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Dean Ambrose (Jon Moxley)/OC. Inspired by "Eighteen Days", by Saving Abel.
I don’t wanna have to change,
But if I don’t then no one will…
Jon Moxley stood in the bathroom of his tiny apartment in Tampa, staring into his mirror, alone and on the brink of completely breaking down. She’d left him two and a half weeks ago, after the latest of many nights he’d been gone all night, drunk and partying with the rest of the boys from FCW. Looking back on it now, he didn’t blame her for leaving; hell, he would’ve left him, too.
Things had been perfect for the first six months, but once he’d settled into a routine, Jon had gotten bored. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her, he did, as much as he could ever love anyone, but months of sobriety and nonstop training had taken their toll on him, and he found himself turning back to the bottle to escape from the tedium and the monotony. At first, she’d understood; Jon had always been a restless and free spirit, and he needed his space and his freedom. But a couple of hours at the bar after training with the boys had turned into entire nights, with no phone calls, no nothing. More than a few mornings he’d found her asleep on the kitchen table, or curled up in the recliner next to the door, phone in hand, and worry etched on her face.
The last time had been the last straw. When he got back, still half wasted from getting “whiskey bent and hell bound” with Husky Harris, he’d found her promise ring, as well as the key to their apartment taped to a note that started out—ironically—with the words “dear Jon…”, and her things gone. Later that day he’d gotten a call from Chrissy Rivera, a mutual friend of theirs, to let him know that she was safe, and would be staying with Chrissy for the time being, but that she didn’t want to hear from him unless he was calling to tell her he’d gotten himself straightened out.
“It’s been too many days without you,” he sighed, his thumb gently caressing the image of her face, where he had a picture of them taped to the mirror.
He slowly peeled it off the glass surface, careful not to rip the photograph. As soon as it was safely off the mirror, Jon glared at his reflection, and then punched it; he smirked in satisfaction at the crunching noise that followed, the glass now cracked in a web like pattern.
“I’m going to get my girl back, fuck training, fuck WWE and FCW and everything in between. I’m not doing this without her,” he snapped.
And I know what they say about all good things,
Yeah, they come to an end,
But I’ll fight this time,
So that we might have a chance at this…
A few hours after Jon had started racing north to attempt a reunion, the keeper of his heart was barely stirring in her bed in Philadelphia.
Stretching and yawning, she padded to the kitchen, where Chrissy had made a pot of coffee before leaving for work that morning; it was one of many small gestures, letting the Ohio transplant know she was welcome, because Chrissy had given up caffeine weeks ago. She was thankful for the Jersey native’s company, and she knew Chrissy was just as thankful for hers; it gave her a chance to vent about her own frustration with the male species. That, and Chrissy kept the issues with Jon in perspective; while he was an asshole for laying out all night without a single phone call, at least she knew he wasn’t cheating. Chrissy hadn’t had the same luxury when her marriage to Sami Callihan had fallen apart, thanks to his affair with Jessicka Havok.
She was halfway through her second cup when she heard a knock at the door. Sighing heavily, figuring it was a courier attempting to serve Chrissy with more papers concerning the divorce, she made her way to the door, and pulled it open, only to find Jon standing there, looking tired and worse for wear, but sober.
“Chrissy told me you didn’t want to hear from me unless I was getting myself straightened out. And I didn’t want to try to get in touch until I had. You were right. I fucked up, I fucked everything up, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I understand if you don’t wanna come back, and if you want me to leave, I will, but I couldn’t…damn it, I couldn’t let you go without a fight. It took me so long—too fucking long, admittedly—to see what was common knowledge to everyone else. I’m tired of waking up lonely, I’m tired of coming home to an empty apartment, and I’m tired of falling asleep in a bed that’s cold and empty. I miss you, I miss us, and I’d like to make a fresh start. But only if you want to.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment, merely staring at him, as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“…Now would be the time to answer,” he prompted, fidgeting uncomfortably.
“Do you mean it, Jon?”
“Do you mean it? Do you really want to make a new start? Because if you’re serious about
this, if you really want to make a go of it again, I’m in. I’m tired of falling asleep alone with a phone in my hand. I’m tired of missing you, I’m tired of crying, I’m tired of wondering if you’re okay, and I’m tired of lame excuses as to why it keeps happening. I love you, I don’t wanna lose what we have, but if more of the same is what I have to look forward to—”
“You don’t. I promise you that, I’m done staying out all night, I’m done stumbling in half drunk at the break of dawn, and I’m done destroying the trust we have. I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you want, if you’ll just come back home with me. Please, baby. Give me the chance to make it right.”
Rather than make Jon a verbal response, she merely stood on tiptoe and kissed him softly.
“Let’s go home, baby.”