Categories > TV > WWE

Whiskey River

by RhiannonLeighBlack 1 Reviews

Take me home. Jon Moxley (Dean Ambrose)/OC

Category: WWE - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Humor,Romance - Characters:  - Published: 2013/02/06 - Updated: 2013/02/06 - 1603 words - Complete

They were arguing again, loudly and publicly this time. Jon Moxley looked up from his first shot of whiskey, as he sat slouched over the bar, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

She was the one who had gone to every CZW show in the area, the one who waited around after, and took her time patching up the damage he’d sustained. She was nice to him, and he appreciated the effort, but made a point of letting her know she would really be better off to just walk away. Being torn up that way almost always put him in one of his moods.

The guy arguing with her pissed Jon off, a lot; it bothered him more than he cared to admit when the asshole in question had started showing up with her. It pissed him off to see the guy treating her the way that he did, especially when Jon could see that she was bending over backwards to try and please him. It pissed him off that nothing seemed to be good enough. And what pissed Jon off the most was that on nights like tonight, he’d storm out and leave her to walk home. From what he could ascertain, they’d been together for about six months, and for the past three, Jon’s suspicion that he was a douchebag had been confirmed.

Tonight’s argument looked to be a little more serious than the usual ones, however. She and her boyfriend hadn’t even been in the bar five minutes, just long enough for the waitress to hand her a soda, and him a pint of beer.

“What the fuck is your deal? Why do you always have to come HERE after the show? Why can’t we ever go somewhere that I like?”

“But I thought you liked it here, and I really don’t understand why—”

“You always have to come here. Every time we go to one of those shows you just have to go to, you always have to come here, after. And you always insist on staying later at the arena, and you disappear for a good half an hour while I wait around with my thumb up my ass. I’m sick of it!”

“But—”

“No, I’m leaving, and if you don’t come with me, don’t bother calling me tomorrow, because I’m done. I’m done with all of it. You’re a hot girl, and I really like you, but I’m over the hot and cold routine, I’m over this entire situation.”

He stood up, pulling on the bright blue parka he’d just shrugged off two minutes earlier.

“Well? Are you coming or not?”

She didn’t even bother answering. She merely turned her back to him; he rolled his eyes at her and stormed out. When she turned back around, Jon noticed that her eyes looked brighter than they had before. She swiped a tear off her cheek, squared her shoulders, and strode towards the bar. Taking a seat, she sat the abandoned beer near Jon’s right hand, before taking a long sip of her soda.

“You again, huh?” he asked, managing a smirk.

She glanced over at him and blushed deeply.

“Yeah, me again. I see you didn’t bleed tonight.”

“No, but I’ve got a few more bruises. What happened to the douchebag? And do you mind if I take his beer?”

“Hell if I know, and no, not at all, feel free. Aren’t you going to yell at me for following you around? Again?”

“No, but I’m beginning to think you plan these things,” Jon replied, downing his shot of whiskey, and taking a sip of the beer. “At least it’s not too warm. I fucking hate warm beer.”

“I don’t plan anything, and beer is gross. It smells like what I believe horse piss to taste like.”

“Well don’t give insult my taste in alcohol or anything. Why do you follow me around anyway?”

“If I wanted to insult your taste in alcohol, I’d start with the fact that you drink Busch light,” she replied, rolling her eyes, and politely asking the bartender for another soda.

“You didn’t answer my question. And why are you in a bar if you aren’t going to drink,” Jon persisted, turning on his stool to fix an annoyed glare on her.

“If I’m going to get plastered, I’ll do it at home. Safety first,” she replied.

“Safety, right, where’s the fun in that? You’re ignoring the original question.”

“The fun is that I’m not staggering home with a strange man who might be a serial killer or a rapist. And what question was that?”

“Why the hell do you follow me around, goddamn it?”

She took another sip of her soda, suppressing a giggle at his frustration, and pondered for a moment.

“I guess,” she started, and then paused. “I guess because I think you could use a friend, that’s all. And more often than not when I follow you around, it’s to mop up the mess, and keep you from taking gangrene.”

“You’re weird.”

She laughed, a genuine one, before turning back to him.

“You’re one to talk, Jonathan.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And don’t fucking call me Jonathan. Goddamn.”

“I’m not the one who seems to be a glutton for punishment.”

Jon glared, taking yet another shot of whiskey; he was now on his fifth, and ordering a sixth. The bartender was giving him thee look, the one that usually meant “go home, Mox, you’re drunk.”

“I like the pain. I like it rough, because I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all,” he replied.

“I did not have you pegged as a Three Days Grace fan, but now that I think about it, that is definitely your jam.”

Jon opened his mouth to order another shot, and the bartender shook his head.

“Go home, Mox. You’re drunk.”

“I am not fucking drunk. Serve me my goddamn alcohol!”

He would’ve continued ranting, but the young woman on the barstool next to him cut him off.

“It’s okay, Kevin. I’m leaving anyway, I’ll see that he gets somewhere safe to sleep it off,” she stated.

She stood, zipping her hoodie, and tucking her credit card back into the pocket of her jeans. Jon glared daggers at Kevin the bartender, giving him the finger, before attempting to stand up. Thankfully, she had him by the arm, and carefully draped it around her shoulders, before slipping her own around his waist.

“Come on, big guy, nice and easy,” she coaxed, as they staggered out the door, him because of his drunkenness, and her because he was both taller and heavier.

They had managed to make it one block from the bar, before Jon extracted his cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. When he finally managed to get the lighter to come to life, he missed the end of his cigarette, instead coming dangerously close to singing his eyebrows off, and setting her hair ablaze. Annoyed, she extracted it from his hand, and shoved it into her pocket.

“Hey, fuck you, that’s mine. Give it back.”

“No, you’ll singe your eyebrows off,” she retorted, steering him away from the alley and further down the block.

“They’re mine to singe off. Hey, where the fuck are we going?”

“I’m taking you back to my place.”

“Oh, now I get it, you want me,” he smirked.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes you do! Why the fuck didn’t you say so, I’ll take my pants off right here and fuck you against the side of that building.”

Jon was fumbling with his belt buckle when she half carried him up the stoop of a small townhouse. She narrowed her eyes at him, slapping his hand as he continued to fumble.

“Stop that, and stand still until I can get the door unlocked.”

“I thought you wanted me, damn it, make up your mind!”

She rolled her eyes, finally getting the door unlocked, and groaned in frustration as she tugged him over to the sofa, kicking it shut.

“Sit,” she ordered.

Jon pouted, glaring childishly at her as she twisted the deadbolt on her door, securing a door chain up at the top. He stared out into space as she disappeared into another room, returning seconds later with a pair of faded Yankees pajama pants.

“These belonged to the douchebag, but I think they’ll fit you. I doubt you wanna sleep in jeans,” she explained, dropping them in his lap. “Do yourself a favor and change while I get a shower. There’s crackers in the kitchen if you want to munch on them and try to sober up a little.”

“I want a cigarette, damn it.”

“And I want a Ferrari, we can’t always have what we want. Cry.”

She didn’t see the raised middle finger in her direction as she padded towards the shower. What she did see, however, when she returned ten minutes later, was a passed out Jon Moxley, shirtless and wearing the pants she’d given him, curled into the fetal position on her sofa.

With a sigh, she retrieved the fleecy throw hanging on the back, and draped it over him. Knowing that he wouldn’t wake up, she softly kissed his forehead.

“Good night, Jon,” she murmured.
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