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He was swinging for Moxley.
It started with a passing comment, genuine advice drawled as they squeezed by each other: “Watch your back.”
Mox turned on a dime, one foot in the parking lot and the other halted on the other side of the threshold, danger darkening his eyes. Blood stiffened the coils of hair on his still bare chest. Swerve, who’d completed his step back into the venue hall, turned only enough to watch Mox through the fur of his coat, curious to see where this would go. He meant well, truly: He’d noticed some of the Elite milling about in the cold and minded his business, only warning Moxley because he didn’t see his faction trailing after him. Swerve knew what it was to stand at the top, alone. Mox inhaled, cracked his neck, and turned, and the sharp point of a fang cap glinted - maybe the sheer fun of it motivated him to speak up, just a little. He spied Nana, visibly debating whether to get involved, over Mox’s shoulder.
“We got somethin’ to talk about, Swerve?” Swerve’s vision was filled with the man’s face before he could reply, and a contemplative hum brought Mox in even closer, Swerve turning enough to meet his headbutt with equal force. This close, people went blurry, vision went double. Jon Moxley, reduced to a blue-black-white glare. He’d seen him like this before (granted, with more kissing, which Swerve assumed he wasn’t getting any of this time around) and conjured the images to mind, looking for the changes in him. He simultaneously looked sharper and duller. Tired. Swerve dropped his grin.
“Eventually we will,” he replied, drawing back just enough to bonk foreheads again before taking a half step backwards and away. “Just a well-intentioned warning for a man with enemies lurking in every dark corner.”
Or under the buzzing glow of the parking lot lights, in this case. Expecting a retort, Swerve watched Moxley’s face screw up, lip curling to show teeth, gaze drifting down somewhere around Swerve’s jawline. Confusion. Deciding if he should be livid, deciding if he should hit him, if there was anything worth saying. He settled on a scoff, fingers flexing. Guess it wasn’t worth the fight, not yet.
“Like I don’t watch my back in my sleep,” he muttered, apparently abandoning whatever awaited him outside in favour of knocking a blood smeared shoulder against Swerve’s on his way back into the depths of the building. Dried blood flaked into the grey fur but didn’t stick. One hand went to the back of his head, habitually musing hair clipped too short for that. Swerve thought it looked better pink. “Fuckin’ asshole.”
He felt his upper lip twitch, Nana’s dress shoes distantly clicking on the pavement as he speed walked towards them. He was gathering his hair and tying it back before he realised it, a few twists hanging loose. “Something you wanna say, champ?”
Got ‘im. Like he was waiting for his cue, Mox spun, fists clenched and poised to bury themselves in his once-rival’s gut; Swerve was already rolling his elbow, aiming high, knowing a forearm to the temple would daze him quicker than a throat shot.
It didn’t connect. Mox didn’t go down, obscured by a flurry of chestnut hair and dark leather.
Folding over the fist trying to bruise his kidney, Swerve groaned, relenting when he felt Nana’s hands dragging him back. Too slow, a knee connected with his nose, straightening him up, the scent of copper flooding him.
Marina Shafir, materialising out of nowhere, handcuff still locked around her wrist, eyebrows raised. Challenging him, even as Mox disappeared around a corner, herded away by the rest of his croonies. Warm blood dripped between the links of the gold chain around Swerve’s neck, and he only tore his gaze away from Marina to look down at the dark splatters on his shirt collar, fur tipped in red. Quicker bleed than he anticipated. Fine. Shafir would put up a better fight than the original Death Rider, anyway.
“You got blood on my shirt.” Slowly, Swerve raised his eyes to meet hers, shrugging his coat into Nana’s waiting grasp almost languidly. He tilted his head minutely, blood staining his teeth as he spoke, voice quieting. “I liked this shirt.”