Back to Basics: Against the Grain (part 2)

[corneroffandom]

He's unable to get away so it's left to Alex to go check on John and drop food off at the hotel so he doesn't get tempted to leave the room or order room service, anything that would open him up to another Nexus attack. Miz isn't thrilled with letting Alex out of his sight for very long either, but there's nothing to be done for it-- Nexus seems to have other plans for Riley, and Morrison is injured and a bit more vulnerable in the long run. It doesn't stop him from fussing, however.

Despite Alex's safe return and confirmation that Morrison's fine, if a bit cranky, Miz remains tense and a bit distracted until finally Raw begins-- things start to move a little faster then and he can keep a closer eye on Nexus as they make multiple appearances on the show any given week. By 11 PM, they're finally able to leave and, after a quick stop at a nearby restaurant that's actually still open, he probably drives a little faster than neccessary on the way back to the hotel but Alex says nothing, just holds onto his seat belt with one hand and armrest with the other until they come to a stop in the hotel parking lot.

Miz only pauses a second to look over at him before pulling himself out of the car and grabbing his bag from the trunk, Alex right behind him. He snuggles deeper into his coat as they make their way through the parking lot, looking around just in case. Paranoid on a good night, especially with the gold belt weighing down his duffel bag, Miz can't help but feel like they're being watched as he pushes the hotel door open and enters the lobby with a sigh. "Got the key, Alex?" he asks, jitters easing a little as they enter the elevator and he feels a little more secure within the four walls.

"Yep," his protege says, digging around in his pockets for the small keycard with his free hand, the other busy holding onto the bag containing their food. "Here ya go." Handing it over to Miz, he grabs his duffel off the floor and slings it over his shoulder, both men looking relieved as the elevator finally dings to a stop on the third floor.

308 isn't that far from the elevator so Mike's at the door almost before Alex makes his way into the hallway, unlocking and pushing it open with a flourish. The room inside is dark and he glares inside it uncertainly, not liking that he can't see everything. He holds his fingers to his lip in a shhh-ing motion to Alex, before resting his duffel bag outside the door and venturing in. Alex shifts anxiously, his own duffel digging into his shoulder uncomfortably as he waits for some sign, fighting the urge to go in and back-up Mike just in case. He's about to give up on waiting and go in anyway when he hears Mike chuckle.

His eyebrows raise as his mentor finally emerges from the inky darkness, his lips twitching as he grabs his duffel. "It's ok," he whispers. "John's asleep, just go on in but be quiet." He slips back into the room and Alex hears the faint sound as he feels around the wall, until finally finding the light switch and flicking it, the whole room seeming less menacing now that they can see. On the other side of the room, Morrison is stretched across the bed, the light not effecting his sleep in the slightest.

Alex shakes his head, relieved to drop his bag next to Miz's before dropping on the free bed, sorting through the bag of food while half-listening to Mike rustling around in his own duffel. "Here," he says after a minute, holding out John and Mike's food to the world champion as he walks past, his fingers twitching to dig into his own cheeseburger and onion rings. He hadn't had a lot to do that day in comparison to Mike but he's still starving.

Miz stops just long enough to grab the food with a nod of appreciation before settling down on the bed next to a still out Morrison.

"Does he always sleep this heavily?" Alex asks after swallowing down some fries, frowning as he looks over at the other bed.

"Yeah, you'd be surprised," Mike chuckles, dropping the food containers on the bed. "Hey, John." He nudges him slightly, relieved that the sheets are up high enough to hide the bruising along his throat for now. "Morrison. Get up and eat." He pushes on his shoulder with a little more force, rolling his eyes as John simply turns away from Mike. "Oh, no, you are so not ignoring me." He opens one of the containers and smirks mischeviously. "Hey, where's a straw?" he asks a curiously watching Alex, who finds and tosses the unopened utensil his way. "Mmm," he mumbles, dipping it into the vanilla milkshake in hand and leaning over John's shoulder, brushing the milkshake-coated straw along his moustache. Halfway through, Morrison wakes up with a gasp and takes an uncoordinated swing, which Mike just barely avoids as he ducks away with the milkshake safely.

"What the hell?!" John groans, scrubbing sleepily at his face and blinking in confusion at the cold slush coating his hand. His eyes narrow as he spots Miz peeking up from the edge, after diving off of the bed just to avoid Morrison's wrath. "You...!"

"Milkshake?" Mike asks, lips twitching as he hands over the relidded vanilla milkshake, trying and failing to look innocent. "It'll help your throat," he adds, sobering up a bit as he catches a glance once more of the discolored skin along Morrison's collarbone and throat.

He glares down at him but takes the offering, blinking rapidly as if staying awake is a struggle. He finally yawns and sits up, looking slightly more conscious as the sheets drop away and leave him to the slightly cooler air of the hotel room. "What time is it?" he mumbles, brushing matter out of his eyes.

"Around 11:30," Mike comments, watching him with a frown.

"Damn, seriously? I last remember it being 5," he mumbles, looking distastefully at the straw that Miz had handed him with the milkshake.

Once Miz feels it's safe to get off the floor a minute or two later, he returns to the bed and pushes one of the containers over to Morrison and watches as he examines the chicken wrap and mashed potatoes within.

"Thanks," he says after a few moments, glancing at Mike before sipping at the milkshake, after pointedly tossing the straw in the trash.

They all eat in silence for a few minutes, Miz content to dip his fries in his own milkshake between bites of his cheeseburger as Morrison alternates between ignoring him and grimacing at the habit that's been one of the banes of his existence since they first began tag teaming. Once Morrison is mostly through with his food, Mike nudges him in the knee. "We have an early flight out to LA in the morning. Talked with the road agents again, they'll be in contact with your doctor about you being allowed back on the house shows this weekend."

John looks far from pleased but nods anyway, his lips pale and thin, as Mike looks solemnly at him.

"Hopefully you'll be able to sleep after your long nap," he adds with a bit of a smirk as he tries to break the tension, eating the last bit of his cheeseburger with a flourish. Without another word spoken to his two companions, he gets up and, after tossing his garbage, grabs his things and holes up in the bathroom for a minute, clenching his fists around the edge of the sink as he takes deep breaths. He would never admit it to anyone but he's reluctant to leave-- almost hesitant to split up from both Alex and John right now, with Nexus planning to do who knows what. They're not always safe outside of WWE arenas, which has been proven by various attacks in hotels, personal homes and even grocery stores over the years. Sometimes animosity becomes so personal that even risking jail time isn't a hindrance to wrestlers-- if they want to attack someone, they will, consequences be damned.

Admittedly, Morrison wouldn't be that far away but with the suddenness one can be attacked, if he was needed, five minutes might as well be an hour. And Alex lives across the country, in Florida. He slams his hand against the sink and shakes his head, trying desperately to clear it of these worries. "Dammit," he mumbles, shaking out his fingers. "Dammit, dammit, dammit." With nothing to be done about it, he turns and begins preparing for bed.

The flight to LA the next morning goes alright, considering Miz is a big ball of tension most of the time. He's relieved that he was able to get them seats next to each other this last minute as he keeps a close eye on Morrison, not sure what, if anything, the changes in pressure as they climb higher in the sky might do to his already tender throat.

Miz somehow has gotten a couple days off of media appearances before the weekend house shows, so he enjoys LA to the best of his ability, relieved to be away from the wintery states that they had been touring the past few weeks.

Tuesday, he stays busy by taking care of some errands that have been needed done for a long time and then hitting some clubs in the evening. The instant he returns home, however, and settles in to catch up on some much needed sleep, he automatically pulls out his phone and checks it. The lack of the Missed Messages screen taunts him as he stares at the wallpaper of himself holding the title belt up over his head, taken when he first won the title. He glares at it tiredly, shaking his head. "Dammit," he mumbles, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The silence from Morrison is almost as weird as how bothered he is by not hearing from his former tag partner.

He huffs and rolls over. Could go weeks without hearing from him before... and now not even a few hours? He scrunches his hand around his pillow before burying his face into it. Damn Nexus...

Wednesday passes much the same, Miz wasting time driving around LA and reacquainting himself with the city he doesn't get to spend a lot of time in, despite living there. He's about to give up and go home around 10 PM, catch up on some TV, when his phone goes off. He plugs it into his hands free set and answers after stopping at a red light, not even bothering to check to see who's calling first. "Hello?"

He hears nothing but silence for a moment, comes this close to hanging up, when finally the person on the other end speaks. "Mike?"

He blinks. "John?"

"Yeah. Hey." Morrison sounds painfully awkward, though his voice seems somewhat stronger than it did just yesterday morning.

"You alright?" Mike's already peering around, trying to find the closest exit that would lead to Morrison's apartment, his mind working overtime at the worst case scenario of what this call could mean. Dammit, he begins chanting once more, traffic going slow as it always does in downtown LA. This has to happen the one time I go to one of the more congested places, he thinks angrily.

"Yeah, I'm fine," John responds, easing a little of Miz's apprehension. "I... dunno, I guess I... was just wondering if you wanted to come over?" Despite sounding "fine", the more he talks, the tireder he sounds.

Mike freezes and stares ahead, knuckles gripping the steering wheel tightly. He calls for the first time in maybe a year and a half and he invites me to come over? "Why?" Paranoia worms through him and he wonders if maybe it's a trap, if Nexus is forcing him to make Miz come over. If he would give in to such demands... But would you really want him to be stubborn and get hurt worse just to protect you? his annoying conscious grates at him, as he leans over and presses his forehead against the steering wheel, once more remembering just how bad things looked after the initial attack on Sunday.

John sighs into the receiver, causing Miz to wince at the burst of sound that assaults his ears, but he keeps quiet, not wanting to miss anything. "It's Nexus," he admits, Miz's blood pulsing in his ears as he considers getting out of the car and just running the rest of the way. It'd take forever but with the unmoving traffic around him, there probably wouldn't be much difference. "It-- It's stupid but I can't stop thinking about it," he mutters, embarassment tinging his words. "The attack, I mean."

Mike sighs quietly as finally the traffic begins to inch along again, the exit he's now trying to get on coming into sight.

"If you don't want to, that's fine," Morrison starts to say, his voice a little strained.

"No," Mike cuts him off emphatically. "I'm heading your way now, traffic's just been a joke. Give me about ten minutes, alright?"

"Ok." He pauses for a second. "Thanks, Mike."

"See you in a bit," he responds before hanging up, a little surprised by how much he doesn't want or need John's thanks for this.

When he arrives, Morrison is sitting on the front steps of his apartment building, staring up at the dark sky overhead. He joins him after a few moments, tilting his head upwards as well. One of the few things he misses about Ohio is being able to see stars almost nightly, depending on the weather. LA is so bright, the stars just can't compete. "What are you doing out here?" he finally asks once the silence becomes unbearable.

"Apartment was getting stuffy," he mumbles, finally looking over at Mike. "Needed some fresh air. And at least out here..." He stops, his lips thinning as he looks down at the sidewalk.

"Out here what?" he asks quietly, nudging Morrison with his leg when no answer comes. "Come on, John. Who'm I going to tell?"

"Out here I can see what's going on around me," he finally finishes. The No one can sneak up on me out here remains unspoken, but Miz still knows that's what he's thinking.

It's a weak argument and they both know it but somehow Miz understands it anyway-- like the hotel lobby, a sidewalk full of passerbys seems safer to Morrison.

They're still sitting there ten minutes later, Miz this close to asking if they can just go inside already, passing people's curious glances their way grating at him, when John finally speaks. "Saw my doctor today."

Immediately he forgets the trivial annoyance of sitting out here and shifts on the step to face Morrison. "What'd he say?" It's too dark and shadowy to get a good look but his gaze falls to Morrison's throat anyway while he waits for John to respond.

"He cleared me to wrestle by the house show Friday. Said it'll take a couple weeks for the bruises to clear but all in all, I was lucky."

"There's nothing lucky about getting attacked by Nexus," Miz says, his voice steel-edged as John glances at him, a little surprised by the reaction.

"That's not what he meant. I was lucky because..." He awkwardly clears his throat, his fingers fiddling with some invisible lint on his dark jacket as Miz stares at him. "Because despite everything, there were people willing to run down and stop what was happening. So tha--"

"No," Mike grumbles. "No. Don't thank me. I didn't do anything, John." He stands up, agitated, and starts pacing back and forth despite the stairs not being that wide to begin with. "I stayed on the outside of the ring and just watched until Truth and Alex took care of everyone in the ring. I did what I always do-- I stayed on the sidelines until it was safe and in the meantime, Wade was choking you! If I had stopped and thought for a minute, I could've snuck up on him while the others were distracted, maybe you wouldn't have needed to visit the ER, wouldn't have those damn bruises on your frickin throat right now..."

Mid-rant, Morrison stands up and, by the end, he steps in, effectively stopping the other man's pacing just to grab Mike by the shoulders roughly, staring at him. "You stayed on the sidelines?" he says with a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "Sure, maybe you should've done things differently in hindsight but at least you brought Truth and Riley out to help-- what did everyone else do? Stood by the gorilla position and watched like it was some show put on for their entertainment?" His voice softens as he shakes Miz slightly. "And besides, if Truth and Riley had gotten in over their heads and I was still getting beat up in the corner, what would you have done?"

He starts to answer, then pauses, uncertainty in his blue eyes, as Morrison stares at him. "I don't know."

"Yes you do. What would you've done?"

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, close enough that he thinks he can see the marks along Morrison's throat despite the poor lighting. The answer comes to him and he doesn't even second guess it, just speaks it, calmly and matter-of-factly. "If Truth and A-Ri couldn't have managed it, I'd have gone in myself and used whatever necessary-- chair, briefcase, steel steps, my title itself if I had to-- to stop those idiots. To help you."

John smirks a bit, releasing his grip on Miz and stepping back. "Told you," is all he says.

"I hate you," Mike mumbles, even as his lips twitch upwards. John just laughs.

After his conversation with Morrison, Mike feels a good deal better about things, actually relieved to be back on the road. He still has to worry about Nexus, but Morrison seems to be in a good place. And the doctor's releasing him means things can go back to normal for the three of them. Or so he thinks, anyway.

That is, until Alex catches up with him in the middle of Friday's houseshow, a worried look on his face. "Mike, we have a problem," he spits out before Miz can even ask what's up with him.

"What?" he asks.

"It's John," Alex manages before they both turn, watching as the man himself storms down the hallway. The look on his face is almost indescribable, unlike anything Mike's seen before. He doesn't even look at them when he goes past, his eyes locked on the floor as he brushes past various staff and wrestlers alike, simply desperate to get away.

As soon as he's gone, Mike rounds on Alex, already regretting that he didn't take the time to just watch Morrison's first match back since the attack by Nexus. "What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?" he demands, glaring up at his protege.

"He was wrestling DiBiase," Alex explains, continuing to talk even as Miz grabs him by the arm and leads him to a quieter area where there wasn't a bunch of people whispering and gossiping about Morrison's rush through the arena. "It was going ok but then... I don't know, the angle was a little off, I couldn't see everything, but it looked like DiBiase tried putting him in a sleeper and Morrison just... froze as soon as he locked his arms around his throat, he didn't struggle or anything. So he lost and when the ref finally got him to come to, he just freaked out, started fighting off the referee. That's when I came to find you. Do you... do you think it's because of the Nexus attack?"

Miz nods grimly, looking down the hallway. "Listen, I'm going to look for him. Don't worry, I'll be back before my match. On the off-chance I'm not... text me or something." He walks off before stopping a few feet away. "Alex?"

"Yeah?" his apprentice says, turning around.

"Thanks." That said, he continues along his way, mind racing with what could possibly be the cause of Morrison's reaction to the sleeper hold. If it's what I think it might be, this could be bad, he thinks reluctantly.

"Hey, John, we need to leave for a little bit. Remember the house show tonight?" He waits patiently until John nods, a tired, blank look in his eyes but it's enough of a response for Miz, who continues. "I have some business to handle afterwards too, but we'll be back as soon as possible. You'll be alright, just relax, ok?" He hates leaving, especially with Morrison looking so tired and defenseless, but even he can't just skip responsibilities at the drop of a hat. Besides, John is fine, he's breathing and in a hospital with a so-far diligent staff. "See you later, man," he whispers, leaning over to squeeze John's shoulder. As soon as he stretches his arm out, John tenses up, staring up at Mike with wide, fearful eyes. Miz aches at the foreign look on Morrison's face, his lips parting slightly as he pauses mid-movement, time stopping as the two former tag champions stare at each other.

Finally he sucks in a deep breath and stands up straight, turning towards the door as a feeling of failure and pain assaults him. What's wrong with him? What did I do? "We'll... be back a little later, Morrison," he calls, unable to think of anything else to say or do as he tries to get away from the fragile-looking man as quickly as possible.

"DAMMIT!" he cries, slamming his palm against the nearest wall so hard that his whole hand stings. "I should've known then, in that moment. I'm so stupid." Shaking his hand out, he takes a deep breath and scrubs at his face. Pull yourself together, Mizanin. Greedy bastard, this isn't the time to dwell on yourself, Morrison needs help and you screwed this up from the get go so it's your chance to really fix things for once. Come on! He glares around before picking a hallway at random and wandering down it. He hears footsteps ahead and speeds up, hoping to come across Morrison... but quickly deflates upon catching sight of a tech as she walks past him, busily talking into the headset she's wearing. He sighs, walking off. He stops midstep a couple moments later, realizing something. "Hey, wait a sec!" He turns and dashes off after her.

She freezes and faces him, an eyebrow raising as she takes the headset off so she can hear him easier. "Yes?"

He takes a deep breath, already knowing how weird this is going to sound before the words are even formed in his mind but not exactly caring. All he cares about is finding Morrison. "Do you know of any locker rooms that aren't being used tonight?"

Sure enough, she shoots a funny look at him but ultimately checks the clipboard in her hand, where a layout of the building is just visible. "There are, actually, a block of rooms down the hallway from the trainer's office. May I ask why...?"

He takes off like a shot, however, as soon as she says "trainer's", too anxious and worried to fuss over trivial things like manners or explaining himself. You better be there, Morrison, he thinks anxiously. He ignores everyone he passes, concentrating only on the path he's taking as he rushes down different hallways. As soon as he spots the Trainer sticker on one of the doors, he skids to a stop and looks around.

The rooms behind him are occupied, the voices and lights coming from them obvious despite how far away he's standing. Refocusing on the four doors leading past the trainer's office to the exit at the end of the hallway, he walks slowly towards each one, uncertain how to figure out which one Morrison's hiding in, if any of them.

The closer he gets, however, the easier it is to tell: only one of the rooms' doors are cracked open a few inches; the other three are shut tight. He tries peeking inside but the light is off, and the dim gleam in the hallway isn't enough to cut through the darkness within. Not wanting to rush in and make Morrison angrier or shut down more, he takes a deep breath and settles down on the floor, his back pressed against the doorframe. After a few strained moments, he wraps an arm around his now-bent knee, getting as comfortable as he could on the hard tiled floor for a potentially long wait.

Ten minutes or so pass, torturous and unbearably quiet, when he hears shifting from inside. He holds his breath as the sounds grow closer to the door, half-expecting John to just shut it the rest of the way on him. He wants to say something so bad, his lips parting as finally the movement stops. The door remains open slightly. He peeks in and just barely spots Morrison's form in the shadows, leaning against the opposing section of door frame, now close enough that Miz could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. The silence remains unbroken.

He's not sure how much time passes, his gaze ping-ponging from the nondescript hallway before him to glancing over at Morrison and back, until finally... "What the hell do I do now?"

The words are spoken quietly, in an almost defeated tone. Miz cringes, wanting desperately to turn to look at his friend but not wanting to stop him from talking. "What do you mean?" he asks hesitantly after a few strained moments.

"Didn't Riley tell you what happened?" he asks bitterly. Without waiting for Miz to think up an answer, he plows on. "I just... stopped out there. I've never froze like that before but... DiBiase's arms were around my throat and all I could remember was Barrett and... I can't compete like that, it's... it..." His words failing him, Morrison punches the floor and Miz winces at the sound of flesh against tile that echoes out of the door. "I can't..."

"John." Mike, tired of talking to him like this, finally turns to face him. Even though he can't really see him that well, it still makes him feel better. "That attack last week... it would mess anyone up, man. It... it isn't something that'll be permanent, ok? We'll figure it out."

"How? If this happens again... if it gets worse... It's... too obvious a weakness, the entire locker room's probably already aware of it. Before you suggest it, I can't go to a psychiatrist or something to figure this out, it'll take too long... I just... Raw is only two days away..." He knocks his head against the doorframe and sighs, turning his head to look at Mike. Despite the bad lighting, Mike can still see the hopelessness in his eyes. "We both know anyone thought to be a liability or unable to hold their own are usually let go like that." He snaps his fingers derisively. "I can't take that chance, Mike." They all have their issues with the business, the politics and grueling schedule and expectations get to all of them at one time or another, but in the end most of them honestly love it too, the rush of the crowds and actual competition.

Before he can think through anything, he's talking, words trailing from his lips with an unknown origin; the certainty behind them startling even him. "We'll figure it out. Ok? It'll be fine. Just give me some time to work on it. Don't worry, John. Just... leave it to me."

John shifts, sighs. "It's kinda crazy," he mumbles after a few moments, picking at the grooves in the tiles. "But I can't help but believe you'll find something."

"Of course I will," Mike says with a confident smirk, forced though it is, to put John at ease a bit. "You know me, I'm obstinate like that." He feels a twinge of success when Morrison huffs a slight laugh.

"That's a big word for ya, Mike."

"Yeah, yeah. Are you going to make me talk to you through this door all night or are we getting out of here? I feel ridiculous," he makes sure to add in a mumble, though what other people who might see him talking to John like this are thinking is the furthest thing from his mind.

"Fine... fine." When John finally starts to move, Mike stands up and crosses his arms as Morrison pushes the door open, the two eyeing each other. "I..." he starts, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I'm ok," he says vaguely, stepping into the hallway.

"You will be." Mike claps him on the shoulder, taking in how he only flinches slightly at the movement, before leading him back towards the main locker rooms, his mind already racing with possible ways to help.

Alex wakes up the next morning, squinting through the early morning sunshine, before his mind catches up with his other senses: a loud buzzing sound coming from the table between his bed and Mike is the cause of his abrupt wakefulness. Fumbling for the phone, he quickly shuts it off and groans, flopping back into bed. "Mike?" he mumbles, dropping an arm over his face. He wants to sleep but something tells him that's going to be impossible. "Mike?" He sighs and rolls over, looking at his mentor's bed.

Mike is propped up on a bunch of pillows against the headboard, his hands pressed against his laptop's keyboard even as he sleeps.

Torn between letting Mike sleep and curious at why he was up late on the laptop and what the alarm was set for, he reluctantly pulls himself out of bed and pries the computer away, carefully placing it on the table, next to Mike's phone. "Mike?" he asks softly, turning back to the world champion. When he receives no response and Miz barely moves, he sighs and pats him on the shoulder, pushing slightly with each pat. "Miz. Wake up."

His wrestling name always cuts it as he jerks awake and looks around blearily, confused and a little panicked at the loss of his laptop. Did I knock it off the bed?! he can't help but think, gazing around the dimly lit hotel room wildly.

"Calm down, Mike. Your laptop's fine," Alex says, settling down on the floor with his elbows pressed against the edge of Mike's bed as he watches his mentor calm down and wake up bit by bit. "Your alarm clock went off a few minutes ago. Why do we need to be up this early? I don't think I forgot any media events..."

"Crap," he mumbles, sitting up and feeling around for the cell phone. "What time is it?"

"A little after 6 AM. Mike, what's going on? You fall asleep with your laptop on after setting your alarm clock for 6?"

Mike sighs and kicks the sheets away, yawning as he stands up. "Morrison needs us,"  is all he says with a faint frown before walking into the bathroom.

Alex's jaw drops slightly as he watches his mentor's exit. "Of... course he does," he mumbles, abruptly feeling extremely tired. He sighs and sits down on the bed he only vacated a little bit ago to wait for his mentor's reappearance, reluctant but yet curious to see what exactly Mike thinks they can do for Morrison after yesterday's tense end to his match. After Morrison had stormed through the halls and Miz went after him, John hadn't been seen for the rest of the evening, which hadn't helped the locker room gossip in the least.

When Mike finally emerges from the bathroom, looking a bit more awake and aware, he settles in across from Alex and grabs for his laptop, tapping the touchpad until it slowly cycles back to life. "Read this," he says blandly, turning the machine towards Alex.

"...Exposure therapy... behavioral treatment... targets behaviors that people in engage in in response to situations..." Alex mumbles to himself as he reads the article, before peering up at Miz. His eyes are wide and a little worried. "Mike... I get that you're trying to help Morrison, but, I mean, it's not like either of us are knowledgeable in this sort of thing. What if trying this behavioral therapy thing back fires and makes it all worse?"

Mike leans forward, eyes burrowing into Alex as he points a finger at the computer screen. "Imagine if you were in Morrison's shoes, and some damn cowardly gang jumped you, could've killed you... and left you frozen in that moment, unable to wrestle normally to the point where you couldn't defend yourself during a chokehold. Wouldn't you want to do anything possible to try to get back to normal?"

Their eyes still locked, Alex slowly nods, unable to argue Miz's passionate logic. As always. "Ok," he sighs. "What do you need me to do?"

"Go talk to Santino and Kozlov," Miz says with a grimace, as if it pains him to even speak the words aloud.

"WHAT?!"

A little later, a grumbling Alex wanders through the halls of the hotel, picking at the edge of the paper with the room number of Santino and Kozlov written on it that the girl at the front desk had given him after some convincing and a little charm.

"Be careful," Miz's voice echoes in his mind. "Nexus could be anywhere in the hotel. If this didn't need to be done and fast, I'd suggest we go together but we're running out of time."

"Dammit," he mumbles, catching sight of their room number just down the hall in gleaming gold letters.

Steeling himself, he crumples the paper in hand and knocks sharply, two, three times before letting his arm fall back to his side.

"Kozlov, who is-a that at the door?!" the unmistakeable voice of Santino yells from inside.

"Secretariat?" the thick Russian voice suggests a moment later, Alex groaning out loud as he wonders how much Mike would hate him if he aborted this mission right now.

"That's it, I'm not allowing you to watch that Craig Fergusoneses ever again!" Santino yells over his shoulder as he answers the door, coming to an abrupt stop as he comes face to face with Alex Riley. "Oh. What do you want?" He puffs up with false bravado as Kozlov joins them at the doorway, glowering down at the rookie.

Trying to hide his discomfort at being this close to the easily angered Russian, Alex rolls his eyes. "I need to talk to you both."

"Yes, well," Santino huffs, affronted. "We are both very busy men, tag team champions, you know. Bother us at the arena." He's about to shut the door, muttering something to Kozlov about turning "I Dream of Jeanie" back on when Alex throws a hand out, not willing to give up after all the BS he's already gone through just to get this far.

"It's about John Morrison."

The door stops before it even hits his hand and slowly re-opens, Santino staring solemnly at him. "What about him?"

Twenty minutes later, they arrive at a nondescript gym, pausing outside to wait. "Think this will work?" Riley asks quietly after a minute, squinting over at his mentor while shielding his eyes from the early morning sunshine.

"It has to," he mumbles, ignoring as his rookie's worried gaze tracks his progress to the gym doors. He peers inside briefly, only just catching sight of Morrison, when Alex nudges him. "What?" Turning around, he watches quietly as a simple red, rental car pulls up and parks. He grimaces as R Truth gets out and walks towards them. "Where the hell are Santino and Kozlov?"

"He inside?" the rapper asks, burying his hands in his pockets in an attempt to protect them from the early morning chill.

"Yeah," Miz mumbles, wanting to talk to Truth as little as possible. "Just waiting on Marella and Kozlov."

Truth smirks with a bit of an eyeroll, peering into the gym. "Great."

"Yeah." They wait around for almost ten more minutes when finally another car pulls up, the obvious form of Kozlov visible through the passenger window, an annoyed grimace on his intense face. When he exits the car,  he immediately turns and barks something in Russian to the other man. Miz groans in aggravation as Santino snaps back in Italian.

"They seriously argue like that?" Alex mumbles, alternating between intrigue and just being too cold to care. "How the hell do they understand what they're fighting about...?"

Miz waits until they get closer, his hands clenching into fists as he stands up at his tallest height, still falling short next to Kozlov. It doesn't matter. "SHUT UP!" he finally roars when the tag team champions near them, startling both men into blessed silence. His voice drops to a dangerously low level, as he points into the gym with a vicious glower on his face. "John is in there and if you two idiots keep bickering like children, this thing isn't going to happen. So. Shut. Up. Now."

The four men surrounding him all look a little uneasy after his tirade, his exhaustion, helplessness and just plain anger fueling every word out of his pale lips.

"Sorry," Santino and Kozlov mumble together, looking away in shame.

"Good," Mike all but snarls. "Now, let's go." He gazes warningly at all four of them, only stopping briefly on Alex before peering harshly at Truth, Santino and Kozlov in turn. They better get along... or else. I hate this too but desperate times, desperate measures. Morrison needs people he mostly trusts or at least seems to like to do this thing. Pausing only long enough to rub his hands anxiously against his pant legs, Mike grabs hold of the gym door and pulls it open, hoping he looks more confident than he feels.

It's not hard to locate Morrison once they're inside-- he's near the dumb bells, and Miz rolls his eyes as Alex opens his mouth to say something. "Don't bother," he interrupts his rookie. "Do you know how tired those jokes are by now? Focus."

"Fine, sorry." The others wisely keep their comments to themselves, Mike turning on his heel and walking towards John.

"Well, well, look who it is," he says calmly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

John pauses and looks up, carefully putting one of the dumb bells down. "What are you doing here, Mike? I appreciate the concern but I really don't need--"

"Who's to say I'm not here to train?" he asks, struggling not to look over Morrison's shoulder for very long at the other four, who are talking quietly to the gym manager across the room.

"We haven't used the same gym in years," he responds, frowning curiously at Mike. "So why--?"

"What, you mean it's a crime now if I decide to come here? Possessive much, John? Geez, it's just a gym, relax," he says mockingly, only just catching as Alex motions to him with a slight nod. Great, he thinks as the four are led into a back room by the manager. Now how do I get John to go back there too? "How are... things this morning?" he asks awkwardly, mind still working double time trying to figure out a way.

"If by things you mean, have I frozen up? Not so far, but no one's tried to strangle me yet," he says dryly, leaning over to pick up the dumb bells once more.

Mike pauses, trying to figure out the best way broach the subject. Ah screw it, he decides, pushing John's hands away from the work out equipment. "I have an idea."

"What are you doing, Mike? I just--"

"Want to work out, I know, trust me. I remember how you get if you don't get to work out but... I think I have a way to help you so what happened last night never happens again. Are you willing to try?"

Alex, the tag team champions and R Truth wait in one of the back rooms, looking around anxiously. "He is not coming," Kozlov speaks up after awhile, his slow, stilted English a chore to listen to for everyone but Santino.

"Give Mike some time to convince him," Alex grumbles, suffering a bit of a headache after listening to more of Santino and Kozlov's strange conversation in Italian and Russian. "He'll be here."

"I am a-bored," Santino offers after another few minutes, crossing his arms against his chest petulantly.

"Hey," Truth says, the only one content to sit quietly and wait. "Morrison needs us, and that's the truth. How many times has he had your back this year alone, Santino? You can wait five minutes, yeah?"

"Oh, fine," the Italian superstar mumbles, settling back down with a huff to wait a little longer.

They all relax when finally the door opens and Miz enters, Morrison reluctantly following behind him. "What are you--?" he's asking when he catches sight of the others. "Uh. What are you all doing here?"

"We're all here to help you out, dawg," Truth says, finally standing up.

"And how are you going to do that?" he asks skeptically, his gaze wandering around the room before it stops on the gym's ring mostly used by boxers. "Oh."

"Hear us out?" Miz asks, a bit of uncertainty niggling at him as he takes in the blank look on Morrison's face. As John nods, he takes a deep breath. "Ok. Well, I figured since you would be at the gym today that it'd be a way to use the gym's ring, so no one else could see what we're doing. We, hmm, rented the ring for the day, and the manager agrees to keep people from using it until we're done."

"I don't see what the point is--"

"Have you heard of exposure therapy?" At John's reluctant nod, Miz sighs. "I think we should try something like that. If it doesn't help, we'll stop when you say so... but if you really want to be back on your game before Raw tomorrow night, then I think it's our best bet."

The six men stand around tensely until finally Morrison takes a deep breath, his gaze falling to the worn brown carpet underneath their feet. "Fine, let's try it."

As Morrison enters the ring and prepares for his first opponent, Miz bites his lip for a moment, examining the four other men. After some pondering, he points to Santino. "Go."

The easily excited Milan Miracle salutes Kozlov, who frowns at him in confusion, before rushing towards the ring just to trip over his own feet, his resulting forward motion somehow enough to roll through the second and third rope, sprawling awkwardly in front of Morrison.

"For God's sake," Miz mumbles, slapping a hand to his forehead as John leans over to help him up, his lips twitching.

The match starts off normally enough, both men feeling each other out with a few of Santino's surprisingly agile feats mixed in. Miz only half watches until Morrison misses a punch and Santino takes the opening, spinning around and wrapping a forearm around his throat, clinging tightly. The results are staggering and immediate, makes Mike feel a little sick-- John doesn't fight at all, his face paling as the hold slowly takes effect, Santino's jaw dropping in response to the lack of response from the man.

Mike regains control of himself after staring for he's not sure how long and rushes to Santino's path of vision, holding three fingers up. Following the rules he himself had placed on this before they had begun the match, he folds each finger under his thumb until he's simply holding a fist upright. At this, Santino releases the hold as Miz rolls into the ring, grabbing John by the shoulders. "Dammit. Dammit. Morrison, are you ok?"

His eyes are a bit glazed over but he nods, hands instinctively going to his throat.

"I'm sorry, sorry," Santino is babbling as Truth and Kozlov join them, Truth leaning over Morrison as Kozlov pats his tag partner awkwardly on the back.

"It's my fault," Miz grumbles, feeling stupid and thoughtless. "This was too damn soon--"

"No," John breaks into his self-recriminations, eyes clearing and flashing dangerously as he looks up. "I agreed to this. And we're not quitting. I refuse..." He clears his throat, wincing slightly. "I refuse to let Nexus win. Please, Mike. I think... think this could work."

He sighs heavily and shakes his head at Morrison's stubbornness. "Fine. Once more. But I want you to tell me if it gets to be too much." Miz looks back and forth from Truth to Alex-- far from ready to throw Kozlov in there just yet-- and finally points at Alex. "Your turn, A-Ri."

Morrison seems to let his body go on autopilot, as Alex only manages a couple of hits early on. When his first chance comes, Miz hesitates for only a second, fretting about Morrison's response, before lunging through the ropes and grabbing John's leg, tripping him up just enough for Alex to scrabble for his opponent and lock in a sleeper hold, exactly like what DiBiase had done barely twelve hours previously. Morrison's still off balanced from Miz's actions and Alex's weight just makes it worse as he trips forward, running into the opposing turnbuckle and knocking Alex into the metal post on the outside, effectively dislodging his hold.

For a moment, Miz is thrilled, until he takes a closer look at Morrison's disappointed face. "It was a fluke," he mumbles, slapping a hand against the mat. "If you hadn't grabbed my leg, I would've just frozen like I did with Santino."

"It's ok," Mike mutters, frowning. "Do you want... to try again?"

An hour passes with limited results-- sometimes Morrison handles chokeholds, sleeper holds, any kind of move involving the throat better than others, but for the most part, nothing changes. In a stroke of desperation, Miz's eyes lock on the as-of-yet unused Kozlov and he nods, pointing to him. "Go."

"Are you sure, Miz?" Truth asks uncertainly, glancing over at Morrison.

"Yes," he says, peering into the ring as he too second guesses this decision.

Kozlov glares over at Morrison, an almost sadistic smile on his face as he waits for his opponent to get close enough for him to grab. Not one to shy away from a fight, Morrison lunges forward and they struggle for the upperhand until Kozlov headbutts him in the sternum, sending him into the turnbuckle. John huffs and rubs at his chest as he pushes his way back out, just to get met with another headbutt. Before he can even attempt to recover, Kozlov rushes forward and grabs him around the throat, leaning heavily against Morrison.

"Hey!" Miz yells, about to rush into the ring to break this up and lay into Kozlov. One thing they had discussed at length was no open chokes, no matter what.

"Wait, wait!" Santino cries, both him and Truth grabbing Miz. They all watch, jaw dropping as Morrison finally fights back, elbowing Kozlov in the side of the head until his hold slacks, opening him up to a kick. "Holy crap," the four men watching all mutter as Kozlov staggers back and Morrison stands tall, a little worn, but proud nonetheless. "He did it."

Miz pushes Truth and Santino off, once more rolling into the ring. "What the hell, John? How--?"

Morrison stares at him, looking just as surprised, before shrugging. "Would you believe if I said... I heard you yell and it... distracted me from the memories, I guess? All I could see was that flashback of Barrett choking me out, and then I heard you yelling and it dragged me back... I could see it was Kozlov, and you all standing around watching, and the rest just came naturally."

His mind works furiously and he groans, slapping a hand against his forehead. "I'm an idiot." At Morrison's quizzical glance, he explains: "While looking this all up, I saw something about grounding a person whenever they suffered flashbacks... it's so obvious, I should've thought of it sooner."

Morrison's lips twitch a little as he shrugs. "No big deal, we figured it out."

Miz scoffs. "Yeah..."

"So," Morrison says quietly as they turn to look at the four other wrestlers still hanging outside of the ring, "can I say it now?"

They glance at each other, Mike the one fighting a smile now. "If you must," he says smugly, eyes soft despite his tone.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They stand there for awhile longer, content with watching as Santino and Kozlov carry on with their antics, arguing about who knows what as Truth watches on with an amused look on his face. Alex, however, looks like he's swallowed a lemon.

"You really know how to attract 'em, huh?" Miz can't help but ask, glancing around at the eclectic group, a lot more at ease now that things appear to be back on the right track.

John looks around for a bit before smiling. "I guess misfits are just drawn to me." Before the words are completely out of his mouth, he realizes what he's said and shakes his head, glancing over as Miz starts to speak. "Don't. Just don't."

Mike's rare, honest laughter becomes contagious as John joins in. From the floor, Alex looks up and smiles slightly. Now maybe things can return to normal, he thinks, sighing in relief.

Weeks pass. Nexus' attention returns to Cena once he is re-hired. Morrison's issues become simple memories in time and Miz returns his focus to Orton and defending his title. Not long after Cena takes out all of Nexus, rumors begin to circulate that Barrett might be off of Raw after tonight and this news alone makes Miz happy-- he won't miss the Brit at all.

He's wandering the hallways, humming quietly as he holds onto his title belt. For now, things feel good. Orton's still sniffing around, sure, but-- He comes to an abrupt stop as he hears a familiar accent, peeking around the wall to see what's going on. His breath catches in his throat as he realizes what's going on.

"You think just because Cena's been distracting me, that I forgot about your friend, the Miz?" Barrett asks, pressing Morrison against the wall, his arm pressed tightly against his throat in an eery reenactment of the attack weeks earlier. "I haven't. That title will be mine. Very, very soon..."

Mike is about to rush forward and help when Morrison opens his eyes, punching and elbowing Wade in the face, until finally his tight hold slackens. Slipping down a little, John takes the opportunity and kicks him in the back of the head, sending him staggering to the side.

Miz grins a little, relieved, until Wade glares while rubbing his skull gingerly, obviously about to attack again.  Before he can even attempt it, the champion joins them, walking calmly despite the anger in his eyes. The steel chair held tightly in his free hand scrapes against the tile as he joins Morrison, raising an eyebrow at Barrett. "Problem here, boys?"

Wade glowers at them before huffing out a tense "No" and marching off, his very walk the one of a man heading towards the gallows. He's exiled from Nexus around a half an hour later, Miz's relief only second to Morrison's.