Work Text:
The stale scent of sweat, popcorn, and disinfectant hangs thick in the Bosepheus Jumbo Wrestling Bowl's dimly lit backstage corridors. It’s early March 2004, and Fred Jones, 21 and broad-shouldered in his ill-fitting custodian’s coveralls, shines his flashlight beam onto a suspiciously sticky patch near the boiler room door. Beside him, Shaggy Rogers – also 21, lanky and perpetually anxious – nervously adjusts his own oversized janitor jacket, Scooby-Doo pressed tight against his legs.
"Like, remind me again why we’re mopping floors instead of eating foot-longs, Fred?" Shaggy whispers, voice tight.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door bursts inward with a screech of tortured hinges. The Titanic Twist fills the doorway – a hulking nightmare of purple, corded muscle, its eyes burning with malevolent yellow light beneath the shadow of a tattered wrestling hood. A low, guttural growl rumbles from its chest, vibrating the concrete floor. Scooby yelps, diving behind Shaggy’s legs.
"Run!" Fred shouts, shoving Shaggy towards a metal maintenance ladder bolted to the wall.
They scramble upwards, Scooby scrambling frantically behind them, claws scraping metal. The Twist follows with terrifying agility, its massive fists denting the rungs as it climbs. They spill onto a high, narrow service platform overlooking the cavernous, empty arena below.
Fred turns, fists raised in a futile defensive stance. "Back off!"
The Twist lunges. One massive purple hand swings in a brutal arc. Fred ducks, but the backhand catches him squarely across the temple with a sickening crack. His eyes roll back, and he crumples bonelessly onto the grating, flashlight clattering away into the darkness below.
"FRED!" Shaggy’s scream is raw terror.
The Twist looms over Fred’s unconscious form, its growl deepening into something horrifyingly possessive. It bends, thick fingers reaching to grasp Fred’s coveralls. Pure, icy panic floods Shaggy, colder than any ghost he’s ever faced. Then, something snaps – not fear, but a fierce, protective surge hotter than any jalapeño popper. Fred’s his. His husband. The Twist isn't taking him. With a strangled cry that’s part sob, part battle yell, Shaggy throws himself forward. He snatches a discarded folding chair leaning against a railing – the cheap, flimsy kind sold at events. Swinging it with every ounce of desperate strength, he smashes it across the Twist’s broad back. The chair buckles instantly, plastic shattering and metal screeching, but the impact staggers the monster, forcing it back a step.
Shaggy doesn’t hesitate. He drops the ruined chair, dives past the momentarily stunned beast, and scoops Fred up. Years of hauling a terrified, 175-pound Great Dane have built unexpected strength; Fred’s dense, muscular 160 pounds feels alarmingly manageable across Shaggy’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He staggers towards the ladder, heart hammering against his ribs. Scooby whines urgently below. Back on solid ground behind a stack of crates, Shaggy gently lowers Fred.
"Freddy? Freddie, wake up!" He pats Fred’s cheek frantically. No response.
Desperate, Shaggy leans down, pressing a quick, trembling kiss to Fred’s lips. Still nothing but shallow breathing. His eyes dart around, landing on an open janitor’s canteen abandoned nearby. Inside, half-full, is a lurid green energy drink called "Mega-Maul Punch." It smells like fermented gym socks and synthetic lime. Shaggy grabs it, wrinkling his nose.
"Zoinks… worth a shot." He tips the foul-smelling liquid between Fred’s slightly parted lips.
Fred gags, coughs violently, and his eyes fly open, blinking rapidly in the dim light. "Shag? Wha—?" he rasps, disoriented, hand instinctively going to his throbbing temple.
Shaggy sags with relief, trembling hands gripping Fred’s shoulders. "Like, don’t scare me like that, man!"