(no subject)
Title: My Disguise
Author: slashburd
Pairing: Centon (John Cena/Randy Orton)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not know of any of this to be true, I don’t know or own these people (but I'd secretly love to!).
Summary: M/M slash themes, some silliness, may induce smiles and/or facepalming:D
*
The cool tiles soon got slippery when faced with the heat of John's hands, the condensation forming and speckling the black ceramic glaze. When he felt them slipping he moved them further up the wall, half thinking about pressing his face to them too. The heat he was feeling was not natural for a shirtless man; his back divided by the odd drops of perspiration that had gathered together and run down the valley that formed when he leaned forward, his head hung low between his propped and parted arms.
He'd only been in the bathroom around twenty minutes but it already felt like an eternity, just like the time he hid in the shed from his Dad after stealing a present from under the tree when he was eight. Guilt was not something he'd ever learned to hide or even deal with in a conniving way. His heart was firmly stitched to his sleeve no matter how hard he tried and it turned out to be every single fan that knew that along with everyone he held dear as friend, family or foe.
Eventually when his head started to spin he sat on the closed toilet seat, grateful that he'd made the dash for it when he had and found his back way to the nicer men's room at the deserted end of the backstage area. The door was jammed shut with the waste paper bin and the lights dimmed so as not to draw attention to it being occupied at all. Gathering his knees up he held them close to his chin, arms wrapped tightly around the shins, kneepads scuffing at the soft skinned inners of his elbows. Sometimes he wished he'd stop running and face up to the tough stuff but he knew in his heart that there was no chance that would ever change. He hated conflict, anger, rows, crossed words, legit thrown fists. All he wanted was the sensible solution and that was the one he'd tried to provide tonight.
Somewhere in the building he was being hunted for. Stage hands would be staking out his dressing room and production assistants checking the parking lot and catering. All the while Randy would be coolly and calmly showering, dressing and then placing the belt back in the top of his travel bag. Closing his eyes John saw the look on Randy's face clearly, the smile that would be nailed across the thin, expressive lips when he saw the gold sparkling back at him under the harsh strip lights. Tonight there would be no anger from Randy, that was for sure.
Resting his head back against the wall he could smell the twang of the mat on his shorts and the surprisingly harsh chemicals in the fake tan smeared all over his body as they worked their way out in his sweat. He'd shower later when the panic was over and heat only meant the water temperature than the kind Steph would have in mind. The last thing he'd heard was her screeching a threat about him not being bigger than the company. John was under no illusion that he was. What he did know is that his belief in what was right and wrong wasn't feeling much like deviating lately and didn't mirror the approach of the company to the same dilemma.
By now Wade should be strutting around backstage and showing off, same as he had been doing for the rest of the week. Everyone and their mother, in fact anyone who would listen had already heard the tale of how he was going to become champion on Sunday. Nobody was excused his arrogant gloating and slowly John had tired of it. He saw Randy walking to the ring at house shows with the belt slung low on the crook of his arm rather than proudly over the elegant curve of his shoulder. Gone were the ten minute celebrations after the match to allow the fans to see what they wanted; Orton with the title. Instead Randy threw it into the air briefly and then made his way backstage, not wanting to get too used to the adulation as he prepared to go back on the chase for the title yet again.
John knew he was taking a risk in doing what he'd planned to do. He knew that Steph would go apeshit, that Vince would threaten to do plenty and then do nothing but it was the way Randy would react that bothered him the most. Wade he could handle, he was nothing more than a rookie who thought he'd come good in record time. To his credit he'd always previously shown the due respect to his colleagues and hadn't pushed to get the gold so quick. John couldn't blame the kid for wanting to take it on though having seen what it did to Sheamus' career plan and earnings. The issue was that John wasn't ready for Randy's moment to be over, the memory of the cage top celebration enough to bring a lump to his throat. No matter how much they tossed the belt around it's presence around the right waist was enough to make the most sceptical guys doe eyed and dumb struck.
One important string had been pulled with a writer who owed John a favour in return for a whole load of signed merch that got him some serious brownie points the Christmas before. One key change to the wording of the instruction, of what was expected of him. Win the match and just the match. Wade wasn't yet trusted to ad lib when needed and learned his lines like the key attraction at the bird corner of the petting zoo. Everything was set 24hrs before the match and had gone to plan. Wade won, John kept his job and, contrary to the plan, Randy kept his belt a little while longer.
As soon as the dizziness had worn off John got up and grabbed the trash bag from the side of the toilet. He undid the knot, grabbing the t-shirt and hooded top that were at the top of the pile inside. Once he'd shrugged them over his clammy shoulders he stood up and slipped the jean shorts down, kicking them off and stepping into the full length camo cargo pants. One bad pair of dirty old gardening sneakers later and he was almost finished with his outfit. The finishing touch was a stick on moustache that he'd added to his makeshift disguise just to see if anyone would notice it. It was a true crumb duster, one that Phileas Fogg would have been proud of. He knew he looked quite ridiculous but he didn't care, The intention would be to try and get out of the arena unnoticed, looking as much like a cleaner or a casual labourer as he could.
Carefully re-tying the bag he took a quick glimpse in the mirror only to see a weird image looking back, an image that made him swear that facial hair was something he'd never willingly develop. One quiet turn of the trash can saw it roll from its position under the handle and back to where it started near the end of the row of sinks.
A deep breath later and John was in the quiet corridor, casually swinging the bag of trash that concealed his ring gear. He'd only got a few metres to go before the exit to the service area would be in his eyeline and he'd be home and hosed. His truck was parked just over a mile away in a motel's back parking lot, all his travel stuff still packed in the trunk and ready for the run on to the next stage of the loop. All he needed now was a little down time to let the heat cool enough to be bearable. In truth he'd just helped them string the storyline out that little bit longer but he was sure Steph wouldn't see it like that.
Just as his hand found the bar handle of the door he heard people behind him.
“Hey man, seen John Cena anywhere?”
Without turning around he shook his head and did his best Jamey Johnson impression.
“No Sir, I have not. If I see the young feller around I'll be sure to say you're askin' after him.”
He didn't get a reply from the group, nor did he turn around to check their number or make up. The bar gave beneath the pressure of his hand and the last he heard from inside the building was the speculation as to where else he could've gotten to. The order had been given to find him and bring him to the executive office on the production truck, somewhere he hadn't been since he and Randy had made their own creative decisions about the end of their I Quit match a year before.
The chill in the October air was enough to make John pull the neck of the hooded top further around his chin and for a moment he was glad of the fact that he'd picked that over the work shirt he'd fished out of the thrift store on the way to Minnesota. His feet carried him quickly out over the loading bay and down into the service area. The construction crew would still be inside dismantling sets and lighting for a few more hours and he thanked his lucky stars that it took so long to get everything back into the flight cases to go on the trucks.
Once clear of the arena gates his pace lulled a little, his calf muscles twitching as they urged him to break into a run to burn off some of the nervous tension he still felt. Sensibly he resisted and did all he could not to draw attention to himself. Step after step he could almost feel the smile on his face getting wider and with a shake of his head it crossed his mind just how crazy he'd been to do what he did. He resigned himself then to the loss of a week's pay or maybe a month of his merch cut. It didn't matter, no amount of money could have bought him the feeling of being alive that seemed to be lighting him up from the inside for the first time in weeks.
Another ten minutes and his truck was getting closer with every up-paced step. Reaching down he plucked the keys out of the leg pocket of the cargo pants and was soon pressing the button to open the trunk. In went the black bag and the discarded moustache, out came his Rays cap and giant can of Red Bull. Moving around to the side he yanked open the door and hopped in, reaching to put the key in the ignition and kicking the engine to life, the loud roaring of his foot on the gas echoing back from the low walls of the cheap motel.
As he went to put it into gear to reverse back a light in his side mirror caught his attention and could make out that a car had pulled up behind him, blocking him in between it and the chain link fence at the front. He locked the doors and damned himself for taking the gun he usually carried out from under the seat a couple of weeks before to send it for cleaning and servicing. In the back of his mind it seemed typical of his luck lately that he'd get busted in the death throes of his plan.
A balled hand with one extended knuckle rapped sharply on the window but before John could wind it down or even shout an acknowledgement he heard the locks on his doors pop and the handle being pulled up, clicking the door open. With all his might he forced himself between the arm and the door knocking his unwanted visitor to the ground. Fists started to fly and in return he was caught with one or two sweet connections that were enough to stun him a little and force a trickle of blood down his nose and onto his top lip.
“See, this is your problem Cena. You seem to think that I'm incapable of handling myself. All this from a man incapable of hiding his spare keys properly.”
The mysterious figure stood over him, silhouetted by the clouded moonlight. A hand reached down to him and offered itself in peace and to help haul him back to his feet. Without hesitation John reached out and grabbed it and, when upright, pulled the man before him into a tight embrace that he'd got no hope of escaping without a low blow or pepper spray.
“I know you can hold your own with anyone Ortz. Maybe sometimes I just wanna make the stand for you y'know?”
Randy finally broke free of the loosening bear hug and stood with his hands on his hips, remaining the only man John had ever seen that could hold that pose and not look camp in the slightest. Smiling his trademark grin he cupped Randy's face in his hand and thumbed the darkly tanned skin.
“Waffle house. It's just after the next exit. Let's go eat and you can tell me how much trouble I'm in.”
Randy could do nothing more than nod his answer back, caught up in the look in John's eyes that he thought was lost and gone forever. Back was the bright and bouncy almost Bourne-like man that he loved, gone, albeit maybe temporarily, was the one who was breaking down as he watched everything he and his peers worked to build being torn down and handed out to anyone that looked pretty and could take a bump.
He turned his face into the warm hand and then moved away, tilting his head to look at John once more as the grin opened out into a tooth filled smile.
“You think I'm gonna have a job tomorrow Ortz?”
“Maybe. But hey, there's always gonna be a need for janitors.”
With a shake of his head John got back in his car and waited for Randy to do the same. As they drove out of the lot he saw Randy flip him the bird and then hit the gas, pulling away in the direction of the freeway. For a split second he considered heading the other way but if there was one thing he couldn't swerve it was the way Randy made him feel. Almost obediently he drove along at the limit as his lover's tail lights disappeared into the distance. To John it didn't matter too much. First to the waffle house was buying and he figured that the least Randy owed him was the weight of the belt in bacon.
----------------------------------------------------
A/N: This has just tickled me tonight and therefore, there it is. I'm not pretending its a literary masterpiece, its only taken me an hour lol but the thought of undercover!Cena just made me giggle. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the daftness of it too :D
And anyone familiar with Dr Jan I Tor (and/or Dr Acula), I love you! Getting the reference five!!
Author: slashburd
Pairing: Centon (John Cena/Randy Orton)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not know of any of this to be true, I don’t know or own these people (but I'd secretly love to!).
Summary: M/M slash themes, some silliness, may induce smiles and/or facepalming:D
*
The cool tiles soon got slippery when faced with the heat of John's hands, the condensation forming and speckling the black ceramic glaze. When he felt them slipping he moved them further up the wall, half thinking about pressing his face to them too. The heat he was feeling was not natural for a shirtless man; his back divided by the odd drops of perspiration that had gathered together and run down the valley that formed when he leaned forward, his head hung low between his propped and parted arms.
He'd only been in the bathroom around twenty minutes but it already felt like an eternity, just like the time he hid in the shed from his Dad after stealing a present from under the tree when he was eight. Guilt was not something he'd ever learned to hide or even deal with in a conniving way. His heart was firmly stitched to his sleeve no matter how hard he tried and it turned out to be every single fan that knew that along with everyone he held dear as friend, family or foe.
Eventually when his head started to spin he sat on the closed toilet seat, grateful that he'd made the dash for it when he had and found his back way to the nicer men's room at the deserted end of the backstage area. The door was jammed shut with the waste paper bin and the lights dimmed so as not to draw attention to it being occupied at all. Gathering his knees up he held them close to his chin, arms wrapped tightly around the shins, kneepads scuffing at the soft skinned inners of his elbows. Sometimes he wished he'd stop running and face up to the tough stuff but he knew in his heart that there was no chance that would ever change. He hated conflict, anger, rows, crossed words, legit thrown fists. All he wanted was the sensible solution and that was the one he'd tried to provide tonight.
Somewhere in the building he was being hunted for. Stage hands would be staking out his dressing room and production assistants checking the parking lot and catering. All the while Randy would be coolly and calmly showering, dressing and then placing the belt back in the top of his travel bag. Closing his eyes John saw the look on Randy's face clearly, the smile that would be nailed across the thin, expressive lips when he saw the gold sparkling back at him under the harsh strip lights. Tonight there would be no anger from Randy, that was for sure.
Resting his head back against the wall he could smell the twang of the mat on his shorts and the surprisingly harsh chemicals in the fake tan smeared all over his body as they worked their way out in his sweat. He'd shower later when the panic was over and heat only meant the water temperature than the kind Steph would have in mind. The last thing he'd heard was her screeching a threat about him not being bigger than the company. John was under no illusion that he was. What he did know is that his belief in what was right and wrong wasn't feeling much like deviating lately and didn't mirror the approach of the company to the same dilemma.
By now Wade should be strutting around backstage and showing off, same as he had been doing for the rest of the week. Everyone and their mother, in fact anyone who would listen had already heard the tale of how he was going to become champion on Sunday. Nobody was excused his arrogant gloating and slowly John had tired of it. He saw Randy walking to the ring at house shows with the belt slung low on the crook of his arm rather than proudly over the elegant curve of his shoulder. Gone were the ten minute celebrations after the match to allow the fans to see what they wanted; Orton with the title. Instead Randy threw it into the air briefly and then made his way backstage, not wanting to get too used to the adulation as he prepared to go back on the chase for the title yet again.
John knew he was taking a risk in doing what he'd planned to do. He knew that Steph would go apeshit, that Vince would threaten to do plenty and then do nothing but it was the way Randy would react that bothered him the most. Wade he could handle, he was nothing more than a rookie who thought he'd come good in record time. To his credit he'd always previously shown the due respect to his colleagues and hadn't pushed to get the gold so quick. John couldn't blame the kid for wanting to take it on though having seen what it did to Sheamus' career plan and earnings. The issue was that John wasn't ready for Randy's moment to be over, the memory of the cage top celebration enough to bring a lump to his throat. No matter how much they tossed the belt around it's presence around the right waist was enough to make the most sceptical guys doe eyed and dumb struck.
One important string had been pulled with a writer who owed John a favour in return for a whole load of signed merch that got him some serious brownie points the Christmas before. One key change to the wording of the instruction, of what was expected of him. Win the match and just the match. Wade wasn't yet trusted to ad lib when needed and learned his lines like the key attraction at the bird corner of the petting zoo. Everything was set 24hrs before the match and had gone to plan. Wade won, John kept his job and, contrary to the plan, Randy kept his belt a little while longer.
As soon as the dizziness had worn off John got up and grabbed the trash bag from the side of the toilet. He undid the knot, grabbing the t-shirt and hooded top that were at the top of the pile inside. Once he'd shrugged them over his clammy shoulders he stood up and slipped the jean shorts down, kicking them off and stepping into the full length camo cargo pants. One bad pair of dirty old gardening sneakers later and he was almost finished with his outfit. The finishing touch was a stick on moustache that he'd added to his makeshift disguise just to see if anyone would notice it. It was a true crumb duster, one that Phileas Fogg would have been proud of. He knew he looked quite ridiculous but he didn't care, The intention would be to try and get out of the arena unnoticed, looking as much like a cleaner or a casual labourer as he could.
Carefully re-tying the bag he took a quick glimpse in the mirror only to see a weird image looking back, an image that made him swear that facial hair was something he'd never willingly develop. One quiet turn of the trash can saw it roll from its position under the handle and back to where it started near the end of the row of sinks.
A deep breath later and John was in the quiet corridor, casually swinging the bag of trash that concealed his ring gear. He'd only got a few metres to go before the exit to the service area would be in his eyeline and he'd be home and hosed. His truck was parked just over a mile away in a motel's back parking lot, all his travel stuff still packed in the trunk and ready for the run on to the next stage of the loop. All he needed now was a little down time to let the heat cool enough to be bearable. In truth he'd just helped them string the storyline out that little bit longer but he was sure Steph wouldn't see it like that.
Just as his hand found the bar handle of the door he heard people behind him.
“Hey man, seen John Cena anywhere?”
Without turning around he shook his head and did his best Jamey Johnson impression.
“No Sir, I have not. If I see the young feller around I'll be sure to say you're askin' after him.”
He didn't get a reply from the group, nor did he turn around to check their number or make up. The bar gave beneath the pressure of his hand and the last he heard from inside the building was the speculation as to where else he could've gotten to. The order had been given to find him and bring him to the executive office on the production truck, somewhere he hadn't been since he and Randy had made their own creative decisions about the end of their I Quit match a year before.
The chill in the October air was enough to make John pull the neck of the hooded top further around his chin and for a moment he was glad of the fact that he'd picked that over the work shirt he'd fished out of the thrift store on the way to Minnesota. His feet carried him quickly out over the loading bay and down into the service area. The construction crew would still be inside dismantling sets and lighting for a few more hours and he thanked his lucky stars that it took so long to get everything back into the flight cases to go on the trucks.
Once clear of the arena gates his pace lulled a little, his calf muscles twitching as they urged him to break into a run to burn off some of the nervous tension he still felt. Sensibly he resisted and did all he could not to draw attention to himself. Step after step he could almost feel the smile on his face getting wider and with a shake of his head it crossed his mind just how crazy he'd been to do what he did. He resigned himself then to the loss of a week's pay or maybe a month of his merch cut. It didn't matter, no amount of money could have bought him the feeling of being alive that seemed to be lighting him up from the inside for the first time in weeks.
Another ten minutes and his truck was getting closer with every up-paced step. Reaching down he plucked the keys out of the leg pocket of the cargo pants and was soon pressing the button to open the trunk. In went the black bag and the discarded moustache, out came his Rays cap and giant can of Red Bull. Moving around to the side he yanked open the door and hopped in, reaching to put the key in the ignition and kicking the engine to life, the loud roaring of his foot on the gas echoing back from the low walls of the cheap motel.
As he went to put it into gear to reverse back a light in his side mirror caught his attention and could make out that a car had pulled up behind him, blocking him in between it and the chain link fence at the front. He locked the doors and damned himself for taking the gun he usually carried out from under the seat a couple of weeks before to send it for cleaning and servicing. In the back of his mind it seemed typical of his luck lately that he'd get busted in the death throes of his plan.
A balled hand with one extended knuckle rapped sharply on the window but before John could wind it down or even shout an acknowledgement he heard the locks on his doors pop and the handle being pulled up, clicking the door open. With all his might he forced himself between the arm and the door knocking his unwanted visitor to the ground. Fists started to fly and in return he was caught with one or two sweet connections that were enough to stun him a little and force a trickle of blood down his nose and onto his top lip.
“See, this is your problem Cena. You seem to think that I'm incapable of handling myself. All this from a man incapable of hiding his spare keys properly.”
The mysterious figure stood over him, silhouetted by the clouded moonlight. A hand reached down to him and offered itself in peace and to help haul him back to his feet. Without hesitation John reached out and grabbed it and, when upright, pulled the man before him into a tight embrace that he'd got no hope of escaping without a low blow or pepper spray.
“I know you can hold your own with anyone Ortz. Maybe sometimes I just wanna make the stand for you y'know?”
Randy finally broke free of the loosening bear hug and stood with his hands on his hips, remaining the only man John had ever seen that could hold that pose and not look camp in the slightest. Smiling his trademark grin he cupped Randy's face in his hand and thumbed the darkly tanned skin.
“Waffle house. It's just after the next exit. Let's go eat and you can tell me how much trouble I'm in.”
Randy could do nothing more than nod his answer back, caught up in the look in John's eyes that he thought was lost and gone forever. Back was the bright and bouncy almost Bourne-like man that he loved, gone, albeit maybe temporarily, was the one who was breaking down as he watched everything he and his peers worked to build being torn down and handed out to anyone that looked pretty and could take a bump.
He turned his face into the warm hand and then moved away, tilting his head to look at John once more as the grin opened out into a tooth filled smile.
“You think I'm gonna have a job tomorrow Ortz?”
“Maybe. But hey, there's always gonna be a need for janitors.”
With a shake of his head John got back in his car and waited for Randy to do the same. As they drove out of the lot he saw Randy flip him the bird and then hit the gas, pulling away in the direction of the freeway. For a split second he considered heading the other way but if there was one thing he couldn't swerve it was the way Randy made him feel. Almost obediently he drove along at the limit as his lover's tail lights disappeared into the distance. To John it didn't matter too much. First to the waffle house was buying and he figured that the least Randy owed him was the weight of the belt in bacon.
----------------------------------------------------
A/N: This has just tickled me tonight and therefore, there it is. I'm not pretending its a literary masterpiece, its only taken me an hour lol but the thought of undercover!Cena just made me giggle. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the daftness of it too :D
And anyone familiar with Dr Jan I Tor (and/or Dr Acula), I love you! Getting the reference five!!