massive jug that Cody had no recollection of owning. Probably something Damian had manifested out of sheer hospitality.

“Morning, Cody,” Damian nodded, eyes flicking to him before returning to his mission of juice distribution.

“At least one half is present,” Jey grumbled from his perch, shooting Cody a pointed look. “Can we eat now? I’m starvin’ over here.”

“We do that and Roman won’t even find any crumbs left,” Jimmy countered with a knowing scoff, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I didn’t have any dinner last night, so y’all have no idea what I’m capable of right now. I could clear this table solo.”

“You’re all gonna have to wait a while,” Mox interjected casually, sauntering into the fray. “Because honestly, I think I interrupted something I wasn’t supposed to—”

A chorus of groans and exaggerated complaints cut him off. Sami jammed his fingers into his ears and belted out a loud ‘lalalalala’. Jey turned to Cody with a pained expression, eyebrows raised in silent accusation. Cody shrugged and took a slow sip from his coffee mug, the bitter warmth grounding him. He wasn’t about to apologize for trying to steal a private moment in his own damn house, with his husband, no less. If anything, the interruption was on Mox.

“So yeah. He’s a bit cranky. Probably handling business real quick,” Mox finished with a suggestive wag of his brows, his blue eyes sparkling with unrepentant glee.

“God, you are annoying as fuck,” Seth glared at Mox from across the table, his tone laced with his signature bite. Mox just flashed his shit-eating grin, utterly unbothered.

Cody’s eyes swept over the abundant spread laid out on the table; a veritable buffet that could feed half the WWE roster. Stacks of golden pancakes dripping with syrup, crispy bacon piled high, fluffy scrambled eggs, fresh fruit bowls bursting with color, and a platter of deviled eggs that already looked suspiciously diminished. Any sane person might walk in and wonder if they could even dent half of it, but Cody knew better. With Jimmy, Jey, and Roman in the mix, this feast would vanish faster than they could blink.

Moxley swatted at Seth’s leg on the spare seat, eliciting a sharp, pained yelp from Seth as the ice pack wobbled.

“Are you mad?” Seth snapped, eyes narrowing incredulously at Mox. “My knee hurts, man! This isn’t a game.”

“Well, where the fuck am I supposed to sit then?” Mox complained, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation.

Seth eyed him like an insignificant bug. “Who gives a shit? Sit on the fucking floor for all I care. Or stand, it builds character.”

“I’m sorry, Roman’s a big boy; he can make his own breakfast,” Jey declared, hopping off the counter and reaching for the top pancake on the stack, his fingers inches away.

His hand was promptly smacked away by Jimmy, who shook his head vehemently. “Nuh-uh. Not happenin'.” Jimmy’s tone was firm, brotherly authority kicking in. “’Cause if you take one, I’m a have to take one too, then someone else takes another, and then the whole thing just dissolves into lawlessness and anarchy. We wait.”

“We could count and share everything equally…” Sami started but trailed off at the look the twins were giving him.

Those were the identical looks of men who had never subscribed to the concept of equal distribution in their lives.

“Or we could all just dig in at once.” Sami gave up with a shrug.

“It’s basically survival of the fittest when it comes to Samoans and food.” Seth chimed in, repositioning the ice pack on his knee with a wince. “Have you never eaten with this lot before?”

“I try to make sure I’m never actually hungry when it’s a group thing,” Sami admitted.

Damian made an intrigued hum from where he leaned against the sink, orange juice in hand. “Why have I never thought of that? Usually, I try to keep up with them, and either almost die halfway, or almost die after.”

“I remember that being the first thing I warned you about when you started going out with Jimmy.” Cody finally spoke for the first time since coming downstairs. He was still pissed at Mox for torpedoing what had been destined to be the perfect morning, but he couldn’t resist backing up his own wisdom. “It will never end how you want it to. Trust me.” 

“The only person I’ve ever seen keep up with Roman that wasn’t related to him is Mox,” Seth added, nodding toward the culprit. “And that’s only due to Moxley’s inability to give up even in the face of imminent failure.” Everyone turned to face Mox, the room’s collective gaze pinning him in place.

Mox froze guiltily at the sudden spotlight, hand frozen midair with a deviled egg poised between him and his mouth. He had been stealthily pilfering them the whole time they’d been talking.

“Whoops,” he said, not repentant in the slightest, before shoving the egg into his mouth whole. He chewed defiantly as the twins eyed him hungrily, daring them to make a move. “How did that happen?” he mumbled around the bite, crumbs flying.

“Cody, if you don’t tell Roman to get his ass down here right now, I promise he’ll be stuck eating kibble with Pharaoh.” Jimmy redirected, glaring at Cody instead.

Pharaoh trotted in from the living room at the sound of his name, nails clicking against the kitchen tile before stopping loyally at Jimmy’s side, plopping down beside Jimmy with a contented huff. Jimmy leaned down to scratch the dog’s ears. The pup had grown unusually attached to Jimmy during his short stay, something about that easygoing vibe, Cody figured. He couldn’t blame the dog; he more than anyone understood the magnetic pull of sexy Samoan men.

“Are you trying to steal my dog?” Roman’s voice boomed from the kitchen doorway. Everyone whipped around to find him standing there, mercifully well covered this time, in a pair of loose gray lounge sweats and a fitted black tee that hugged his broad shoulders, his long hair tied back meticulously into a neat bun. He looked every bit the Tribal Chief, even in domestic mode.

Pharaoh perked up the second Roman’s voice rumbled through the kitchen. His ears flicked, tail wagging in delighted betrayal, and he dutifully trotted across the tile without sparing Jimmy another glance. Roman crouched with careful balance, scratched behind the pup’s ears, and let out a low, satisfied hum. Pharaoh was still his. All was right with the world.

Roman straightened and shot Jimmy a smug smirk.

“Technically, he’s my dog.” Cody reminded, lifting his coffee cup like he was making an official statement.

Roman only raised a brow at him, the smirk deepening. “Face it, Nightmare. He hasn’t been yours in a while now.”

Cody opened his mouth, but no rebuttal came. He hated that Roman was right. Pharaoh had taken one look at Roman’s family and promptly abandoned him like yesterday’s leftovers. The dog slept beside Jimmy, followed Jey around the yard, and had taken to sitting at Roman’s heel like he was bred for it. Sometimes Cody lay awake at night, replaying the betrayal.

“Finally!” Jey groaned, tossing his arms skyward. “Can we eat now? I’m about to fade away here.”

“I don’t know about you all, but Mox is already halfway through.” Sami gestured with his fork toward Moxley.

Sure enough, Mox was in the middle of attempting to squash an obscenely large pancake into his mouth whole.

By some unholy miracle, he actually succeeded. He turned his chipmunk cheeks toward Sami, eyes narrowing. “FawkyuShami,” he managed around the pancake, crumbs escaping. “Fuhkinbetrayer.”

“Gross,” Damian muttered, turning back to refill his glass.

Roman stalked toward the table, his eyes landing on Seth’s knee occupying the spare chair. He loomed there for a moment, eyebrow arched expectantly.

“I didn’t move for Moxley, I’m not moving for you.” Seth declared instantly, chin raised in lofty defiance. “And you don’t scare me half as much as he does.”

Roman’s scowl said otherwise, but instead of engaging, he redirected and slid into place beside Cody, their shoulders brushing in a brief, electric contact that sent a warm spark through Cody’s chest. He’d barely settled when Jimmy sprang into action, distributing plates around the table like a well-oiled machine, soon to be piled high with overflowing portions from the spread.

Damian handed Roman a glass of juice, which Cody intercepted on his behalf, considering the man was down to one functional arm for the moment.

Roman cleared his throat, trading his empty plate for the glass. “Before we begin, I’d like to make a toast.”

Jey shot him a withering look, clearly on the edge of hanger-induced mutiny. If it weren’t for Damian’s hand on his shoulder, Cody was sure Jey might’ve launched himself at his cousin in a chokehold.

“I want to thank everyone who helped me these last couple of months,” Roman began, voice carrying enough weight that the room went still. “God knows I wasn’t easy, but you all showed up anyway. Made sure I didn’t fall apart, even when I wanted to. Some of you cooked, some fought with me, some just…sat there and reminded me I wasn’t alone.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward Cody before cutting across the table to Seth. “Even those who had absolutely no business being there for me.” The corner of his mouth ticked upward.

Roman raised his glass, the toast deceptively casual. “So…thank you. Truly.” He let that hang in the air for just long enough for the sincerity to sink in, then ruined it in perfect Roman fashion.

“Now you can all get out of my house,” he finished flatly,  lifting his juice in mock salute. “I’m all better now.”

Sami snorted into his juice, nearly choking, while Mox grunted something that sounded like “rude” around whatever morsel he’d pilfered and stuffed into his mouth when no one was looking. Damian coughed to cover a laugh. Jimmy rolled his eyes but still clinked his glass against Roman’s with dutiful loyalty.

“Of all the ways I thought that speech would end,” Seth shook his head, chuckling despite himself.

“I would very much like to have sex,” Roman started bluntly, raising his voice over the clatter of forks and plates, “without one of you banging on the door every five minutes—”

The immediate chorus of groans and exaggerated complaints that followed could have convinced an outsider that this room was full of men who had collectively taken a vow against intimacy. Jey even went as far as launching half a pancake in protest that Damian barely managed to deflect with his plate.

Cody rubbed at his temple, sighing into his coffee. They were all impossible. But as the noise bounced around the kitchen, Cody caught himself smiling despite the headache. He would be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss them when they all finally cleared out.

Chapter Text

Seth shambled down the hallway, the rhythmic thunk of his crutch echoing too loud for comfort, each strike bouncing off the concrete walls. Every little noise backstage seemed amplified today, and the strange emptiness of this evening made his skin crawl. He hadn’t set foot on any show, much less a WWE arena, since he and Roman had literally beaten the Bronsons into temporary submission in that cursed tag match. Now, alone in the cavernous backstage, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease, his senses dialed to eleven.

On a good day, Seth could maybe outwit them… maybe. But physically fending off both Bronsons? He didn’t stand a chance. These were the same psychopaths who’d smashed Roman hard enough to scramble his memories, and Roman was basically the final boss of current-day wrestling. If he had gone down, what chance did Seth stand on one good knee and a crutch that hogged one of his working arms? He was practically waddling with a bullseye painted on his back, the living, breathing embodiment of ‘sitting duck.’

He quickened his pace as much as his battered body allowed, the crutch digging painfully into his armpit. If there was one tiny sliver of usefulness in Adam Pearce, it was his trademark apathy. The man had taken one quick look at Seth’s busted-up state, muttered something sympathetic, and assigned him a secluded locker room, tucked away in the arena’s depths, far from the Bronsons’ usual prowling grounds. A kindness, Seth supposed, though he suspected Pearce was more interested in not filling out paperwork for another Rollins-related incident.

Still, the real problem wasn’t the locker room. It was reaching it without getting speared out of existence. Breakker’s speed wasn’t just irritating; it was unnatural. The guy could materialize like a lightning bolt, spearing you out of your boots before you even clocked his shadow.

All he had to do was find Hunter, make his little announcement about taking time off for surgery, and then vanish before anyone got any bright ideas. That was the plan. Simple and executable. Please, God, let it be executable.

When the door to his assigned locker room came into sight, Seth muttered a half-serious prayer of gratitude to the wrestling gods. He wasn’t even embarrassed by the relieved groan that left his chest when he finally crossed the threshold. He let the door swing shut behind him and limped straight toward the couch like it was the holy grail.

Honestly, considering his own history of making mischief, burning bridges, and generally being the company’s resident asshole, Seth hadn’t expected Pearce to come through for him. But here he was, about to sink into actual leather cushioning instead of a cold steel chair. Maybe karma wasn’t real after all.

“If it isn’t Art the Clown, in the flesh.”

The sardonic voice slithered across the room, low and familiar. Seth’s head whipped around so fast his arms flailed for balance. He yelped, over-pivoted, and immediately lost his footing, graceful as ever. Thank God and whatever Greek deity of orthopedic surgery existed that he landed on the couch instead of the floor. He wasn’t about to add a shattered tailbone to his laundry list of ailments. There were only so many excuses ‘I’m a wrestler’ could buy you.

Seth’s glare zeroed in on the source: CM Punk, who was leaning casually against the wall near the door like he owned the place. No wonder Seth hadn’t spotted him when he came in. He’d been lurking. Enjoying the show before the actual show. He took a brief moment to thank his lucky stars he wasn’t the type to waltz in and strip down immediately; this could’ve been a wildly different conversation, and not the fun kind. He grimaced at the thought.

“What are you doing here?” Seth snapped, scowl tugging down his mouth. Of all the people he had the stamina for tonight, Punk ranked dead last. The man was practically an energy vampire; one smartass line and Seth would be drained for hours. He didn’t want barbs, banter, or even eye contact. He just wanted to corner Hunter, do his segment, and vanish before Heyman or the Bronson brutes sniffed him out.

“Well, considering this is my locker room,” Punk said, one brow lifting in lazy amusement, “I don’t really know how I’m supposed to answer that question.”

Seth opened his mouth to speak, words halfway there, but then faltered as the possibility hit him. Was there a chance he’d limped into the wrong damn room? Or had Pearce decided to amuse himself at Seth’s expense? Both were equally believable. Gritting his teeth, he started hauling himself off the plush sofa, crutch wobbling under his weight. Step one: check the door number. Step two: either bash Pearce’s skull with this damn crutch or yeet Punk out on his ass… whatever the situation demanded.

Punk, however, seemed to be reading Seth’s mind like a damn script and moved before Seth could fully execute his plan. He leaned sideways, nudged the door open with a casual flick, and revealed the number plate. Which, yep, was the exact one Pearce had given him. Seth’s eyes narrowed; Pearce was definitely getting a crutch to the head for this.

“Relax,” Punk drawled, clearly entertained by whatever Seth’s expression was doing. “Pearce asked me if I could share, and I agreed.”

“Why the hell would you agree?” Seth barked, incredulous.

“Because you’ve somehow managed to piss off every single soul on this roster,” Punk pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with something sharp yet oddly earnest. “And last I checked, Roman—shockingly enough—who is the only person that can currently stand you, is absent today.” Punk paused, “I think the better question would be, where the hell else would you go?”

Seth dragged a long, suffering hand down his face, muffling a groan into his palm. Roman might have been on to something with his little ‘problems of your own making’ comment, but damn if the fallout wasn’t hitting at the worst possible time. Consequences always had a knack for catching up when he was already down.

“Look,” Seth said finally, peeling his hand away, “I get it. You’re mad, you want a piece of me, fine. But we’re going to have to reschedule this whole fight-if-you-want-it thing.” He jabbed toward his braced knee for emphasis. “As you can see, I’m not exactly ring-ready. The only reason I’m even here is to tell Hunter I’m taking time off, do a five-minute segment, and then I’m out. That’s it.”

He focused on Punk, forcing his tired, raw sincerity into every word. He hoped the man had even a morsel of sense behind that sharp tongue to read the room. Please, for the love of God, pick tonight to be rational…

Punk simply stood there in silence, eyes lingering over every inch of Seth in scrutiny. He flickered on the crutch, the bulky knee brace, and the faint sheen of sweat on Seth’s temples from the effort of just existing in his current state. His brows were furrowed, etched with a mix of incredulity and something softer, an emotion Seth couldn’t quite decipher

The longer it went on, the more Seth squirmed. Punk didn’t even blink, and Seth started to feel like he’d been pinned under a spotlight in the middle of the world’s most judgmental talent show. After what had to be the longest, most uncomfortable minute of his entire life, Punk exhaled sharply, resigning himself to some decision only he understood.

“Do you need help getting to Hunter’s office?” Punk finally asked, his tone infuriatingly neutral.

Seth scoffed, waving him off. “It’s fine. I can manage.” He shuffled upright, bracing his weight on the crutch with all the stubborn dignity he could muster.

“I mean, you can barely walk—” Punk began, concern creeping into his tone.

“I got here just fine myself—” Seth said, voice climbing.

“Not to mention the Brons being here today—”

“I can handle those two weirdos—”

“Seth, let me help you!” Punk’s voice spiked.

Seth’s jaw clicked shut immediately, his retort dying in his throat. The outburst left a ringing in the air, sharp enough to silence even him.

“For fuck’s sake,” Punk muttered, shaking his head, “you make it really difficult to like you.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?” Seth reared back, affront bubbling hot in his chest. “I am a delight to be—” He stopped mid-rant, words sputtering out as the meaning sank in. His eyebrows furrowed, his mouth hung open, and what came out was a baffled, almost cartoonish— “Huhn?”

Punk arched one brow, expression patient as he waited for Seth to connect the dots.

Punk liked him. He had screwed up the man’s first WrestleMania main event, after not wanting him to get one in the first place; screwed him out of numerous World Title opportunities; screwed him out of a best friend, and Punk liked him. And here he’d thought the Roman-Cody fiasco was arrant madness to boot.

“Why?” Seth asked, voice rough with genuine confusion. His gaze snapped to Punk’s, desperate for an explanation. As far as he was concerned, he’d done less than nothing to earn that kind of sentiment, especially from CM freaking Punk.

“When I figure it out,” Punk said, his tone flat but laced with dry humor, “you can rest assured, you’ll be the first to know, I promise.”

Seth barked out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. He couldn’t tell if Punk was serious or trolling him, but either way, it was so absurd that chuckling was the only option. Still, the slightest flicker of warmth threaded its way through his chest.

He could stop sabotaging himself for once. This could be one of those moments Roman kept talking about, where he had the chance to actually choose better.

“Yes, please,” he said, sincerity softening his voice as he steadied himself on the crutch. “I’d appreciate your help getting to Hunter’s office.”

Punk shook his head, a mix of resignation and amusement flickering across his face, and sidled up to Seth’s side. He looped an arm carefully around Seth’s, steadying him without making a show of it. “Try not to trip us both with that thing,” Punk quipped, tilting his head warily at the crutch.

The thump of Seth’s crutch was the only sound in the hallway as both of them paced steadily in the direction of Hunter’s office, marking every awkward step he took with Punk half-carrying him. The hallway was otherwise empty, eerily so, and with nothing else to distract him, Seth’s mind spiraled at a ridiculous pace. He cycled through a mental list of one thousand and one ways he could inevitably screw this fragile, unexpected thing up. How long before he pushed Punk past the point of no return? How long until the locker room’s inevitable whispers and side-eyes, or the outright discouragement from the roster, doused whatever this was in cold water once Punk’s surprising goodwill became public knowledge?

“I can hear you thinking,” Punk’s voice cut through, low and pointed, with just a hint of exasperation. “Stop it.”

Seth pressed his lips into a flat, thin line, hoping it might physically lock his thoughts away. It didn’t help.

And then, out of nowhere, he blurted, “Have you ever been to dinner at Roman and Cody’s?”

If anyone loved doling out unsolicited advice like it was their life’s mission, it was Cody, the eternal meddler with a heart too big for his own good. Might as well tap into that free resource.

Punk gave him a sideways look, clearly not expecting that turn of conversation. “Never been invited.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, though his brow ticked in a way that suggested otherwise.

“Oh.” Seth’s reply was anticlimactic at best, a tiny puff of sound in the silence that followed. He had half a mind to keep talking, to fill the air with anything, but for once, he bit it back.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence again, just the sound of the crutch and the soft scuff of their shoes against the linoleum filling the space. It held until they reached Hunter’s office door, where Punk shifted to prop it open, his grip steady even as he supported Seth’s weight.

Seth paused at the threshold, one hand gripping the doorframe for balance, his mind still buzzing but now with a flicker of opportunity, maybe, or just plain mischief. He turned to Punk, a sly smile curling his lips. “You’re invited this Saturday,” he declared casually, the words carrying a weight he didn’t fully unpack. 

Then, with a spark of his old swagger, he stepped into Hunter’s office, leaving Punk in the hallway with what he hoped was a seed of curiosity planted.