Chapter Text
“Hello?”
The voice that answered was low, bored, and already sounding like it regretted existing.
“Rollins!” Roman’s reply thundered through the receiver, way too loud, way too dramatic, and absolutely intentional. His fingers gripped the phone tightly, lips angled directly over the mouthpiece for maximum reverberation.
On the other end, Seth let out a long, wince-laden, exasperated exhale that sounded like fatigue, disappointment, and a whole lot of ‘whys?’, none of which soothed Roman’s nerves. Making Seth Rollins irritated, sadly, wasn’t doing its job of amusing him at the moment.
“If Cody has misplaced his ring again, I am not helping you,” Seth stated flatly. “And honestly, it might be time you rethink the entire ring strategy. Have you considered tattooing your name somewhere more permanent? Maybe on the other side of his neck? It would certainly save everyone the drama.”
Roman let his head loll down in frustration, the hand with the phone lifting to smack said device against his temple. Hard enough to register his suffering to whatever higher power might be watching.
He was having a migraine. Had been having it in fact, ever since Cody decided to take his patriotic superhero aesthetic and merge it with reckless volunteerism. The man had suddenly decided to take the stars and stripes on his wrestling gear to the next level, and heroically swoop into a doomed situation he had no business being in, like Captain America.
Helping Punk and Jey for WarGames, Roman could accept. Stupid choices were still choices, and at least the intent was noble and the action narratively consistent with Cody. So, he’d done his very best to limit his reaction to only one irritated eye-twitch when his fiancé had gone sprinting down the ramp, unbidden on Raw.
However, SmackDown had barely cut to black, and the last visual burned into Roman Reigns’ retinas was a supposed-to-be-suspended Drew McIntyre standing tall over Cody’s limp, motionless form after a Claymore that had folded Cody in half. Not counting the fact that that had to be one too many claymores for any sane person to have been subjected to in a single month—especially after Cody vs Drew II at Saturday Night Main Event, Cody was frustrating in that he would get right back up again, head lolling in wait for another claymore just to prove his persistence.
The cage, come WarGames, was going to be a slaughterhouse. Roman’s blood pressure flared up dangerously to stroke levels.
“Your blossoming relationship is actively trying to kill my fiancé,” he snapped, cutting off whatever long-winded tattoo placement pitch Seth was still working through.
“Ah,” Seth exhaled like he’d just received confirmation that water was, in fact, wet.
Roman narrowed his eyes at the phone screen, willing his irritation to travel through cell towers and directly into Rollins’ ear canal. “Surely that can’t be the entirety of your input?”
“What do you want me to do, Roman?” Seth asked, voice sagging under exhaustion. “Chain Drew to the bed? Force him to stop doing his job?”
“His job,” Roman snarled, voice cracking into a feral octave, “is to wrestle. Not grand theft and casual assault his way across the roster.”
Because realistically, Drew wasn’t just targeting Cody; he’d bulldozed through Roman’s cousins as well. Then there was the referee assault that had gotten him suspended in the first place, until Heyman had flexed his behind-the-scenes wizardry and somehow hit undo on all Scottish Psychopath-related crimes.
Honestly, Roman was starting to believe they were fighting the board wrong. What good was body-slamming the chess pieces if Paul Heyman was sitting pretty behind the curtain, playing puppet master? The players in Team Vision were tough, Roman would give them that, but without Paul calling the plays, they’d be no better than headless chickens.
“He gets overenthusiastic sometimes—” Seth attempted weakly.
“Overenthusiastic?” Roman repeated, his voice dropping into that flat tone that usually heralded his involvement in legally questionable acts. “He’s currently aligning himself with the same pieces of shit who betrayed you, humiliated you, and kicked you to the curb!” he just had to point out, because he definitely was not the crazy one here.
“Oh, we’ve fought about that actually,” Seth replied breezily. “The makeup sex was phenomenal on both accounts.”
Roman tore the phone from his ear to stare at it in pure offense. He had half a mind to throw it at the nearest wall. Only the fact that he still needed to call Cody and deliver the lecture of the century stopped the launch sequence.
“Look, Ro,” Seth sighed, shedding every ounce of smugness, “this thing with Drew… It’s new, alright? And I’m still learning a lot about him.”
“Seth, there is no way you’re comfortable with the shit he’s doing,” Roman shot back, tone sharpened with disbelief.
“I’m not,” Seth confessed instantly. “Trust me—him aligning with Heyman was not on my bingo card for the week, nor was it delightful in any dimension of the multiverse. I have medieval, detailed, Pinterest-board-ready torture plans for my former teammates, okay? Very creative ones. I’d be devastated if Drew ended up on the receiving end due to association.”
“But he swore, hand to heart, mid-post-orgasm clarity, that siding with Heyman was a one-time play. Just enough chaos to get reinstated and settle his score with Cody. That’s it.” Seth finished.
Roman blinked. “...and this is supposed to reassure me?”
Seth hummed thoughtfully. “No. It was supposed to reassure me,” he said, matter-of-factly, somehow completely missing the point. “And it did.”
Roman tipped his head back and exhaled, fingers digging into his hair in exhausted disbelief. He genuinely wasn’t a controlling partner; he respected Cody’s independence and took pride in the fact. Cody was a grown man and capable World Champion, a certified tenacious fighter with high-level stubbornness. The last thing Cody would tolerate would be Roman storming into the picture and tossing his gauntlet, like some six-foot-three, Victorian husband defending his wife’s honor. But he was protectively unhinged when it came to the man, and regardless of Cody’s ego, Roman’s instincts were screaming in warning.
“Please tell me you’re not currently packing a bag,” Seth asked, reading his silence too well.
Roman paused only half a second before replying, “Not currently.”
He kept it vague enough to preserve plausible deniability, door fully open to impulsive decision-making should his hands touch a suitcase zipper within the next five minutes.
“Roman, you gotta let that man breathe,” Seth scolded gently. “He’s not gonna appreciate you storming in every time he gets a boo-boo. He has, unfortunately, chosen this life.”
“What’s the guarantee that Drew won’t hurt him?” Roman asked.
Seth winced. “…Hurt him badly or just mildly concussive?” he clarified uncertainly.
Roman didn’t bother selecting from the trauma menu.
“I’m going to New York,” he declared.
“Ro—” Seth attempted, clearly gearing up for another lecture.
“Not to hover or kiss his booboos,” Roman cut in, already moving toward the closet and yanking a black hoodie off its hanger. “It’s for me. I’m one more televised Claymore away from dying of a goddamn aneurysm in my living room. I need to be right there, in the building. Close enough to drag him out myself if it goes south.”
Seth let out an incredulous huff. “Scale of one to ten—one being total zen monk and ten being completely vexed, how calmly is Cody going to react to your excessive boyfriend-helicoptering?”
“Twelve,” Roman answered without hesitation. “But don’t worry, the makeup sex will be phenomenal.” He echoed Seth's sentiment.
“That’s the spirit!” Seth cackled, instantly recovering his chaos-based optimism.
His phone vibrated incessantly against his ear, practically trying to shake itself free from his hand. Roman jerked it back to check the screen, brows narrowing at the unknown number.
Usually, this would get the instant decline and forget it ever existed treatment. Roman didn’t entertain mystery callers; if it wasn’t family, business, or his medically concerning group chat, it could rot in voicemail.
But tonight, Cody was somewhere far away, and very much not within Roman’s line of sight or arm’s reach. Roman’s brain had already begun playing a nasty slideshow of worst-case scenarios. God forbid someone was trying to reach him about his fiancé’s well-being, and he ignored the call; he’d never forgive himself.
“Seth, I’m gonna have to call you back.” He said into the receiver.
“Roman, actually take a minute to think—”
Roman ended the call before Seth could wind up into a full intervention and winced immediately. Oh, he was going to pay for that later. Seth never let ignored commentary slide. But Roman’s adrenaline-laced concern shoved the guilt aside.
He accepted the incoming call.
“Reigns,” he answered, voice no-nonsense.
“Obviously,” came the dry, rough drawl he’d hated for the better part of two decades. “I did dial the number myself.”
Roman pulled the phone back just enough to stare at it again, half wishing the pixels would morph into a face he could glare at.
Unsurprisingly, they did not.
“…Punk?” he asked, tone torn between disbelief and annoyance.
“No need to sound that shocked,” Punk fired back dryly. “I do possess a phone.”
Roman didn’t doubt for a second that Punk owned a phone; the guy had practically made a career of broadcasting his opinions, but it was the audacity of Punk using that exact device to call him that made Roman’s brow twitch. There were at least forty-seven other people Punk could torment before ever dialing his number.
“Is Cody alright?” Roman cut straight through the awkward lag, skipping pleasantries, niceties, and basic humanity entirely. There was only one priority at the moment.
“Boy Wonder is fine,” Punk dismissed immediately, blunt enough to snap Roman’s lungs back into service, and he silently thanked Punk for the brusque delivery, and not dragging it out with poetic suspense or mind-games.
“You and I, however,” Punk continued, voice shifting into something serious, “need to talk.”