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Chapter Text

     Everybody was looking at him as if he was crazy. And maybe he was!

     The storm was really kicking in now. One of those ones that had an actual name, what was it this time? Mickey or Mikey? Or was it just Michael, he couldn't remember. It's was a dude's name, he knew that much. He'd once heard that, generally speaking, the 'boy' storms were never as bad as the 'girl' storms so when Larry started pawing at the door and his taste buds suggested going out for doughnuts, he didn't think anything of shoving on his shoes and heading out for a walk.  

     Both Punk and his beloved dog were utterly drenched from head-to-foot, Punk's shoes squelching with every step while Larry was dodging puddles much larger than his diminutive frame. Incredulous looks were shot at them from all angles; from inside cafes and shops that glowed with warm, orange light to the cars and buses through windows streaked with dripping water and fogged with condensation. 

     Punk knew what they were all thinking and it wasn't his welfare they were concerned about. Fortunately anybody brave enough to give him a lecture over taking his little dog out for a walk in this weather was barricaded indoors. Not that they would ever get close enough anyway; just like his owner, Larry was an asshole and was extremely protective of the man who had rescued him from the kill-list at the shelter. He'd been a stray once and had miraculously survived a winter on the streets of Chicago so a little hard rain barely phased him especially when he knew there was going to be a warm home with a warm lap to snuggle on and maybe a little nibble of a yummy pastry at the end of it.

     A sharp gust of wind threw Punk's hood back, stabbing him in the face with ice cold needles. Okkk, so maybe it was getting a little fiercer now! Good thing, they were nearly home. However, Larry had stopped and was furiously sniffing around the entrance to one of their neighbours back alleys. Punk waited patiently for the little dog to move on when a great flash lit up the entire black sky above them.

     'Shhhhhit!' Punk cursed under his breath. He didn't mind a little thunder and lightning but he didn't want Larry anywhere near it. 'Come on, little guy, let's get going.'

     Larry refused to move. Standing rigid on all fours, he stared down into the blackness of the alley and gave a nervous growl. 

     'You smell a cat or something?' Punk asked, trying to probe through the dark. 'Leave it alone, come on.'

     He tugged on the leash but Larry remained. Shuffling from paw to paw, giving little barks of alarm. 

     'Larry, come on! I said leave it!'

     A tremendous boom clattered above them. Larry's large ears went flat against his head and yet he still refused to move. Something was really troubling him. Punk narrowed his eyes, looking down the alleyway.

     'Ok, show me.' He loosened the leash and Larry scuttled away, followed an invisible path on the ground with his nose. For a brief moment he disappeared from sight around the corner and Punk had to run to catch up with him, sprinting round the bend just as another blinding flash shredded through the sky.

     'Fuck!' He spotted the strange creature and skidded to a stop. At first, he thought it was another dog, large with shaggy black fur, crouched up tight against the wall. But as his eyes adjusted, he found to his horror that it was not an animal at all. 

     It was a man!

     A man wearing a muzzle! 

     Punk stood rooted to the spot, fear pounding in his chest as he tried to make sense of the terrifying sight before him.

     It was Larry that broke him from his stupor, the little dog barking wildly at the strange figure. Punk quickly grabbed up his leash and dragged him back towards him, crouching down to gather the snarling dog into his arms. With Larry safe, he readied his body. To fight or flee, he didn't know yet. Fleeing would be better - his penthouse apartment was only a few doors away and his arm was still not fully healed yet. It wasn't in his natural instinct to run but run he must, especially with Larry's welfare in the balance too.

     As it turned out, he didn't need to do either. Glancing back at the figure, he'd half-expected it to have advanced towards him by now, but it hadn't moved at all. In fact, the more he studied it, the less of a threat it seemed! Behind the muzzle, the eyes were closed tight and it clutched its large, hairy arms around itself, trembling all over. As if it was...

     ..afraid?

     'Shh, sh sh,' Punk soothed Larry, rubbing his finger down his snout to calm him. It always did the trick and soon the dog's barking stopped. Watching the figure, Punk caught a glimpse of a glimmer behind the muzzle, an eye beginning to open when suddenly there came another mighty crash from the heavens. The strange being let out a sharp cry and buried its face away again.

     He's not just afraid, Punk realised with a heavy heart. He's petrified!

     Placing Larry gently onto the water-logged ground, Punk told him firmly to 'stay' and for once, the little dog obeyed its owner, ears lying flat as Punk eased closer to the strange figure. The man saw him coming and cowered away, the quivering getting worse.

     'It's ok, I'm not gonna hurt you,' Punk tried to calm the other man. The closer he got, the more strange the entire scenario became. Now his eyes had adjusted to the shadows, he could see that the figure was almost entirely naked save for a pair of black briefs and covered in dirt. As well as the muzzle, he wore a black leather collar around his neck. Punk reached out with his hand, acting like he would with a strange dog because, well, what the hell was he meant to do? Generally this was not how people met!

     The stranger flinched away and a soft clinking sound reached Punk's ears. He found the source; there was a metal cuff around the man's left ankle, the tattered remains of a chain dangling from it. The ankle itself was torn up and bloody from a brutal struggle and much like when looking at the night's sky and the first star is sighted, more injuries manifested into sight on the stranger's skin. Long, deep lashes across his back, clusters of bruises blooming every shade of red and purple, harsh red marks on his wrists where metal had chaffed the skin.

     Punk gulped down something large in his throat. 'What the hell happened to you?'

     The face turned towards him.

     Punk forgot to breath!

     Behind the black leather and steel cage of the muzzle were two large eyes, shining with the most dazzling blue he had ever seen. His bottom lip turned slack as he stared mesmerised into them, lost in their beauty. And pain!

     'Here,' Punk whispered, lifting up both hands tentatively towards the muzzle, 'let's get this off of you, shall we?'

     The rain cascaded down on them, the thunder roaring in their ears but neither man took note as Punk's numb, inked fingers found the clasp of the muzzle and clumsily unfastened it. The leather straps gave way and, threading his fingertips through the steel mesh, Punk slipped the horrid mask off and away.

     He saw the man's face for the first time and his brows quivered skywards. It was a broad face, a masculine face but devastatingly beautiful. A strong jaw lined with a full beard as dark as the long hair upon his head, a perfectly formed nose and rich lips, all enshrining the two stunning sapphires staring expectantly back at him.

     Expecting what? Punk snapped out of his trance. What did they do now?

     'That's better, huh?' Punk tried to smile but his lips were wobbly. He tossed the horrible muzzle away. 'See? You can trust me. I'm not going to hurt you. Neither is Larry.' He motioned with his head to the little dog who was still sitting quietly a short distance away. 'What's your name?'

     Nothing.

     'You live nearby?'

     Nothing.

     'Is there anybody I can call for you?'

     Still nothing.

     Punk paused, chewing his bottom lip with his teeth. Moments like this he missed his lip ring, it had always been a small comfort gnawing on the cool metal. 

     'You hungry?' he asked at last, and dug into the pocket of his jacket, bringing out a sliver of the bag safely tucked inside. 'I got some muffins from this great place called Mindy's. Still warm from the oven. They've got this incredible gooey centre, I swear, you'll have never tasted anything as good in your whole life.'

     It worked! The sapphires were now entirely focused on Punk's pocket, a slither of pink tongue peeking out between those full lips. 

     'Look, I only live a couple doors down,' Punk went on. 'Come back with me, we'll get you all washed up, some clean clothes then you can have as many muffins and hot cups of coffee you want? Sound good?'

     The dark head dipped. Punk took that as a 'yes'.

     'Ok, good. Can you walk?'

     He stood up and offered his hand to the stranger who looked at it suspiciously. Choosing instead to hug the wall for support, the other man struggled up onto his knees and stood up. And up and up and up. Punk's eyes nearly popped right out of his skull as the stranger reached his full height, towering over him by several inches. In fact, he bested Punk in every category going; the man was a beast! Broad shouldered and barrel chested, hardened muscle bulging from his arms and thighs with thick, dark hair lining every inch of him. Punk had to quell a stirring in his stomach - way, way, way down low in his stomach - and focus on the strange circumstance the pair now found themselves in.

     'Oh-' Punk cleared his throat. 'Ok. Great. Good start, now just... come with me.'

     The figure took one step and fell, stumbling over its shackled left ankle. Punk saw the danger and rushed in, catching the huge man before he hit the floor. The stranger draped across Punk's shoulders, stifling a sob.

     'You're hurt,' Punk spoke for him. 'You must have wrenched something in your leg trying to get free, huh?' The sensation of fingers tightening their clasp on his arm relayed the answer back to him. Poor kid! 'Hold on.'

     Punk adjusted his stance, centring his legs underneath the man's huge bulk. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his knees, hauling the enormous stranger up off his feet. A startled grunt sounded close to his ear.

     'Yeah, I'm stronger than I look,' Punk gloated. 'I'm a cage-fighter, MMA, but that's not important.' He gave a shrill whistle to Larry who trotted at his heel, dragging the forgotten leash behind him. 'Like I said, it's not far. I can carry you. Just... don't wriggle around too much, alright?'

     The fingers tightened on his sleeve again. A silent sign of gratitude. Thank you.

     'Just hold tight kid,' Punk said, pursing his lips tight. 'I got you. You're safe with me.' 

Chapter Text

     The storm was raging furiously by the time they reached Punk's penthouse. Larry trotted in through the open door first, shaking the droplets off his fur before heading into the kitchen area for his bowl of kibble. Punk took up the rear, red-faced and panting from the effort of carrying the strange man home on his shoulders.

     'Here we are,' he announced through his heaving breathing. 'Home, sweet home.'

     He gently lowered the other man down and allowed him to lean on his shoulder as he helped him up the short flight of stairs. It was a gruelling task for both men with the stranger whining in pain each time he was forced to put his bad foot down but eventually they made it to the top then through the hallway to the living area. The stranger glanced around him warily as he hopped on his one good foot, taking in the industrial interior of Punk's penthouse apartment; the exposed brickwork, the dark tones of graphite and wine, the brass fittings as well as the certain quirky tastes of its owner. Punk wondered if he'd met anybody else with large paintings of famous Universal monsters hanging on their walls.

     Finally, they reached the small lounge at the far end and he set the stranger down onto his large couch. 'Here,' Punk said, grabbing a blanket from the back of the sofa (an insistence from his younger sister, he'd have to thank her for her foresight later) and carefully wrapped it around the other man's wet, grimy shoulders. 

     Stepping back, Punk used the opportunity to study the stranger in the better light. Behind him, the three-storey tall windows displayed the storm in all its terrifying glory, white flashes of lightning flooding the room while the walls trembled from the boom of the thunder. But in here, they were safe from the frightening elements outside.

     Yet the man still shivered in fear. With his head bowed and eyes downcast, the strange being pulled the blanket in closer around him, jerking with fright every time the thunder roared above him. Punk's heart ached, his gaze straying towards the chaffed skin on his wrists.

     'How about that coffee?' he asked, trying to break the tension but as soon as he tried to step away, his arm was snared by a tight grip. His breath hitched but he soon relaxed when he noticed a sliver of blue eyeing up his jacket pocket. 'Oh yeah, how could I forget?' Pulling out the bag of muffins, he passed them into the man's large waiting hands. 'They're all yours, kid.'

     That was all the incentive the other man needed and he tore the bag open and began stuffing large chunks of chocolate sponge into his mouth, gobbling the treats down like a man starved. Punk gnawed at the vacant spot on his lip watching the poor creature, feeling a surge of grief inside him.

     Meanwhile, Larry had finished his bowl and came scuttling through to the lounge to hop up on the couch.

     'Oh no, you don't,' Punk said, grabbing the little dog before he could plonk himself down. 'You're wet and filthy. Into your bed, you go.' He set Larry down in his dog bed, the fleecy fabric as good as new considering it was never used. Ignoring the vexed expression Larry gave him, Punk walked off towards the kitchenette, not noticing the look shared between the two former strays. A mutual recognition of loss and dread, forgotten for a time in a home that had welcomed them both in. Letting out a resigned whimper, Larry lay down in his dog bed and placed his chin on his front paws.

     In the kitchen area, Punk's mind was racing a million miles an hour as he waited for the coffee pot to brew. Ok, so you found a feral, naked guy in the streets and got him to come back to your apartment. Great! What now? What do you do now? Calling the police seemed like the most obvious option and yet, it didn't sit right with him. From the state of him and the metal cuff around his ankle, it was clear the stranger had escaped some terrible ordeal and was still suffering from the shell-shock. Tossing him into police custody to be interrogated and probed about his trauma when it was so fresh seemed cruel. 

     Not to mention that Punk wasn't exactly the greatest fan of cops, and they were not particularly enamoured with him either.

     So... what? You just... let him stay. Why not? You don't know a damn thing about him. Does that matter? He could be dangerous? 

     Punk peered over his shoulder, finding the back of the stranger's head, his dark hair cascading like ebony waterfalls into the pool of soft blanket around his shoulders. 

     No, he's not dangerous. Just a guy, all alone in the world, desperate for someone to help him.

     Just like he had been. All those years ago.

     The coffee machine beeped and Punk poured two cups, bringing them over to the lounge area. It was grabbed up as eagerly as the muffins had been but Punk placed his palm flat over the mug before it reached the stranger's lips. 'It'll be hot,' he warned the other man. 'Let it cool first.'

     The order was obeyed immediately and the stranger put the cup down on the coffee table in front of him, placing it gently on a coaster. Sitting on the armchair adjacent to the stranger, Punk watched as the other man leaned forward, his two sapphire eyes staring intently at the cup, as if expecting it to disappear the moment he flickered his gaze away.

     The pair sat in silence, only the sound of the storm raging outside breaking the stillness. Larry gave a sleepy grunt as he rolled onto his back, his tongue jutting out between the fangs of his underbite. A smile crept up Punk's cheek at the sight. Sometimes, if he felt like teasing the small dog, he would poke the little pink tongue with his finger. Looking back across at the strange man, he felt a thrill of joy at seeing a similar flash of pink sandwiched between his full lips.

     'It should be alright now,' Punk's words jolted the stranger from his concentration. The dark-haired man glanced up at him with blue eyes wide with hope. Punk returned a gentle smile. 'Go ahead.'

     The stranger grabbed up the cup in his large hands and loudly slurped the coffee down, eager as a kid who'd gotten trapped in the Slurpie machine. Punk huffed a small laugh when he spotted a solitary muffin on the table, sitting pretty on a coaster. 

     'Is this for me?' he asked, pointing to the cake. The man paused from his coffee and lifted up his hand, closing it into a fist at eye level, then titled it down like a cat's paw. Even though he found the gesture weird, Punk understood what it meant. 'Thank you,' he replied and picked the muffin up.

     'You know, what with the storm and the, you know, everything out there, I didn't really introduce myself.' Punk pulled off a chunk of soft sponge, a hint of warmth still radiating through it and popped it into his mouth. By the time he'd finished chewing, the other man was staring at him intently. 'My name's Phil, but everybody calls me Punk. It's kinda my 'professional name'. What about you?'

     Lifting up his hand again, the man began to throw up different gestures and signals. Punk finally realised what he was doing.

     'I'm sorry, I don't know sign language.' The look of deflation on the other man's face was heart-breaking. Punk hated that look so quickly added. 'You can hear me though, right?' Cat paw motion, meaning 'yes'. 'You don't have a problem with your ears?' The cat paw shook from side to side, meaning 'no'. Good, they were getting somewhere. 'But you can't talk?'

     The man hesitated, his brow furrowing with conflict. Eventually he replied with both the 'yes' and 'no' signal. What did that mean? Punk bit back the question, it didn't matter right now.

     'Are you finished your coffee?' The stranger's face perked up and he eagerly bobbed his cat paw. 'Good, how about we get you all cleaned up?'

     Another falter. Fear creeping back into that captivating face.

     'I said out there that I wouldn't hurt you and I meant it,' Punk tried to reassure him. 'I won't touch you if you don't want, ok?' Cat paw. 'Ok.'

     Punk turned around and eyed the stairwell leading up to the top floor of his penthouse apartment. His ex had once called them a 'death trap' and he had taken the accusation to heart, openly scoffing in retort, but now looking at the way they twisted and snaked above him, climbing steeply, he finally understood what he meant. There was no way he was going to get the stranger up there with his bad leg.

     'You know what, there's a shower downstairs in my home gym so, WOAH-!' 

     Punk had turned his head back to the centre of the room to find the stranger crawling towards him on all fours. He'd shed his blanket, revealing every inch of lightly tanned skin, the taut muscles of his back rippling with each slow, sumptuous movement. As he edged closer, the stranger kept his large, sparkling eyes on Punk, blue punching into hazel. Hazels that were growing larger by the second, not unlike another part of Punk's anatomy down between his legs.

     'F-f-f-fuuu... ok, OK!' He put up his hands to ward the bizarre jungle cat off. The man blinked and sat back on his haunches, tilting his head with confusion. 'Um, yeah...' Punk was sweating as if he'd just run a marathon. 'Let's not do that, ok?' Cat paw. A forlorn one. Oh, don't do that to me, fuck! 'Not that it wasn't... um, nice? But uh... it's just not... appropriate, right now. Ok?' Cat paw. 'Ok, good. Good. Fucking... great.'

     He scrubbed a hand over his face. Jesus, he was never going to get that image out of his head. Not that he wanted to, it was the prettiest damn thing he'd ever seen! Nevertheless, this was a man he'd just picked up off the streets and that sounded bad enough but he was trying to fucking help him, not get in his pants! As tiny and skimpy and not-leaving-anything-to-the-imagination-tight as they were and FUCK-!

     'You know what?' Punk shook his head harshly, hoping to dislodge any perverse thoughts from it. 'Think I could do with a shower too.' Yeah, one as fucking freezing as the Artic! 'You first, though. It'll help warm you up.'

     Punk grabbed the discarded blanket - a little too quickly - and threw it over the stranger's shoulders before helping him back up on his good foot. Together, they lumbered out of the lounge and headed towards the back door where the stairs for his home gym were.

     'You coming, Larry?' Punk called over his shoulder. 'You could use a bath.'

     The little dog gave a lazy grunt and snuggled further into his bed.

     'Suit yourself. Sleep tight, buddy.'

Chapter Text

     'Finally! Made it!' Punk rasped out as he shuffled the stranger into the wet room off his home gym. 'I don't remember those fucking stairs being so fucking steep!' He turned on the water and let it run hot. 'I got towels out here somewhere. Let me just grab one then I'll get out of your hair and give you some privacy to- OH LOOK AT THAT! THEY'RE OFF ALREADY!'

     Punk's fingernails dug deep into the towel he was holding while the stranger blinked back innocently, standing in his full naked glory in the middle of the wet room, his briefs tossed to the side. Eyes up! PHIL! Eyes up!

     He went one better and covered them with his hand to pass over the towel. 'Here you go. I'll just be out there if you need anything so just-'

     The towel was ignored. Instead, it was his wrist that was grabbed. Punk chanced a nervous peek through his fingers. Blue eyes dazzled back at him under brows that were furrowed sadly. 'What?' Punk asked a little too abruptly. He was answered with a whine so pathetic he almost immediately caved in. 'You want me to stay?' Another whine and a cat paw. Fuck! Why am I being tormented like this? I'm only human!

     'Ok,' he let out a defeated sigh. 'Ok, I'll stay.'

     The captivating face immediately lit up and the final shreds of Punk's resolve fell away to dust. Which was probably why, when ten large fingers began teasing the bottom of his shirt, he didn't bat them away. Let him, he's feeling more comfortable around you. He's beginning to trust you. Punk held up his arms and allowed the stranger to remove his hoodie and shirt. The stranger's eyes ignited with interest when he found the colourful ink on the cage-fighter's bare chest and arms and leaned in closer to admire them. Punk gave a nod and stood still, inviting the large fingers to follow the lines of his tattoos, skimming loops over the waves and serpent on his chest.

     'Like 'em?' he asked gingerly, trying to hide the blush in his cheeks. 'Yeah, I decided pretty early on that I didn't want a 'real job' so...' The finger brushed close past his nipple and Punk felt his cheeks darken even more so quickly asked 'how about you? You got any?'

     The fuck? You- you KNOW he doesn't. You can see his whole damn body, you know there's not a single damn thing on there you stupid-

     The stranger shook his head politely. A shiver tickled up Punk's spine when his fingers traced the inked letters arching over his stomach.

     'It says 'straight edge'.' Now he was just making conversation to distract himself, every urge and desire in his body teetering perilously close to dangerous waters. 'You know what straight edge is?' Head shake. 'It's kinda like a punk sub-culture. To me it means I don't put anything harmful in my body so I don't drink or smoke or take drugs.'

     The hands had moved down to his waistband and alarm bells started ringing in his mind, loud blaring sirens that deafened him but a voice spoke louder than all of it. He's baring himself to you. Do the same for him. 

     'Shhhhhhhiiii...' Punk whistled through his clenched teeth as the elastic of his waistband was stretched out and his sodden shorts were gently pulled down, down over the slight curve of his ass and down his thick thighs and down past his trembling knees and down past his strong calves until they hit the tile floor. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside. 

     And waited with bated breath for his boxer briefs to follow.

     But the hands moved away.

     Instead, the stranger held his palm against the wall to steady himself and shakily got to his knees under the steaming water. Punk looked on mesmerised as the lightly tanned skin began to glisten, the long dark hair shining like strips of black velvet as it grew heavy against the stranger's scalp, loose strands sticking to that broad, beautiful face. Without warning, the blue eyes opened and shone through the foggy air, looking right at him. 

     He's waiting for you.

     Punk gulped loudly and sheepishly walked closer.

     For all his worries, their time together in the shower had actually been... nice. Really nice. Once the awkwardness wore off, Punk had focused on the task at hand and scrubbed the thick layers of filth off the stranger's skin, being extra gentle around the multiple cuts and bruises. There was something satisfying about seeing the trails of brown grime fall away and slither down the drain, leaving behind clean, golden skin. 

     The more acquainted Punk got with the other man's body, the more he was in awe of it. He was cut from a different kind of cloth altogether, large and chiselled, like a fearsome warrior from legend. Punk could easily envision this guy with his wild black hair and towering frame rushing into battle with a enormous sword, striking fear into anybody foolish enough to get in his way.

     And yet, he sat so still and obediently. Silent, until the moment that Punk began to rub some shampoo into his hair and he let out a rumble in his throat that sounded exactly like a purr. 

     'You like that?' Punk chuckled. 'Yeah, I used to like it when somebody stroked my hair too. Back when I had it long, just like yours.' That piqued the stranger's interest and he pulled his head back to raise his brows high at the other man. 'I can show you a picture, if you like?' 

     The stranger answered with a very eager cat paw bobbing wildly. 

     'I'll dig some out later. Now here's a real secret for you. See all this-?' Punk motioned to his bare chest. 'Shaved. If I didn't bother, I'd be even hairier than you.' He was met with a look of skepticism. 'I swear! I'm a walking carpet if I let myself go. But it's kinda one of those pressures that come from parading around half naked for a living - in the cage, I mean.'

     Then the most melodic sound reached Punk's ears. The stranger laughed. It wasn't a big one, more a little huff through his nose but it held enough mirth to fill Punk's heart full to the brim with joy. We're getting there. We're doing good!

     Once the stranger was cleaned up, he wrapped him in a towel and helped him outside. The nearest seat available was his rowing machine so he locked the sliding chair and set the larger man down on it. 'You ok to stay here while I clean myself off?' Cat paw. 'Ok, I won't be long. Promise.'

     He stayed true to his word and speedily showered. Pulling his boxers back on, he walked out the wet room, rubbing his damp hair with a towel but found the rowing machine empty. Fortunately, the man had not strayed far; Punk saw him standing in front of his trophy wall, admiring the myriad of belts and titles mounted in their glass cases.

     'Yeah,' Punk smiled crookedly as he sidled up next to the stranger, 'I was pretty good once. These days...' He trailed off, the smile slipping from his face. 'This one here,' he pointed to one he'd stuck near the bottom, under the line of sight, 'had that one for a few days before I shattered my foot and had to relinquish it. Then won it again when I healed up and tore my fucking tricep during the match itself and had to relinquish it again! Then the promotion decided they didn't want anything to do with me anymore so, you know, fuck 'em.'

     He was sinking again! He had to pull himself back up.

     'Now that one!' He tapped his finger on the large golden belt, sitting pride of place in the middle. 'I held that one for a long time. Four hundred and thirty-four days to be exact. Back then, nobody could touch me.' His chest swelled up with pride, his teeth gritted. 'And I know I can do it again. One more run. There's still some gas left in this old tank, alls I need is another chance. And once my arm heals up, I'm gonna prove it.

     'They can say I'm old and washed-up all they like, doesn't make a damn bit of difference to me. I've built an empire with the bricks they've thrown at me. I have so much more to give. I need it, you know? It's like a calling, a... an urge, it's...'

     Say it! Call it what it is! An addiction!

     'It's like oxygen! Giving me life.' Punk felt a sudden lurch in his throat and nearly choked. 'Without it, I might as well drown.'

     He nibbled his lip and bit back the tears. It felt weird, saying that out-loud. To a stranger he'd only just met. He flinched when a warm hand rested on his shoulder. He turned to find the blue eyes smiling at him sympathetically. There was a great sadness in them. The stranger pointed to the belts then placed his fingertip against his own chest.

     'You? You used to fight?'

     Cat paw. A mournful one.

     'Did they make you? The guys who put that on you?' He motioned to the leather collar around the man's throat, the one piece of clothing he had refused to remove. 

     Large fingers laced around the black leather band, before curling into the cat paw again.

     'But you didn't want to, did you?'

     His head lowered, a shaky sigh leaving his lips as he slowly shook his fist from side-to-side.

     'Is that why you have all those injuries?'

     Another long, grief-stricken pause.

     Until finally, he shook his fist. No.

     Punk steeled himself. Already his fingers had tightened into vice-like fists at his side, shaking with rage. He knew his eyes were doing that thing his ex always felt the need to comment on. "Like a cornered feral cat," he'd say. A kind of frantic insanity in them. Like Punk was about to either burst into tears or beat the shit out of something.

     Punk always chose the latter.

     He took in a stuttered breath, prised his fists back open. Calm down, for his sake. There's nothing you can do. Somehow that made it worse, that he couldn't offer up some kind of justice for the gentle giant he had plucked off the streets and was nursing back to health.

     But he swore.. if he ever met any of those fuckers that had hurt him, he would give them the beating of a lifetime!

     The major downside of their considerable size difference was that none of Punk's clothes fitted the stranger. Even the baggiest of Punk's shirts became a skin-tight crop top on the other man. 'Damn!' Punk cursed, 'you're just gonna have to do without tonight but don't worry, we'll find you something in the morning.'

     The hot shower had helped ease some of the pain in the man's leg but it had been a struggle getting him back up the stairs to the lounge so Punk decided to make up the sofa bed for him instead of risking taking him to one of the bedrooms on the top floor. Outside, the storm had settled into a haze of never-ending rainfall, droplets racing down the huge windows behind Punk as he busily layered the bed with every blanket and sheet he could lay his hands on.

     'I'm sure I've got more upstairs,' he murmured aloud, unaware of the stranger slinking his way underneath the mass of blankets. 'Hold on, I'll be right back.'

     He ransacked one of the spare rooms, struggling under the weight of bed linen but stopped when he reached the top of the 'death trap' stairs and glanced down below. The sight was so wondrous, his arms fell to his side, the bed linen falling to the floor with a soft fwump.

     The stranger was lying on the sofa bed, bundled up like a burrito in the blankets. His hair fanned out around his head, falling off the edge of the bed in sweeping drapes. If that sight wasn't beautiful enough, Punk discovered that the stranger was not alone. Larry had hopped up beside him and was now snuggled in the crook of his knees. Both of them looked so serene and peaceful that it brought tears to Punk's eyes. 

     Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Punk turned and retired to his bedroom. 

     Alone. 

     He wasn't sure what stirred him from his sleep but when he spied the shadowy figure crouched next to his bed, he jolted awake!

     'GAH!' He sat up with a start and raised his fist. However, he soon recognised the long hair and sparkling eyes. 'How the fuck did you get up here?'

     The man didn't seem to hear the question and scrambled into Punk's bed, pulling the covers over him. 'Um.. wait, wait! What are you-?' But he only pressed in closer, whining feebly. It was then that Punk felt the other man trembling like an earthquake, so violently the mattress beneath them shuddered. 'Hey, you ok?'

     The man gave another whimper and stretched out his long arms, wrapping them tightly around Punk's waist.

     'Hey, it's ok, it's ok, I got you.' Punk hugged the terrified man in close. He buried his face in Punk's chest, his breath puffing against the bare skin in sharp, quick pants. 'I got you. Nobody's gonna hurt you. Not while I'm here.'

     The arms held him tight, large like great chains. Warm and strong and comforting, just like-

     Punk tightened his own grip, his inked fingers finding the other man's scalp and running them through his long hair, still slightly damp from the shower. It helped to soothe him so he continued, dragging his fingers through the silken strands from root to tip and back again.

     Finally the breathing settled and the shaking stopped. Even when the stranger had calmed enough to fall asleep, Punk continued stroking his head, watching over him for hours on end as the rain battered the windows outside. It was only when Larry scuttled into the room and settled on the bed beside them that he felt tiredness take over and he shut his eyes, never once loosening his grip from the other man ensconced firmly in his embrace.

Chapter Text

     The door rang at six the next morning and Punk answered it immediately, already fully dressed. 

     'What did you do now?' the large set man on the doorstep grumbled.

     'What makes you think I did anything?' Punk asked with his hand on his chest, taking offence to the accusation.

     'When you call me at 5am telling me to bring spare clothes and my tool kit, I take that as a strong sign that you've done something,' Joe replied gruffly, stepping in past Punk and up the front steps. 'So just get it over with and tell me what the hell hap-' 

     He stopped mid-word when he reached the top of the stairs and found the stranger sitting innocently on Punk's sofa, naked except for a poorly fitting pair of boxer briefs and a dog collar round his neck. The newcomer gaped at the sight, then quickly dumped everything onto the floor.

     'Excuse me,' Joe politely said to the stranger then roughly dragged Punk to the back steps at the far end of the living area.     

     'Ah, you grabbed me by the fucking neck,' Punk whined as Joe slammed the door behind them to give them some privacy.

     'What the hell is that?' he demanded to know.

     'I believe it's what they call an adult human male,' Punk shot back sarcastically.

     'Don't get smart with me, Phillip Jack!'

     'Oh, we're doing the Phillip Jack thing already, are we?'

     'Just tell me who the fuck he is?'

     Punk shrugged his shoulders. 'Dunno.'

     'Well, what's his name?'

     'Dunno.'

     'Then where'd he come from?'

     'I found him round the back of Mrs Goldstein's house. Good thing too, if she'd found him first she'd probably have had her third stroke and-'

     'Wait! Wait! WAIT!' Joe scrubbed his eyes with his fingertips. 'What do you mean you found him?'

     'Last night during the storm,' Punk retorted as if that made complete sense. 'Kid was all alone and banged up so I took him back here and cleaned him up.' Joe was trying to process just what the hell was happening but Punk didn't seem to notice. 'Hey, you know sign language, right?'

     'I know exactly four languages, one of which is sign language, yes,' Joe replied, not following any of this in the slightest.

     'Great! Come with me!' Gripping Joe by his broad shoulders, Punk shuffled him back into the living area and over to the lounge where the stranger was sitting calmly, stroking Larry who was sleeping next to him on the couch. 'Hey, so, this here is Joe, he's sorta, kinda, well, he's my-

     'Friend,' Joe cut in abruptly.

     'Yeah...' Punk muttered bitterly. 'Friend.'

     The stranger stared blankly at them both.

     'Well?' Punk looked expectantly at Joe. 'Go on.'

     Heaving a huff of frustration, Joe signed 'hi, my name is Joe. What's your name?' when Punk cuffed him on the arm.

     'He can hear you alright, I just need you to translate what he's saying.'

     By this time, seeing someone else using hand motions had excited the stranger and he began throwing gestures right back at the large-set man who blinked with a furrowed brow. 'That's... not ASL,' he said, at last. 'Wait, where's your globe?'

     'Pfft, I don't have a fucking globe,' Punk snorted.

     'Oh really? Not even that one I bought you three Christmases ago?'

     Punk quickly backtracked. 'Ohhh, that globe! Yeah I still got that globe.' He rushed over to a closet at the far end of the room and took a long time digging around before he finally produced it, still in its box and sealed.

     'You keep it in the back of your closet?' Joe asked coldly, accepting the box from Punk.

     'Just for safe-keeping, while I'm getting my office repainted.'

     'Riiiiiiight.' Ripping the box open, Joe fetched out the plastic globe and placed it on the coffee table in front of the stranger. 'Can you show us where you're from?'

     On instinct, Joe had turned the globe so that North America was facing the stranger but once he placed his large fingers on the sphere, he began turning it, passing over the Atlantic Ocean until he settled it at Europe. A wobbly smile broke his lips when he pressed his fingertip to a spot and both Punk and Joe leaned in for a closer look.

     'You're from England?' Punk brows shot up.

     The stranger gave a vicious snarl.

     'From Scotland,' Joe corrected. The cat paw bobbed wildly. 'Hold on a minute...' Joe fished out his phone and began tapping away on the screen while Punk stared down at the tiny nation pressed beneath the stranger's large digit.

     'We've been to Scotland before, haven't we?'

     'Yeah, few times. Back when we were starting out, we had a few bouts in Glasgow.'

     'That's right! You from Glasgow?' The stranger shook his fist. He then began pointing his fingers upwards. 'You're from... Up? Uptown? O-over...? Over-town?'

     'Skye?' Joe put in his guess but everything received a shake of the head. The stranger then splayed his fingers, hovering them around him. 'Air?' Cat paw! Cat paw! 'Oh, Ayr! You're from Ayr?'

     'How do you know all this shit?' Punk asked, his nose scrunched.

     'Unlike you, I like to try and learn about the places we visit.' Joe returned to his phone, ignoring the eye roll from the tattooed man. 'Ah, now it makes sense. He's using British Sign Language.'

     'Is it that different?'

     Joe sighed with exasperation. 'Yeah, it is.' He turned his attention back to the stranger. 'I've pulled up the BSL alphabet. Can you spell your name out for me? Slowly?'

     'You could just have gotten him to write it out,' Punk pointed out with a scoff.

     'He's been with you since yesterday and you didn't think to do that.' Punk snapped his mouth shut. 'Go on.' The stranger began moving his hands. First he pointed his left index finger up and placed his right index and thumb against it, opened up like a semi-circle, clearly making the shape of a familiar letter. 'D,' Joe confirmed. Then he crooked his left index finger. 'R'. Next he placed his right index finger on the tip of his left index finger. 'E.' And finally, locked all fingers together, palms facing. 'W,' Joe said and put the all the letters together. 'Drew? Your name is Drew?'

     The dark head and cat paw bobbed excitedly. Blue eyes pricked with tears from finally hearing his own name being spoken back to him. He wasn't the only one who found himself emotionally affected by the reveal. In the corner, Punk had gone deathly quiet, his lips hanging open slightly as his mind raced.

     Drew... his name is Drew...

     'So, how did you get over here, Drew?' Joe asked. The Scotsman replied by swooping his fist through the air, his thump and pinkie extended. 'You flew here?' Cat paw, but then the fingers grasped the collar at his neck. 

     'They flew you here,' Punk answered, understanding the hidden meaning. 'They guys who held you prisoner?'

     Cat paw, followed by more finger spelling. Joe read them out as they were motioned 'L. I. E. Lie, they lied to you?' Cat paw, followed by a sawing and hammer motion. 'They said it was for work?' Cat paw, then another grasp at his collar. 'But they imprisoned you instead.' 

     'They forced him to fight,' Punk cut in, already knowing this part of Drew's horrific recent past. 'Probably around the illegal rings, remember? We looked into a few before we realised how fucking dangerous they were?'

     But Joe was rubbing his fingers back and forth over his lips, deep in thought. 'Drew...' the blue eyes blinked at him. 'They made you do more than fight, right?' The Scot hesitated, glancing out the side of his eye at Punk. 'That collar round your neck. Did they make you do anything... sexual?'

     Punk hitched a breath, feeling his skin turn as cold as ice. The sensation overwhelmed him when he watched Drew's beautiful eyes darken and his head sink in shame. Punk couldn't contain the snarl in his throat as he scrubbed his palm over his face. His fists were shaking and he needed an outlet for it. Now!

     He slammed his fist back against the wall. Hard. Feeling the skin break as it hit unrelenting brick. Joe looked up at him, his brows lowered. Go on, say it! Like a 'cornered feral cat'. Just fucking say it!

     But it was Drew who piped up, flattening his left palm and swiping his right pointed finger beneath it. Joe's attention moved back to the large hands, trying to decipher them. Drew helped him by reaching down to shake the shattered chain at his feet. It was the first time the larger man had seen it and his face gave away the shock. 'But you escaped,' he explained, bringing Punk's focus back to the room.

     Drew smiled broadly, then placed his thumb against his chest, swooping it around in a circle of eight. It took Joe a while to figure out the sign but when he did, a grin broke out on his usually sullen face too. 'Yes, yes I see,' he replied warmly and mimicked the same gesture on his chest.

     Punk watched them both with bewilderment, wondering what joke he was missing out on, when Joe beamed up at him. 'You get it, right Punker?' he asked, doing the motion again. Punk shook his head. 'That means you!'

     'Me?' Punk blinked, and looked over to Drew for confirmation. The blue eyes twinkled back at him, his lips spread wide revealing two deep dimples in his bearded cheeks. He did the motion again, swirling his thumb over his chest and Punk finally understood. He was following the path of the waves and serpent on his chest tattoo, just like he had last night in the wet room. 

     All of a sudden, Punk lost the ability to draw in breath. Overcome with emotion, he bit down hard on his cheek to stifle any sobs. 'Y-yeah,' he stuttered, shakily bobbing his head. 'Then I found you.'

     With several mysteries solved, Joe moved on to the tasks Punk had sent him for. First on the checklist was removing the metal cuff and chain from around Drew's ankle. While Joe opened his tool box, Punk went into the kitchen to prepare some breakfast for them all. Larry lay flat on the couch, glaring at Joe as he placed a rod into the locking mechanism of the cuff and gave a threatening growl when Joe pulled back the mallet to strike.

     'Yes, yes, I know Larry,' Joe said to the little dog. 'I promise I will be careful.' Another snarl. 'I promise! Urgh, you just had to adopt the dog that's a small furry version of you, didn't you?' he shot at Punk.

     'Guess we're just the type that's nobody else wants,' Punk fired back from the kitchen.

     He knew it was a cruel barb and from the corner of his eye, he saw Joe lower his arm and close his eyes, taking in a long, deep breath through his nose, the way he always did when he was trying to compose himself. Eventually he shrugged off Punk's vicious comment and moved on.

     The cuff broke apart on the second strike and Drew's leg was finally free. He asked Punk to fetch the first aid kit ('under the sink, top shelf. You really should know this by now! What if you burn yourself or cut yourself with a knife in the kitchen!') then cleaned and wrapped the wounds on Drew's ankle. Once the Scot had been treated, Joe helped him into some old clothes of his. He may not have the height that Drew did, but he was large and broad so the clothes fitted much better than Punk's did. 

     By the time, they all sat down at the table to eat, Drew was transformed. Wearing a navy T-shirt and black shorts with his long hair pulled back in an old hair-tie that Punk had found in a drawer, he looked... normal. Like any other guy. Well, except for the collar around his neck. Punk placed his food down in front of him and had a double-take, examining him from head to foot. He couldn't deny that he looked good. Really good!

     He served Joe next then, after topping up Larry's bowl, he joined them at the table with his own stack of pancakes. Grabbing up the syrup first, he proceeded to empty almost the entire bottle onto his stack as Drew and Joe looked on in disgust.

     'You never change,' Joe muttered. They soon tucked in and Joe's eyes lit up with the first taste of the warm pancakes. 'Wow, these are delicious! You've really improved your technique.'

     Punk chewed his bottom lip awkwardly. 'I didn't make 'em,' he confessed. 'They're yours. I found them in the freezer box.'

     'Wait, so they've been in there all this time?'

     Punk never once took his eyes off the pancakes on his plate as he stuffed another bite into his mouth. 'Just... forgot they were there.'

     The atmosphere dampened and they ate the rest of their breakfast in silence.

     A short while later, Punk escorted Joe to the door. 'Thanks again for helping out,' he said, stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

     'No problem, I just...' Joe gently shoved Punk out onto his front step and closed the door behind him with a quick glance upstairs to make sure nobody was within earshot. 'Punker,' he said, sternly and the cage-fighter knew there was a lecture coming, 'listen to me. Drew is a big guy. He's taller than both of us and he's clearly really strong.'

     'I know what you're getting at,' Punk sighed, 'and I've been thinking it too.'

     'Good,' Joe cut in with relief. 'Cause anybody who trafficked a guy like Drew here and kept him prisoner all these years has to be dangerous.'

     'You don't have to worry about me,' Punk smiled weakly out the side of his mouth.

     'You know you have a habit of getting yourself into stupid shit you're not cut out for.'

     Punk bristled at that and folded his arms across his chest. 'What you saying here exactly?'

     'This isn't your problem to solve. Drew was trafficked here illegally by criminals, you have to call the cops.'

     'Why?' Punk argued, getting defensive. 'So they can just toss him in a holding centre somewhere. He's already been imprisoned against his will for years, I can't do that to him again.'

     'You don't know that!' Joe protested. 'You're not a social worker-'

     'No shit,' Punk snapped back, 'because I'm actually helping the guy.'

     'You can't let what happened to you cloud your judgement here,' Joe tried to reason with the cage-fighter who was getting more irate and closed off by the second. 'I get that what Chez and her family did for you was incredibly kind and selfless but there's no expectation on you to pay that forward.'

     'And what if I want to!' Punk opened his arms wide. 'What if I just wanna do the right thing here?'

     'This isn't some fifteen year old kid we're talking about,' Joe kept his voice calm and composed, the way he always did when they argued. Punk hated when he did that! 'The guy looks to be in his mid to late thirties. He's not even from here, he has a whole life and family back home, maybe even a wife and kids.'

     'He doesn't have to stay if he doesn't want to,' Punk debated, 'but until he's ready, gets back on his feet, who gives a shit?'

     'And what if those guys come looking for him?'

     Punk paused, pursing his lips. 'We'll be alright. I'll keep him safe.'

     Joe scrubbed his hand across his brow, no doubt feeling a stress headache taking hold. 'It's not him, I'm worried about. I'm worried about you.'

     'I told you already, you don't need to-'

     'But I do! I can't help it. Every damn minute of every damn day I worry about you and it drives me fucking crazy! I can't keep doing this.'

     'Then why did you answer my call at 5am this morning? Why did you even come here?'

     Joe heaved a long, weary sigh. 'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I really want this to work out between us, this whole 'friendship' thing, I really do, but you've got to put in the effort too. You've gotta at least try to move on.'

     'You're the one who left me!' Punk was raising his voice and he couldn't help it. All the pain and hurt from the past few months was spilling out of him like water gushing through a fractured dam. 'You don't get to tell me when I'm ready to move on. Anyway, how the hell am I meant to move on when I keep finding your shit all over my house!'

     He clamped his mouth shut, realising his faux-pas too late. Joe stared back at him, furious agony marring his features.

     'Exactly. Your house! Your career. Your hopes, your dreams. Your life. You, you, you! That's all it's ever been about. You're so fucking selfish!'

     'Yeah, well why'd you stick around so long if I was such a shitty boyfriend and an even shittier fiancé?'

     Joe shrugged his shoulders in defeat. 'Good question,' he said, bitterly as he turned away. 'Least you've matured enough to admit that at last.'

     Punk could have called his name, could have told him to stay and they could talk things out properly but he knew it wouldn't work. The one talent that he had was making things worse. So he let Joe walk away. Again.

     Stepping back inside, he forced all the pain down deep inside him again, pushing it into the dark recesses and sealing it tight. 

     Right now, he had more important things to worry about than whining about how his life was falling apart at the seams. He had a blue-eyed Scot called Drew who needed him. 

     Who needed him to be strong.

Chapter Text

     Punk and Drew sat at the dining table, surrounded by empty plates and used cutlery from breakfast. Since Joe's departure, the atmosphere was much calmer and relaxed, both men comfortable in each other's company despite only knowing one another for less than twenty-four hours and the bizarre circumstances under which they met.

     'Ok, so what's the sign for hockey?' Punk asked. For the past half hour, he'd been trying to pick up some more BSL from Drew. The Scot acted out swinging a small hockey stick. 'Oh,' Punk said, copying the motion, 'makes sense, I guess.' 

     Outside, the day was dull as remnants of the storm lingered in the air and yet it felt like the sun was shining brightly. Punk was warm inside and out but couldn't quite put his finger on why or how.

     'Hey, what was that sign for Punk again? For me?' Drew swooped his thumb over his chest in a figure of eight and Punk carefully copied, trying to get it right. 'I'm still blown away by that,' he confessed. 'What about you? You got a sign?'

     Cat paw. Drew flattened his palm and placed it against the top of his head as if measuring his height then stretched his long arm up and up. 

     'Ahhh, cause you're tall. I get it! So, this is Punk,' (he did the figure of eight), 'and this is Drew,' (he did the arm stretch), 'then how do you say, Punk and Drew are friends?'

     The Scotsman stopped to think for a brief moment, drawing in his bottom lip. Lifting up his left hand, he pointed out his finger and stroked it horizontally against his chin twice*.

     'Oh, ok.' Punk then acted out each sign in turn. Figure of Eight. Hand Stretch. Chin stroke. 'See?' he beamed from ear-to-ear with pride. 'Punk and Drew are friends.'

     Blue eyes sparkled silently back at him, dimples forming on cheeks as pink as clouds during a radiant dawn. Bizarrely, Punk felt a little flustered when Drew looked at him like that. 

     But then Drew jumped, as if an idea had pinged into his head and he tapped his large finger against the table to get Punk's attention. With the cage-fighter watching him carefully, he made a motion like he was holding a camera to his face and clicked the invisible button. Punk grimaced in confusion, so the Scot began tugging at his long locks then pointed at Punk.

     'Oh yeah!' It finally dawned. 'I did promise you I'd show you some old pictures, huh?'

     A stern cat paw. Then he made the shape of an 'X' with his finger on his chest, right above his heart.

     'Yeah, 'promise',' Punk nodded, copying the motion himself. ''Promise'.'

     He dug around in one of his drawers and pulled out a large envelope hidden down deep at the bottom. Placing them in front of Drew, he gave him free reign to look through them and the blue eyes shimmered like stars as he pulled the pile of photos out. Immediately, his mouth dropped open and he locked eyes with the cage-fighter, fanning his open hand over the side of his head. 

     'Told you it was long,' Punk shrugged but Drew shook his head. The Scot looked around him and eventually lifted up his coffee cup - a gag one Punk had gotten from his good friend AJ, which said 'I'm a ray of fucking sunshine' on it - and pointed to the cartoon sun. It took Punk a moment or two to understand he was pointing to the colour. Yellow.

     'Ohh! Yeah, I was blonde,' Punk laughed. 'Well, I dyed it blonde. Badly. Look at the fucking roots.'

     Drew flicked through each photo, a grin plastered wide on his lips with every new discovery. Together, the combed through the old photos, Punk giving little backstories for each one. Sometimes his tales went off on long, winding tangents but Drew didn't mind at all, absorbing every word the cage-fighter told him, completely drawn in by his animated storytelling.

     It suddenly dawned on Punk just how much he'd missed this feeling. Of companionship. Of warmth and joy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed this hard - the past few months had been nothing but misery and grief. 

     It was also nice having somebody new in his life. All his tales were fresh again instead of the same tired old jokes. Drew laughed loud and merrily, his mirth infectious. Around them, the room glowed with a light that Punk was sure had died out long, long  ago.

     He could have stayed that way forever. But...

     'Well then,' Punk leaned back with a groan, spying the scattered dirty dishes, 'guess I'd better clean up.' Beside him, a chair screeched as Drew hobbled up, still limping slightly on his bandaged foot, and he began gathering up the nearby plates. 'Oh, it's alright, you don't have to-' but the cage-fighter was told to stay put by a palm on his chest. Drew pointed to himself and made a face that could not be argued with. 'Ok then,' Punk shrugged and made himself comfortable, 'if you insist.'

     Grabbing up everything on the table, Drew stumbled across to the kitchenette but the moment he placed them on the counter by the sink, they both heard a strange loud buzzing sound. 

     'Door bell,' Punk explained. 'Probably the mailman.'

     Heaving himself up onto his feet, he walked over to the front steps, not noticing the way Drew's entire large frame had wound up as tight as piano wire, watching with frightened rabbit eyes as the cage-fighter bobbed away from sight.

     Punk pulled the door open.

     It was not the mailman!

     Standing on his doorstep were two men. Men dressed in police uniforms.

     'Good day, sir,' one smiled stiffly. He had an unusual, angular face and a brutal haircut, shorn at the sides with blonde hair folded flat against his scalp. He stood an inch taller than Punk. 'I'm Officer Johnston and this is Officer Callahan.' The other cop gave a sharp nod. He was shorter and bald with a neat goatee lining his chin. 

     Punk felt his hackles rise instantly. Putting on his best poker face, he folded his arms over his chest. 'Am I in trouble, officers?' 

     The blonde laughed. A humourless chuckle. 'Not at all, sir, we're just working our way around the neighbourhood. May we ask you some questions.' His attempt at the accent was decent but it was clear he was not from the US.

     'Sure. Ask away,' Punk replied.

     'Does this man look familiar to you?' The blonde lifted up a pencil sketch. Punk knew it would be of Drew before he laid eyes on it and hoped to hell he gave nothing away. It was a vulgar likeness of the Scot; cold dead eyes and a fierce line of the mouth. An artistic depiction of a dangerous criminal, a thug, not the gentle giant riddled with trauma from the cruelty inflicted on him for years.

     Punk scrunched up his face. 'No,' he said, shaking his head. 'Not seen anybody like that.'

     'He'd be easy enough to spot,' the blonde officer explained. 'Very tall, maybe six foot five, muscular build, dark hair, blue eyes. Speaks with an accent.' Like you. 'He was last spotted roaming around this area.'

     'Nope, think I'd remember seeing somebody like that around here,' Punk shrugged. 

     'This is a very dangerous man, sir,' the other office chimed in. Punk turned his focus to the shorter man. 'Any information you can give us is crucial so that we can apprehend him as quickly as possible.'

     You're trying to hide your accent too! 'I'm sorry I can't help,' Punk dropped his arms and prepared to shut the door. 'Hope you have better luck elsewhere officers-'

     'Hold on!' The blonde placed his palm on the door, stopping Punk from shutting it. Now, Punk could no longer hide the glare in his eye. 'How about this, sir? Does this look familiar to you?'

     He lifted the item up and the blood drained from Punk's skin.

     It was Drew's muzzle!

     Punk's brows flattened, his nostrils flaring. 'Are you trying to imply something here, officer?'

     'Not at all,' the cop smiled. No! Sneered! 'This belongs to the man we are seeking. He was wearing it when he was last spotted.'

     'Then my advice would be to try sniffing round the fetish clubs instead of wasting good peoples' time.' Punk gave a mocking smile and grabbed the door again. 'Can I go now?' This time, the blonde didn't try to stop him. 

     The instant the door slammed shut, Punk gasped in a breath, feeling every bone in his body rattle. He pressed his face against the peephole, finding the two men slowly walking away, deep in conversation. His breathing picked up pace, sharp, painful pants that filled his chest with dread. The men stopped and Punk felt ice stab his heart. One looked back and right at him, as if seeing him through the tiny chink and Punk jumped back with fright.

     He locked the door tight. Yanked over the chain. 

     And waited.

     And waited.

     Nothing.

     He chanced another peep through the hole. The men were gone.

     Relief crashed over him and he fell back against the wall, scrubbing his hand over his clammy face.

     There was no doubt about it - those were the men who had imprisoned Drew. And they were looking for him! Hopefully Punk had done enough to throw them off the scent. 

     By the time his legs had stopped wobbling enough for him to climb the stairs again, he found the kitchen area empty, dirty dishes left abandoned in the sink. 'Drew?' he called out, looking around him. He heard a whine and found Larry pawing at the door leading down to his home gym. Going in, he switched on the light but couldn't see a sign of the Scot. Unless...

     Punk walked down the stairs and into the wet room. His heart sank when he found a large figure curled up and cowering in the far corner. 'Hey, hey it's ok,' Punk said, crouching down beside Drew and wrapping his strong arms around him. 'They're gone, they're away.'

     Large arms gripped him and pulled him in tight, just like they had in Punk's bed last night. Instinctively, the cage-fighter's fingers found Drew's head and began stroking through his hair to calm him. 

     'Those fuckers will never get their hands on you,' Punk whispered, his lips flush against Drew's crown. 'Not while I'm here. Not while I'm still breathing. I'll never let them take you, I can promise you that.'

     A trembling fingertip pressed against his chest, right over his heart. And made the shape of an 'X'.

     'That's right,' Punk replied. ''Promise'.'

Chapter Text

     They stayed in the wet room for a long time, locked in each other's arms. Drew had finally stopped shaking but his whole body was still tense. Punk could feel the muscles like bars of steel pressed against his arms and chest. He didn't blame him; he was shaken up too. He hadn't expected the danger to come knocking at his door so soon, truthfully he'd almost convinced himself it wouldn't come at all. That he had brought the wounded animal back to his sanctuary where he would be safe forever.

     But now it seemed like the four walls were made of straw. On the brink of collapse with one puff of the wolf's breath. 

     They needed out. Needed to be among crowds where there could be witnesses and less chance of a violent confrontation.

     Punk had an idea!

     'Hey Drew,' he said, softly breaking the silence. 'How would you like more of those muffins?'

     The Scot went still. Until two blue eyes sparkled up at him eagerly.

     Upstairs, Punk searched through the bundle of clothes that Joe had brought over earlier, looking for a jacket that Drew could wear out. 'Or a hoodie, a sweater, anything that-'

     He went quiet. Drew cocked his head at him, waggling his index finger back and forth. What?

     Punk didn't notice, his eyes fixated on a bright royal blue garment that he removed from the pile. He'd recognised it as soon as he'd spied a flash of that distinct colour. Had he forgotten? No, surely not? 

     It had been a present. Punk had bought it for Joe's birthday... or was it Christmas? Maybe neither. When Joe had tried it on for the first time, Punk had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his giggle. 

     'What?' Joe asked his boyfriend sternly.

     'Nothing!' Punk replied innocently while his face turned a deep shade of red from plugging up his laughter.

     'Say it!'

     Punk chewed his lip ring. 'You... you know that scene in Willy Wonka, when the girl, 'what's-her-name turns bright blue and starts swelling up-'

     'Right, it's coming off!' Joe declared, struggling out of the jacket like a rat caught in a plastic bag.

     'NO! No, no, no,' Punk rushed forward and grabbed it by the lapels, pulling it back on. 'It looks good on you, really.'

     'You couldn't get anything more subtle? Maybe something black?'

     'You don't need any more black. I'm just trying to add some colour to your wardrobe.'

     'Urgh, fine. You ready to go?'

     Punk nodded and they went to head out on their date when the blonde suddenly piped up, 'VIOLET! THAT WAS HER NAME!'

     'What?'

     'You're turning violet, Violet!'

     'That's it! I'm not wearing this fucking jacket!'

     Punk had lied. Joe looked ridiculous in the jacket. But he had worn it that night. For him. And now?

     Studying the jacket in his hands, Punk could visualise that night so clearly. It seemed like yesterday but yet so long ago. A different time, one that now only existed in his memory. 

     Soft, warm fingers pressed under his chin and coaxed his head up. Punk found himself looking into two stunning sapphires, creased with worry. He sniffed and shook his head. 'Sorry, just... got distracted there. Here, try this on.'

     Drew unzipped the hooded jacket and threaded his large arms into it. Punk prepared himself for the sight, expecting the Scot to look as equally ludicrous as his ex.

     Only... he didn't. In fact, Drew looked incredible! The fabric hugged his broad shoulders and draped flatteringly over his muscular frame. The colour, which had looked so garish on Joe, was a natural fit for Drew and highlighted the darker tones in his eyes. Zipping the jacket up, he raised his brow at Punk, turning around with his arms out wide for the full effect. 

     'Wow...' Punk's jaw hung limp. 'Blue really is your colour, huh?'

     Drew scrunched up his face, as if to say 'duh!' 

     'Yeah,' Punk chuckled quietly. 'Course it is.'

     Punk grabbed up his phone and keys. 'You coming Larry?' he asked the little dog, dozing on the couch. Larry replied with a sleepy grunt. 'Oh, come on. Your lazy butt could use a walk.' He grunted again, curling in on himself. 'Fine,' Punk chuckled. 'Enjoy your nap.'

     Hopping down the front steps, he stepped outside, locking the door tight behind him. A quick glance up and down the street found no sign of the two strange 'cops' from earlier but that didn't mean a thing. They could be hiding in a car or another building, watching him from one of the many dark corners. Pulling the visor of his baseball cap down, Punk stuffed him hands into his pocket and walked away down the street.

     He felt like he was being watched. Eyes boring into the back of his shoulders like drills, trying to extract his secrets. Everyone he passed was a potential threat especially those coming from behind. Several times, he glanced over his shoulder with his fist clenched in his pocket but each time he received nothing more than a side-eye from the passing stranger. 

     He took a odd route, zig-zagging back and forth across the streets, trying to draw out anybody following him or lose them altogether. After traversing this mindless trail for several minutes, he came to a stop outside an alley a few blocks over from his apartment.

     'I think we're in the clear,' he whispered into the shadows. Nothing. 'You coming?' Nothing. 'You want those muffins or not?'

     Finally Drew appeared rising out from behind a dumpster like a giant from behind a mountain. He was very nervous, agitated, his fingers fidgeting with the collar around his neck.

     'You ok?' Punk asked. He was answered with a hard shake of Drew's fist. 'You did really well. You followed my directions perfectly. Those goons will have been so busy keeping tabs on me they wouldn't have clocked you sneaking out the back.' You hope! 'You were really brave.'

     Drew timidly placed the fingertips of his flattened palm against his chin and swiped them down as if blowing a kiss. Thank you. Punk knew that one.

     'They're not gonna try something in broad daylight,' Punk tried to convince him. 'Mindy's isn't far, just down here and-'

     A large hand gripped his shoulder, bunching up the leather of his jacket in a white-tight fist. 'What is it?' The Scot began to wildly motion around him, pointing in every direction, signing so fast that Punk couldn't follow at all. 'I don't understand...' he said, shaking his head.

     Thinking for a moment, Drew then reached down and grabbed up Punk's left hand. Lifting it in front of Punk's face he ran his finger back and forth over the cage-fighter's tattooed knuckles until it clicked.

     'Free.' Punk's shoulders fell. 'This is the first time you've been free. Properly free.' He looked around them at the hustle and bustle, the roar of the traffic, loud and aggressive under the dark grey sky above. He could see why it would be overwhelming for the Scot.

     His inked fingers curled around Drew's large digits and folded his hand in his. 'I've got you,' he reassured the taller man. 'I'm right here.'

     The gesture worked in soothing Drew and together they walked hand-in-hand through the busy streets. Sometimes, people would stop and stare at them but Punk was used to such attention. Before Drew he had walked this way with Joe and that would always draw eyes - the pair of them were hardly the types to blend into a crowd. 

     But, strangely enough, walking this way... didn't feel strange. Punk was weirdly comfortable holding onto the larger man, their hands fitting perfectly together as if by design.

     By the time they reached the bakery, Drew was noticeably more relaxed and chomping at the bit to see what was inside. Punk, ever the gentlemen, opened the door and allowed the Scot in first when he spied a familiar face behind the counter.

     'Back again so soon?' the younger woman cocked her head to the side sweetly.

     'Do you ever leave?' Punk shot back.

     'I work here,' the woman countered. 'What's your excuse?'

     'Hey look, I brought you a new customer, you should be grateful!' He motioned over to Drew and the woman did a double take.

     'Oh!' She glanced at Punk then quirked her eyebrows, knowingly. 'Ohhhhh.'

     The cage-fighter narrowed his eyes. 'What?'

     'Oh nothing,' she made out like she was tossing her hair over her shoulder, despite it being tied in a messy bun on her head.

     Punk wasn't buying. 'AJ?'

     The woman shrugged. 'He's cute.'

     Punk rolled his eyes. 'It's not what you think.'

     'Yuh-huh!'

     'We're not dating.'

     'Yuh-huh.'

     'I'm just helping the guy out.'

     'Hmmm.' AJ pursed her lips tight. 'Well, if you're not gonna hit that then...?' She fluttered her long lashes sweetly at Punk.

     'He aint your type,' the cage-fighter argued, a tad too swiftly.

     'What? Tall, rugged and handsome?' AJ scoffed. 'Where's he from?'

     Punk paused, shuffling his feet. 'Scotland,' he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the way AJ's jaw nearly fell through the countertop.

     'Oh my god! Does he have the accent?'

     'Why don't you find out for yourself?' Punk waved his hand towards Drew, who had been salivating over each delicacy behind the glass the entire time Punk and AJ had been talking, oblivious to the conversation surrounding him.

     'Ok, I will.' AJ sauntered over to Drew's end of the counter, unaware of the mischievous glint in the older man's eye or the way his lips were tightening up into a smug smile. 

     He liked AJ. They'd gotten to know each other through his almost daily jaunts to the bakery. There had been a time, shortly after Joe had left him when he had arrived bleary-eyed and distracted and she instantly picked up that something was seriously wrong. Sitting him down with his pastry and a free coffee, she told him to wait for her shift to end then the pair of them went for a sandwich together and they talked for hours and hours. Punk opened up about his failed relationship and she had listened, allowing him to finally let some of the unbearable pain out. He would always be grateful for her kindness that day.

     They'd exchanged phone numbers and regularly kept in touch, sometimes meeting for a coffee or a meal  if either was feeling low or lonely. He always said that, in another world, in another universe somewhere, he might have fallen madly in love with AJ, maybe even married her. It was tragic, really, that he didn't swing that way.

     'Hey there,' AJ gave Drew her brightest smile. 'What can I get you today?'

     Punk bit his lip as Drew raised his hands and began to sign, probably saying something lovely and polite to the pretty petite behind the counter. He couldn't contain the snort when she side-eyed the cage-fighter, a single eyebrow raised. 

     'Hey Drew,' Punk called over, cutting off his flow. 'These are the ones you had yesterday.' He pointed to a shelf in front of him and the Scot practically knocked him over as he barrelled towards them. Punk took he opportunity to wink cheekily at AJ.

     'You're an ass!' she uttered under her breath.

     'You can't talk to your best customer like that!' 

     'You're my worst customer!' she shot back. 'The. Worst!'

     He gave a cute shrug when a large finger began tapping him on the arm. He turned to find Drew pointing at two different muffins - the triple chocolate ganache and a salted caramel with blue and white frosting on top. His brow was furrowed and his lip quivering, unable to decide between the two.

     'Can't help you there,' Punk shook his head. 'They're both delicious.' Then Drew whined and Punk instantly caved in. 'You know what, AJ, let's just go for a-'

     He was cut off by AJ slapping an empty cake box on the countertop. Punk blinked at it then back at AJ who fluttered her pretty eyelashes at him again.

     'I come here too often, don't I?'

     The pair were in no hurry to head back to the apartment so they continued their walk and found a spot to eat their cake. Drew practically chomped his down in one bite but Punk just sat with a faraway look in his eye. He was thinking about what AJ had said back at the bakery. 'Does he have the accent?' It reminded him of something one of the fake cops had said about Drew. 'Speaks with an accent.' He'd been so focused on not giving anything away that the strangeness of that sentence hadn't dawned on him until now. These men had held Drew prisoner for years so surely they would know that he couldn't speak.

     Or could he? When Punk had asked him, Drew had replied with both 'yes' and 'no'. What did he mean?

     'Drew?' The Scot glanced over at the cage-fighter, eyes bright and merry. 'Can I ask you something... personal?' Cat paw. 'That muzzle you wore when I found you? That's why you can't speak, isn't it? They made you wear it all the time so that you couldn't talk?' 

     A long, horrible pause. Punk panicked that he had overstepped when Drew dipped his head down low. But after a while, he lifted his fist up.

     Cat paw!

     Punk hitched a breath. The box in his hand crackled as his fingers tightened their grip, nearly crushing it. 'How long since you last spoke?' Drew thought for a moment then began to count on his fingers, Punk watching each digit rise in turn. 'Is this in months?' he asked, holding on to a splinter of hope. Drew sighed and shook his head. The counting resumed. Punk saw him reach three and couldn't take it anymore so he placed his hand over the large fingers and curled them back down. 

     'Did they teach you how to sign too?'

     Fist shake. Then Drew pointed his finger into his own chest.

     'You taught yourself? How?'

     Placing his palms flat together, Drew opened them up like an oyster. 'From a book?' 

     Cat paw. 

     'Guess you had to find a way to help yourself, huh? To tell somebody what was happening to you?'

      Cat paw. Then he raised his right index finger and hid it behind his palm before sliding it under and up in front. Punk had no idea how, perhaps it was the look in Drew's eyes or the sorrow that accompanied it but he somehow understood precisely what that gesture meant. 

     'Yeah,' he heaved out a sigh. 'I get ya. We'll do anything it takes to not feel lonely.'

     The pair went quiet, and the sounds of the city took over. The wind was still strong and rustled through their clothes, tugging at their hair. 

     'You know,' Punk said, carefully choosing his next words, 'you're not a prisoner anymore.' He turned his head slightly towards Drew but didn't meet his gaze. 'I know it will take time but... you don't have to live by their rules anymore. The muzzle's off. That collar could be next?' 

     Drew grasped at the black leather with his other hand and shook his head rapidly from side-to-side. Even the thought of removing his collar terrified him. Punk tried not to feel so deflated.

     'Like I said, it'll take time,' he went on. 'Trust me, I've spent months working through my shit and it's all stupid compared to yours. But just keep telling yourself, you're free, you're your own man again. They don't own you, they don't fucking dictate your every move anymore. You can do whatever you want now. You wanna speak, you speak. You wanna go home-'

     A glob of something manifested in Punk's throat and he quickly coughed it away.

     '... well, you know. You get what I'm saying.'     

     No cat paw this time. Just a solemn nod of Drew's head. 

     Punk squeezed the fingers under his hand. His box of muffins sat untouched on his knee.

     They could have stayed that way forever but the weather turned harsh and Punk thought it best to head back. Taking the back route that Drew had used to sneak his way out of Punk's apartment, the pair walked hand-in-hand, slowing down towards the end of their journey as if stepping back inside would break some wondrous spell they were under. They were coming to the last corner, when Drew came to an abrupt stop, tugging back on Punk's hand.

     'Everything ok, kid?' Punk asked turning to face the larger man. Head shake. 'Hey, what did I tell you about those creeps? I won't let them get to you if it's the last thing I-'

     Drew wobbled his head from side-to-side. That's not what he meant. To express himself clearer, he reached out and grasped Punk's stubbly cheeks in both of his large hands. Stroking his thumbs through the rough bristles, Drew studied the sparkle of green in Punk's pretty eyes, wide with questions as Drew gently pulled him in closer. Both men's breath lingered in the cold air between them rising like steam, each pant growing heavier.

     Their lips touched, soft and warm and inviting. Drew's eyes fluttered shut while his hands slid to the back of Punk's head, stroking through feathery strands of dark hair. Punk did not pull back, nor did he advance. Standing like a stupefied statue with his arms by his side, he returned the kiss through half-lidded eyes, his cheeks darkening with every passing second.

     Drew was the first to break away, checking to see if he had crossed a line. Punk found himself lost for words, flushed and pining for more of that sweet mouth. Drawing in his bottom lip, he rubbed his tongue over it to taste the slickness left by the Scot.

      'I... uh...'

     His mind was foggy, a deep desire to grab the lapels of Drew's jacket and yank him in for round two, but another part of him fearing that this was wrong, that he was taking advantage. That he was no better than the bastards who had ground him down so much that he had instantly latched onto the first person who'd shown him a shred of kindness, like some baby bird.

     In the end, it didn't take any words. Punk wrapped his fingers around Drew's hand and gently prised it away from the back of his neck. Reassuring the Scot with a wobbly smile, he held the hand tightly and guided the larger man forward, silently promising that they would discuss this properly once they were inside. Leading the way, Punk turned the corner first.

     And immediately froze, his sneakers squealing as he skid to a halt.

     His back door had been kicked in!

     'Shit!' he cursed under his breath, and shoved Drew back into the alley. 'Stay there!' he hissed, his entire demeanour changed in an instant. 'Stay right there and don't move until I say so.' 

     Punk took one step and his wrist was ensnared, jerking him back. Drew's face was full of terror. 'I'll be right back,' he told the Scot. 'I promise, the first sign of danger, I'll come right back here.'

     Reluctantly, his wrist was released and Punk edged towards his shattered door. Stepping over the remnants of wood at his feet, he slowly climbed the back stairs, convinced that each step creaked loudly beneath him. His heart was thrashing in his chest, his lips pursed tight to silence his raspy breath. Raising his fists in front of him, he ground his soles against the floor; a fighter preparing for battle. 

     The door at the top of the stairs was ajar. Through it, he could see the state of his apartment and gritted his teeth. It had been entirely ransacked. The floor was littered with every possession he owned, items that had once been on shelves and in drawers. Chairs had been thrown across the room, kitchen cupboards emptied onto the floor, pictures torn from the wall. Even the dirty dishes abandoned from earlier had been tossed to the ground, along with the scummy water which now sloshed across the tiles.

     Punk carefully stepped over the debris, shattered glass crunching beneath his sneaker and anger flaring up red hot in the pit of his stomach when he spied it. The message left for him on his own dining table. 

     Drew's muzzle! Sitting right in the centre.

     Atop a pool of blood.

     Punk went cold.

     'Larry?' he called out, to be answered with silence. 'LARRY!' 

     He rushed to the lounge, checked the couch, behind each chair, the dog bed. All empty. 

     His body went numb, anaesthetised with horror. He leapt up the stairs, bounding up three at a time to the floor above. 'LARRY! LARRYYYY!' He no longer cared if they were still there, no longer cared if they heard him coming, he had to find his beloved dog. He threw open every door, looked under every bed, felt the dread clawing and shredding at him front the inside out. 

     Nothing! Nothing! 

     But the blood? Who's blood was-

     He stumbled back downstairs, despair buckling his knees. He grabbed at the handle to his gym when a sound reached his ear. Something like... scratching.

     He stopped, craned his ear. 

     There! Coming from the closet. Punk flung it open and fell to his knees with relief when a solid blur of grey fur leapt into his waiting arms. He hugged Larry to his chest, squeezing him tight. Manic laughter falling free from his lips as a large, wet tongue licked the tears from his cheeks. 'Thank fuck,' his shaky voice repeated over and over, 'oh thank fuck!'

     A shrrnk of broken glass beneath a boot. Punk flinched, tightening his grip on Larry. 

     However, it was only Drew, taking in the mess of Punk's apartment with pale-faced panic. Punk could pinpoint the moment those blue sapphires fell onto the muzzle left on the dining table and he watched with a heavy heart as all the joy from earlier drained away. Drew turned back into that lost, little creature he had found trembling in the shadows.

     The fear Punk had felt when he saw that blood was still fresh, still thumping loudly around his system. For a split second, he imagined how he would feel if it had been Drew's blood on that table-

     No! He would never let that happen. Never!

     'Come on,' he said. Wrapping his jacket around Larry, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed hold of Drew's arm. 'We've gotta get out of here!'

Chapter Text

     Punk could remember every moment of the bout where he'd lost his championship. Could reel it off, blow-by-blow as if there was going to be a test on it. Not that there was much to remember - the entire fight had lasted no more than two minutes!

     He was burnt out. He'd been the champ for nearly two years and had answered every challenge, more than he should have, and the constant training and fasting and training and fasting had wreaked havoc on his body. And not forgetting his age; he was already considered 'old' and 'passed it' in his mid-thirties, but he had proven them all wrong. He had stood atop the mountain and held his position there for so long...

     ..only to stumble and fall all the way down!

     He'd swiped hard with his right. An old-faithful move of his. He had a mean right and could knock out a guy if he hit it just so. But his opponent had ducked underneath, aimed for his gut and taken him down. Trapped on the mat, his younger opponent straddled him, trapping Punk beneath him and he began to ground and pound the champion. Punk tried every way he could to counter but each attempt came up short. All while two furious fists smashed into his face over and over. His bottom lip split, his eye seeped, the bone around the socket cracked while the skin became bruised and swollen. His teeth rattled with each strike - one lucky knuckle knocked his right premolar out and he spat it away in a spray of bright red. His ear folded painfully in on itself, stuck under his head which rubbed it back and forth mercilessly against the bloody canvas, crunching the cartilage.

     It was brutal, but Punk could take it. He'd always had a strong resistance to pain, enjoyed it almost. He could have waited it out until the end of the round and tried to regroup.

     But then he thought of Joe. Thought of him standing in the crowd, watching Punk's face being splattered into the floor of the cage. Thought of him jolting with every punch that broke another part of Punk's skin and bone.

     That hurt! More than any physical pain he could ever experience.

     So he tapped. First round, two minutes and fourteen seconds in, he tapped. 

     He lost the championship but it didn't matter in that moment. All he wanted was to be in Joe's arm, to snuggle in to that strong, stead-fast anchor, his rock to cling to when the stormy seas hit.

     Punk tried to catch the butterflies fluttering around his stomach as he knocked at the door. Moments later, it opened. His rock answered it.

     'I'm sorry,' Punk shook his head helplessly, 'I didn't know where else to go.'

     They sat in Joe's sitting room, bunched up on a small two-seater couch as Joe busied about in the kitchen down the hallway. Punk still had Larry bundled up in his jacket and was idly scratching the little dog between his large ears. His other hand rested on the couch until he felt something rub against them. He flinched slightly, awakening from his thoughts - thoughts of shattered glass and steel muzzles and dripping blood - but settled again after seeing Drew's large fingers stroking his. The Scot looked every bit as traumatised as him and how could he blame him? A terrible net was closing in around them, they could almost feel the ropes burning against their skin, moments away from ensnaring them completely.

     'We'll stay here tonight,' Punk whispered to Drew who flickered his blue eyes towards him. 'Give me some time to figure out our next move.'

     Drew gave a small nod and nothing else.

     Heavy footsteps announced Joe had returned, carrying three cups of coffee, which he passed out between them. 'So, they've found you.'

     Sometimes Punk wished Joe was a 'beat-around-the-bush' kinda guy instead of a 'straight-to-the-point' kinda guy. He felt Drew tense up beside him, curling into himself like a clenched fist.

     'Looks that way, yeah,' Punk replied, staring down into the murky depths of his coffee cup.

     'Did they follow you here?'

     Punk paused. He'd been so fraught with alarm that he hadn't thought much about covering their tracks. 'I... don't know.' Joe heaved a long, drawn out sigh. He stepped towards the window, the blinds already shut and used his finger to split them apart and peer out into the dark streets. 

     'Please tell me you've called the cops.'

     A flicker of fire lurched in Punk's belly like a retch. He clamped his lips shut.

     Joe noticed the uncharacteristic silence and glanced back over his shoulder. 'Punker?'

     'We don't need the cops.'

     'Punk...'

     'WHAT?' Punk burst out. 'What is it? What have I done now?'

     'I told you these men were dangerous! I warned you not to get in over your head.'

     'I'm not in over my head.'

     'They broke into your apartment and trashed it. They left you a message, a very clear one.' Joe stopped, glancing warily at Drew who shivered at his ex's side. 'They want him back, and they'll hurt anybody who tries to stop them.'

     'They can do whatever the fuck they want,' Punk lifted his chin, defiantly. 'They can try and hurt me all they like, I can take it, but it won't make any difference. I'm never gonna back down and I'm never gonna let them lay a single finger on him.'

     'Punker...' Joe's voice turned low. 'They'll kill you.' 

     The cage-fighter let out a huff of wry laughter and turned away. 'I can fight.'

     'In the cage, yeah,' Joe countered. 'Against guys who understand the limits, but these men you're dealing with have none. Punk, these aren't a bunch of dumbass drunks trying to show off how tough they are to their girlfriends, these men are hardened criminals. You need to get Drew some real help, people who will actually keep him safe.'   

     'Why? Because I'm not "cut out" for this?' Punk threw Joe's own words from earlier into his face.

     'You're not,' Joe replied, remaining calm against the tide of Punk's growing anger. 'You're not even armed.'

     Punk found himself backed into a corner, all eyes in the room staring at him like some side-show attraction. 'This tastes like shit,' he banged his coffee cup down on the side table. 'You got anything else?'

     Joe left the room without saying a word. It was a sight Punk knew very well. He was probably off to do some breathing exercises through in the kitchen to stop himself from saying something he'd regret. Punk should really try it himself some time.

     He slumped back into the couch, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. What the fuck do I do now? A large hand engulfed his shoulder and he opened his eyes to find Drew staring at him, determination etched into every feature along with something else that looked like... agony?

     He pointed a finger to his own chest. Punk furrowed his brows, so Drew grabbed at his collar and pointed at his chest again, nodding his head sharply. Flattening both palms like he was slamming a box down, then flicked one of the palms away towards the door.

     Suddenly it all made sense. What Drew was signing.

     I. Must. Go.

     'No!' Punk grabbed a fistful of Drew's sleeve and held it firm. 'You can't leave. The minute you do, they'll take you.'

     Drew leaned over him, cradling Punk's scruffy cheek in the palm of his hand as he shook his head mournfully. He didn't have to sign; his expression said it all. 

     He couldn't bear the thought of Punk getting hurt. All because of him.

     'I'll be fine,' Punk tried to placate him. 'We'll be fine. I just... need some time to think. Just tonight, ok?'

     Deafening silence rang out long and loud. Drew's shoulders heaved as he mulled over his decision until... 

     Cat paw.

     Punk let out the breath he'd been holding onto. 'Thank you,' he hushed out. 'I'll think of something, I promise.'

     By then, Joe returned. Punk wiped his nose with the back of his hand and accepted the glass that was given to him. 'What's this?' 

     'Sparkling water.'

     'You don't have anything, you know, good?'

     'Since we broke up, I don't have any of that sugary shit in my house,' Joe said. 'You want it or not?'

     Punk took the glass. A large stone drifted down inside him, sinking deep into the pit of his stomach. Not even a spare one lying around? In case I decided to pop by.

     'You know what,' Punk placed the glass beside his rejected coffee. 'I need some air.'

     He got up, walked to the back of Joe's sitting room and out the sliding doors, slamming them shut behind him.

     Left alone together, Drew and Joe sat awkwardly, neither one knowing how to break the tension left by Punk's sudden exit. Larry, having been ejected from Punk's jacket when he stood up, clambered onto Drew's lap and settled in. The Scot softly stroked down his back, wiry fur smoothed out by his large palm. 

     'Wow,' Joe exclaimed from across the room. 'He's never done that for me.' He clicked out the side of his mouth, trying to get the little dog's attention but Larry gave a wary growl in reply. 'See? Never liked me. Probably because he thinks all I do is upset his 'dad', huh boy?' Joe gave a wry chuckle then looked up, finding Drew looking at him quizzically. 'Punk and I were together when we got him but... things were already a bit shaky. You know those couples who have a baby when things aren't working to try and 'strengthen' the relationship? Well... Punk adopted Larry!'

     The dog gave a loud sneeze before settling back into Drew's lap again. 

     'He's always had a thing for bringing in strays,' Joe went on, catching Drew's eye knowingly. 'Even me. When my shitty ex broke it off, he kicked me out the house. I had nowhere to go. So I called the boys from my gym and Punk was the only one who answered. While I was busy whining down the phone, he suddenly says 'hey I've booked you a plane ticket to Chicago. Get to the airport for this time and I'll meet you when you get here. You're staying with me". And that was it. No questions asked, we barely knew each other back then and he didn't owe me a thing, but... that's how we became room mates.'

     Drew dipped his head, a warm smile tugging at his lips. He enjoyed hearing more about his saviour, the man who had come to his rescue when he had felt so scared and so alone.

     'Reckon it has to do with being one himself. A stray, I mean.'

     Drew blinked. Locking eyes with Joe he waggled his finger urgently. What?!

     Fortunately Joe understood without translation. 'Oh, he didn't say?' he cut himself off, scratching the back of his broad neck awkwardly. 'I don't really feel comfortable... it's his story, you know so...'

     Drew touched his fingertips to his chin then swooped them out in front of him, his brows arched up pleadingly. Please?

     Joe fidgeted in his chair and downed the last of his coffee. 'Come on,' he said, placing the mug on the side-table, 'you can help me make up the spare bed.'

     Drew slumped with disappointment, thinking that their conversation was at an end. Had Punk been there he would have told him it was quite the opposite. Joe preferred to be busy with his hands when he was talking, partly focused on another task so that he didn't have to worry about eye contact or the other social conditions of dialogue. He had no problem being polite and even charming when he so wished, but he never had the knack for jabbering on about his personal life to strangers. He preferred his privacy, keeping most things to himself. 

     While Punk... Punk would excitedly reel off every intimate detail of a prostate exam to a guy he'd just met on the street, given half a chance. 

     Showing Drew (and Larry) to the guest bedroom, Joe fished out some fresh sheets from a drawer while both of his guests went sniffing around the room. By the time he'd turned around, Joe found Drew admiring the collection of his own championship belts, each one framed in a glass case, all of them left lying on the ground and leaning against the empty wall.

     'I didn't see any point in putting them up,' Joe admitted, 'seeing as I won't be staying here for much longer.'

     He knew what Drew must be thinking. How sparse his small house was; the bare walls, the minimal furniture, the lack of personal touches. It was a cold, dull space, all magnolia walls and aluminium fittings, a blank canvas void of any human identity except for maybe the single toothbrush sitting in a cup on his bathroom sink.

     'It was only meant to be a stop-gap,' he explained. 'I've always wanted to live further south, you know, somewhere warmer. Florida, perhaps. Or California, my home state.' He began to unfurl a crisp white sheet, newly opened from the packet, and Drew came over to help, grabbing the other end. The two men quietly went to work, stretching the sheet over the mattress and tucking in each corner. Drew was convinced that Joe had finished talking but as they swiped the creases down, he started up again.

     'I... remember the exact moment that everything changed between Punk and I.' Drew's ears perked up again, listening intently. 'We'd been living together for a while. Just a couple of guys hanging out, training together, travelling together. We'd be each other's second at cageside, keeping an eye out for one another. Punk's a law unto himself but he always has your back. The guy would go to fucking war for the people he cares about.'

     That last part was said right to Drew, who nodded his head. Understanding what Joe was telling him and feeling the strength of those words light up his chest like a furnace.

     'We'd been doing this a while and then, one night, Punk was in the cage and, I can't remember what happened exactly, whether it was a punch or a take-down or what but something didn't go right and the two guys fell awkwardly. Punk's opponent landed right on top of him, their skulls bashed together like a couple of coconuts. I can still hear the sound even now. Like a loud, hollow clack!

     'Anyway, the ref immediately rushes to them, calls in the medics. The guy Punk's fighting is all wobbly but he gets up to his feet and walks it off. Punk though... he just... lies there.' Joe paused, a far-away look in his eye, remembering every detail of that moment. 'I was right there, just outside the cage. I saw he wasn't moving and I just... panicked! I ran into the cage, rushed to his side. Everything around me faded out, like it wasn't even there anymore. I just saw Punk lying on the ground, his face all pale and I thought that's it, he's gone! I've lost him. But by the time I got there, his eyes were beginning to open.'

     Drew let out a sigh of relief. Silly really, he knew that Punk would be ok but there was something about the look of naked fear in the other man's face that betrayed how serious and scary the situation had been at the time.

     'I took him to the hospital. Asshole had fractured his skull. He fucking laughed when the doctor told him, laughed! Then on the way out, he's leaning on me cause he can barely walk straight, concussed as hell, and he just goes and throws his pain medication the doc gave him in the trash. I was about to lay into him, about his stupid straight edge shit when he suddenly goes and kisses me.'

     Drew's brows shot skyward. He quickly ducked his head and focused on stuffing the comforter into its cover, trying to ignore that small, unnecessary pang of jealousy nibbling the pit of his gut. 

     'It was completely out of the blue. I didn't even know he was gay. Far as I knew, he was always very popular with the ladies, they all practically hanged off of him... looking back it was pretty obvious, really.

     'But that night, there was no going back to the way things were. Punker went from being my friend to being my... everything. My whole world. I should have been so happy (and I was) but... all I could think about, was him lying there on that cage floor, like a corpse.'

     Joe abruptly turned away, fiddling with the seal of the packet of pillow cases. 'Until that moment he'd always been kinda like this indestructible cartoon character or something. Like Wile E. Coyote, you know? Shit would fall on his head, he'd get into all kinda scrapes but he always came out alright. Until that night and he suddenly seemed so... fragile. Like a porcelain doll. Like he'd shatter at the smallest of bumps. The closer we became, the worse my anxiety got. 

     'Punk always complained that I smothered him, treated him like a kid but then he would turn around and start acting just like one, so what the hell did he expect? We had good times, don't get me wrong. So many good times but it just never seemed to click between us.'

     Drew began to sign, waggling his finger, flicking his hand, and then slamming his fist down with his pinkie extended. What went wrong? Joe shook his head so Drew tried a different tactic. Pointing to Joe (you) then making a circle of eight on his chest (Punk) then placed his hands together, knuckles touching, before yanking them apart (split). The other man took in a long, deep breath, scratching his bulky fingers through his short dark hair. 

     He understood.

     'Let me start by saying that,' Joe raked his teeth over his bottom lip, 'I love Punk. I love him with everything I have.' That prickle of envy in Drew's gut was growing, turning into an ache. 'But he's a selfish jerk. I mean, generous? Yeah. Kind? Yeah. But, at the end of the day, he knows what he wants and he's gonna go for it no matter what. And no matter who he hurts along the way. His career has always been his first priority. He's missed birthdays, anniversaries, christmases, thanksgivings, weddings, funerals, you name it, to get to the top of the ladder. He's made sacrifices to be the best in the world...' 

     Joe threw the pillow down, battered it with his palm to fluff it up. A little too roughly, Drew noted. 

     '..but not nearly as much as the people around him.'

     Immediately after losing the title, Punk had to give a press conference. Given enough time to shower and dress in his suit and tie, Punk had sat down with his mic in hand and his face battered and bruised to stare down a room of reporters. He'd rather have been back in the cage getting the rest of his teeth knocked out.

     He answered as best he could, fighting back tears that were always teetering on the brink of escaping his matching black eyes. It felt empty on the table without his belt there, pride of place. He felt exposed without it to hide behind, no longer a champion, just a beaten-down ageing man.

     One of the reporters asked what he planned to do next. He had no idea. What did he do now? What even was he now, that he was no longer the champ, the man. Perhaps not even a fighter anymore.

     He was overwhelmed and put down the mic. Took a pause and a breath to compose himself. Just like Joe had taught him.

     Joe...

     He thought of Joe, thought of how he had wrapped his large arms around him and held him close. Told him how proud he was of him. He nearly broke down. 

    But Punk breathed through his broken nose, wincing at the sting and reigned his emotions in for now. He picked up the mic.

     'I'm gonna go home and hug my beautiful boyfriend.'

     'You... mean wife or-'

     'No, I don't.' Then he stood up and left.

     He'd outed himself and Joe did soon afterwards, grabbing Punk once he'd appeared behind the partition and kissing him full on the lips. The melancholy lifted like a mist in the sun, his waist didn't feel so empty with Joe's hands on it. 

     He was complete. 'Let's go home.'    

     Outside, Punk pulled his hood up to shield himself as the rain came down harder. Shivering against the cold, he couldn't tell which droplet running down his face was from the skies or from his eyes. 'Like tears in the rain,' he quoted, his voice hoarse. 

     He felt low. Useless. Lost. Just like he had that day at the conference. His words empty. 

     He had promised Drew he would keep him safe and now they were fugitives, on the run and hiding out at his fucking ex's house. He'd promised Drew those men would never find him and they'd knocked on his door within hours, broke into his place and tore it apart. He promised Drew they would never hurt him and then he'd seen that blood dripping off his dining table and feared the worse.

     He promised Drew they would never take him...

     ... now that promise felt hollow too.

     In the silence of the night, he had peace to think. Think through the blaring noise in his skull that had started up the moment Drew had grabbed his cheeks and pulled their lips together. Punk couldn't stop thinking about it. Thinking about those lips, their plump, soft touch caressing his. The large hands cupping his face, cradling them so gently but firmly. Their bodies pressing together, the warmth pooling between them. He couldn't stop thinking about it all, and the more he thought about it, the more he craved it.

     But then he thought of the blood and the muzzle and the direness of their situation and-

     'Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!' Punk slapped his palms against the brick wall surrounding Joe's garden. He couldn't think straight. Couldn't figure out what he had to do. He sighed helplessly. Placing his hands into his pockets, he bumped his forehead against the damp stone when he felt something round and sturdy in his palm. He pulled it out, recognising a roll of tape.

     It suddenly clicked. What he had to do.

     What he always did.

     He had to fight!

     Joe stopped in the middle of his tale when he heard the sound of his back door sliding open. Drew had heard it too and both men glanced at one another. 'I'll go speak to him,' Joe sighed and left the Scotsman behind as he made his way to the sitting room. 

     However, he caught Punk trying to sneak out the front door. 'Where you going?'

     The cage-fighter jumped with fright, but tried to hide it. 'I need some sugar, I'm losing my mind,' he lied too easily. 'I thought I saw a store on our way here and-'

     Joe caught hold of his wrist and pulled his sleeve back. 'You hands are wrapped.' Punk yanked his arm free and stuffed it back into his pocket. 'Why are your hands wrapped?'

     'Just a precaution. In case anybody tries something.'

     'Don't lie to me.'

     'I'm not.'

     'Punker! Don't lie to me. Please!'

     The cage-fighter chewed his bottom lip, his tongue rubbing against where his lip piercing used to be. 'I'll be right back, I promise. But can you just do one thing for me? One last thing then I'll never ask for anything else again.'

     'Punk!'

     'Just... watch them for me, ok? Until I get back.' He sniffed loudly, barely holding himself together. 'They're all I've got.'

     'PHIL!' Joe caught a lapel of his jacket, tried to force Punk to look at him. 'Please listen to me. You don't have to do this alone.'

     Punk let out a gasp, making a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. As if Joe had stabbed him right between the shoulder blades.

     'I am alone!' he said, his voice breaking. 

     Then he turned and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Text

     'PHIL! PHIIIIL!!!!' 

     Joe yelled into the blackness of the night but Punk was gone. His feet were stuck fast, trapping him in place while his mind whirred with what to do. Call the cops, it was screaming at him. If he won't do it then you do it. Call the damn cops!

     They're all I have.

     Joe hitched a breath at Punk's voice filtering through his thoughts. Words he had said to him just moments before. They're all I have.

     Suddenly it made sense. Why he wouldn't get the police involved. A quick search would be all it took to find out that Drew was in the country illegally and they would pack him off home. Punk couldn't let that happen. He wanted to keep him. 'You selfish, selfish prick,' Joe muttered under his breath.

     Just... watch them for me, ok? ..then I'll never ask for anything else again.

     'Fine,' Joe acquiesced the phantom voice in his head. 'I'll watch them, but you'd better come back soon or else.'

     Heading back inside, Joe started at the sight of Drew in the sitting room, looking around him in alarm. He circled his palms out in front of him then did the figure of eight on his chest. Where's Punk? Joe didn't answer straight away, instead closing the door behind him and locking it tight. Drew tried again, with more urgency this time.

     'He's gone out, I'm not sure where exactly but-'

     Drew barged past Joe towards the door and tried to haul it open. Panic gave him unspeakable power and he almost yanked the entire thing off its hinges in his desperation to follow Punk outside.

     'Hey, woah, woah,' Joe tried to calm the frantic behemoth he had been tasked with babysitting, lost at how to soothe it. 'He's coming back. He said he'll be right back.'

     But Drew wasn't buying it any more than Joe had. He shook his head and began banging the side of his palm against his temple, like he was a broken toy soldier wildly saluting his commander. 

     'I... I don't understand.'

     Drew grabbed at his collar, practically choking himself as he displayed it to Joe then went back to saluting. Yet still, Joe wasn't catching on, all his usual logic blinded by the whole bizarre, frightening situation he found himself in.

     'Just... come back in, Drew,' he tried to steady the ship, allow himself a chance to think straight. 'Sit down and we'll wait for him together and-'

     Drew grabbed him, iron grips on his upper arms that made even a man-mountain like Joe wince. Their eyes locked, faces close as Drew furrowed his brows in deep concentration.

     And his mouth began to move!

     'D... d....'

     'Holy shit...' Joe hushed out as Drew forced his neglected lips to try and form the word he needed.

     'D...d-d-d....'

     Joe knew. Knew what he was trying to say because the same word was blaring in his own ear like an air raid siren.

     Danger!

     Punk's apartment was dark. Carefully, he stepped over the mess at his feet, trying not to disturb anything with his cautious tread. The whole time ignoring the voice berating him at the back of his head, a voice that sounded exactly like Joe's. What are you doing? Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing?

     They had to come back. He knew it in his gut. That's what they always did, come back to the scene of the crime. Everybody knew that. But looking around, he found no sign of change or disturbance, everything was still.

     He passed by his kitchenette, purposefully ignored the dining table to his left with its gruesome shrine upon it. He thought he could hear the blood still drip, drip, dripping off the edge onto the floor but that might have just been his overactive imagination, high on adrenaline. It had been a lot of blood. He wondered who or what had donated it.

     Thnnk!

     Punk crouched down low. It had come from upstairs. He stalled his breathing to listen. No doubt about it, there was footsteps coming from the floor above.

     He was right!

     They were here!

     The wraps around his hands creaked as he balled his fingers up into tight fists, holding them in front of him like a shield. He passed by his sofa-bed where Drew had slept peacefully the night before, passed the coffee table where Drew had kindly left him his last muffin towards the staircase. Deliberately lowering each sole down silently as he twisted his way up and up.

     It had clicked back in Joe's garden. The house had never been Drew's sanctuary - it was Punk himself! He had been his fingers that had freed him from the muzzle, his arms that had held him close when he'd been afraid and now his fists would rid him of his captors forever.

     Reaching the upper level, Punk followed the muffled sound of voices to his master bedroom. Inching his way towards the door, he suddenly wished he had a baseball bat or something to use as a weapon but it was too late. He had to make do with-

     The door opened! And a man walked out!

     The two of them jumped at the sight of each other but Punk recovered sooner and swung. His right. A savage hook. The man went down. Out cold. Muttering a curse under his breath, Punk shook out his arm, trying to ignore the slight ache that radiated from his recovering tricep. Still got it!

     He looked over the intruder and immediately recognised him as one of the men who'd knocked on his door earlier. 'Knew you guys weren't fucking cops,' he muttered icily to the unresponsive blonde. That meant the other was around here somewhere.

     'Ludwig?' The voice came from inside Punk's bedroom. Flattening himself against the wall, he listened as heavy footsteps lumbered towards the door. He had enough time to spit out the word 'merda' before Punk lunged, aiming another right hook. Horrific flashbacks to his championship loss came flooding back as the bald man ducked low, Punk's fist skating harmlessly over his head. 

     But Punk was wiser these days, knew what was coming next and changed his body position in an instant to defend against the tackle to his gut, thwarting the take-down. Snaring his opponent's head in a choke-hold, Punk rammed his elbows into the man's spine, trying to force him to his knees. Ground and pound, you know this routine, ground and pound. 

     Unfortunately, the man was no rookie to combat and managed to slam his own fist into Punk's gut. Doubling over, Punk tried to ignore the terrible cramps in his stomach as yet another blow pummelled his abdomen. When another caught him right on the diaphragm, winding him badly, he had no choice but to relinquish the hold and back off to regroup.

     Too late, he realised that Joe had been right. Joe was always right. This wasn't a cage fight. There no rules, no relegations, no officials. And no respite. The bald man came charging for him again and Punk had no option but to meet him head-on despite the agony flooding his guts. Locking horns, the two men tussled, ramming one another into walls and doors, trying to dislodge the other. 

     Punk was forced back against the bannister, his foe's hand pushing down on his face and bending his spine painfully over the handrail. Out the corner of his eye he could see his living area far below, pooled in murky darkness like the mouth of the abyss itself. The hand drove down ruthlessly. Punk nearly lost his footing but caught hold of the wooden balusters to stop himself falling over and plummeting to the floor below.

     The struggle continued, Punk's hope dwindling as the ache in his injured arm became unbearable. It was then he spotted their stances and saw his chance. Driving his leg up, he whacked his opponent square between his open legs. The man squealed, falling like a sack of bricks and Punk was freed from his peril. 

     With his foe on his knees, the cage-fighter attacked. Jabbing and punching until blood spilled freely down the bald man's face. Yet still he would not surrender. Fighting back with his own strikes, Punk was forced to retreat when the man successfully managed to wrap his arms around Punk's waist.

     Quickly, Punk widened his stance to stop the take-down and both men wrestled for dominance. Fuck! This guy is strong! Punk cursed, aware that his own body was running out of adrenaline and starting to fail. You stupid, stupid old man!

     Punk hammered his fist into the other man's kidneys, his blows becoming slow and sluggish, but he put what strength he could behind them. The fake cop responded by ramming his shoulder into Punk's gut, squishing it against the unforgiving surface of the wall. A pocket of something wet and metallic leapt up Punk's throat and began to drip from the corner of his mouth. At first he was convinced it was vomit but when he quickly wiped it with the back of his hand and saw the red smear on his wraps, his worst fears were confirmed.

     That's not good!

     His foe bulldozed into him again and Punk's knees gave out. His opponent wriggled free and without his support, Punk fell onto all fours, coughing up frothy bubbles of bloody saliva. Come on! Get up! GET UP!

     He did. Wobbled up onto his feet like a drunk, swaying from side-to-side, blood pouring down his shirt. His opponent was enraged. Furious at Punk's defiance, he let out a roar and rushed for him. But Punk did not fight back. Instead, he ducked down out of harm's way. The man hit thin air and tripped over Punk, losing his balance. 

     Right at the top of the staircase!

     Punk looked back and saw the panic in the man's eyes as he failed to right himself, feeling the momentum pulling him backwards into nothing. Reaching out, Punk tried to grab him but it was too late and the man fell. Sickening crunches tore throughout through the silent apartment as he tumbled the entire length to the bottom. 

     Punk ran to the banister and peered down below. He could see his foe, lying face-up on his sitting area floor. He wasn't moving.

     'Sssssshit!' Punk cursed and rushed down the staircase, carefully stepping over the man's legs which were splayed on the bottom-most rungs. 'Shit! Shit! Are you alright?'

     No answer fell from the man's lips. Hanging as loose as his eyelids, his pupils large and black as they stared up into the void. His chest still while a grisly pool of dark liquid spread out beneath him.

     Punk grabbed his own hair by the roots, glanced back up at the spiralling grey structure of wood and steel. Joe had been right, again! 'Fucking death trap stairs!'

     What did he do now? He'd just killed a man! Or at least, there was a dead man in his apartment. That he'd just killed. Or had he? He kinda killed himself. It was an accident, he'd been acting in self-defence but would anybody believe that? Did it matter? He couldn't just leave a dead guy on his sitting room floor. He had to do something, he had to call somebody, but... he couldn't call the cops because they'd ask why the intruders were here and then they'd find out about Drew and take him away and-

     'Eh-hem!'

     The sound of somebody loudly clearing their throat directly behind him made every drop of Punk's blood grind to a halt in his veins. Turning around, he faced down one of the largest men he'd ever seen. As wide and as thick as Joe but taller. Big! Too big! 

     The man sharply cried out in a foreign language, some kind of command and swiftly folded his hands behind his back. Punk blinked like a little minnow hypnotised by the anglerfish's lure. 

     He never even saw the strike coming. So quick was the blow to his head that he was knocked out long before his body collided with his own coffee table.

     'Drew, I understand you're scared. I am too. But Punk said he would be right back.'

     The Scot was refusing to back down, kept tapping his forehead over and over. 'D-d-d-d-d-d-' But he couldn't get the word out. Drew began smacking the butts of his palms against his forehead in frustration.

     'Danger, I know!' Joe cut in, letting the taller man know he understood. 'Those men hunting you are dangerous, I get that, but Punk's only going to the convenience store.' Joe felt terrible using the same feeble lie that his ex had given him earlier. 'He's getting some supplies then he'll be back. He promised.'

     Drew put his hands down, his large barrel chest heaving with panicked breaths. He swallowed noisily before raising his right arm again. Making the figure of eight on his chest with his thumb, he followed it with the shape of an 'x' using his finger. Punk promised?

     'Yeah,' Joe tried to mimic the two signs. 'He promised.' The tide was starting to turn, Drew was calming down. He was nearly there. 'Drew... do you trust him?' The Scotsman's blue eyes blinked, thick dark eyelashes fluttering as he glancing up sheepishly at Joe. 

     Cat paw. 

     'Do you believe him?' Another long, hard stare. 

     Cat paw.

     It suddenly hit Joe how well he knew that look in Drew's face. The fear and anxiety that always seemed to go hand-in-hand with a certain tattooed cage-fighter. He found himself feeling a fresh pang of concern, something altogether more wicked in its nature.

     Drew... do you... love him?

     He didn't dare ask aloud. In case he got an answer he sorely did not want to hear.

     'Come on then, come sit down,' Joe motioned back towards his sitting room. 'I'll make us some fresh coffee and we can wait for him to get back. He shouldn't be long.'

     Now, he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Drew or convince himself. After coaxing the large Scotsman down onto his couch, Joe disappeared into the sanctity of his kitchen. He went through his breathing exercises, old, familiar routines that had become second nature to him by now but at that moment, they weren't working. His hands were still shaking. His mind replaying that moment he'd seen Punk go down in the cage. Only when Joe rushed to his side, his eyes were still shut. His hair was short and speckled with greys, the wrinkles on his face more pronounced. And blood began flowing from his nose and mouth...

     Joe rapidly made the coffees and returned to Drew. With someone else to take care of, he could occupy his anxiety. The pair sat quietly, the coffee turning cold in their untouched cups.

     'I should have moved out of here months ago.'

     Joe didn't know what prompted him to speak. Perhaps just a need to break the stifling silence before it suffocated him completely. 'Told myself it was only for a little while. A month or two. Just to make sure he was alright.'

     Drew's blue eyes were on him, still large with worry. He couldn't bring himself to look at them. 'I just...  never did. I'm still lingering on... still stuck. Like I was when we were together.

     'We both agreed that when we got older, started to wind down, we'd retire and move back to SoCal. Punk was champion at the time but he told me that once he lost the belt, we'd talk again. He loses it. We don't talk. We spend two years together in semi-retirement, two amazing, blissful years... then he says he wants another shot. I'm disappointed but, I love him, I support him. So yes, go for it. I've got your back.

     'He gets injured. I'm devastated for him but I'm also hoping, deep down, that maybe this time, we could look into new places. He says not now. His doctor is here, his surgeon is here, his PT is here. Fair enough, his foot was badly broken and I want him to heal so... 

     'He gets better. He says he had unfinished business. He needs to win his championship back. We fight. I give in and say ok. So he enters the cage. Tears his tricep. I say now, come on, this is a sign. You're over. You're done. He walks out. He's gone all night and I'm frantically calling the cops thinking he's done something stupid but he it turns out, he was just at Ace's and I'm so fucking angry with him. I call him a selfish motherfucker and every other curse under the sun. I get it all out of my system and I calm down. I tell him we'll stay until his tricep is healed. He says ok. And that's that.'

     Joe sniffed loudly. He had no idea he'd been crying. Drew is looking at him with so much pity it hurts.

     'Then he starts talking about one last chance. He just needs one last run and... it suddenly dawns on me. He was never gonna leave. Fighting is all he's ever cared about, it's all he's ever had. Nothing else will ever compare to it.' Joe took a deep gulp, wet tears spilling down his cheeks. 'Not even me.'

     Drew dips his head, levels his eyes to the ground to give Joe some space to release his grief.

     'So I left him. He didn't take it well. He was angry at first but when he realised I wasn't joking, he spiralled into this black hole. I've never seen him so bad. So I got this place, said I'd be around if he needed me, help him get back on his feet. And here I am, nearly eight months later and I'm still just sitting here in limbo. Still waiting... for him.'

     Punk awoke to a world of groggy pain. His head felt like it was on the brink of bursting like a gory balloon, the swelling pushing into the back of his eyes. There was a ringing in his ear, a high pitched screech like the kind he'd have after seeing a local punk rock band play, the terrible noise adding fuel to his throbbing headache. 

     His vision was blurry but he recognised his sitting room, which was a small comfort, even if he was viewing it from a unfamiliar angle. However, the fear started up when he spied the stranger pacing in front of his large windows. Not the tall, dark-haired angel with the blue eyes that he'd scooped up off the street but one with a fierce grimace and a long, dark military coat that snapped every time he turned around. 

     He didn't seem to notice Punk in the room with him, so the cage-fighter took the opportunity to slink away but found to his horror that he was stuck fast. Looking up, he discovered both of his arms were tied firmly to the balusters of his staircase. A loud sting on his brow bellowed, making him wince against the stickiness of dried blood smearing his face from forehead to jaw.

     His heart kicked up several notches, finally understanding the terrible danger he was in. A plight that only got worse when another figure entered his apartment - the blonde cop from earlier, now sporting an impressive black eye that Punk guessed was his own handiwork. The blonde began talking in a foreign language (it sounded European, German perhaps?) when the huge man cut him off.

     'In English, Ludwig.' Then he looked directly at Punk. He wanted him to hear!

     The blonde - Ludwig - cleared his throat and started over. 'I've wrapped Giovanni's body in the tarpaulin and stored it in the van, General. Thatcher is on his way to dispose of it.'

     'Good,' the other man said, never taking his eyes off of Punk. The cage-fighter tugged weakly at his bonds, trying to break free but they had no give at all. 

     'Do not struggle,' the large man ordered, his voice punching right through Punk's aching skull. 'Do not fight, or you will join Giovanni at the bottom of the lake.' Punk stopped, but only because he could see it was useless. He would have to think of another way out of this predicament. 'Ludwig?'

     The blonde took over, stepping smartly towards Punk with his hands behind his back and a smug air of superiority. 'You will answer my questions. Once you do, we will leave and you will never see us again.'

     Yeah, right! Punk wasn't buying it.

     'Where is the Scotsman?'

     Punk glared back with gritted teeth and was punished with a brutal back-hand to his cheek. His head snapped to the side as Ludwig repeated the question again. 'Where is the Scotsman?'

     'Don't know,' Punk said, running his tongue over his teeth to make sure they were all still there, well, except for the one that was already missing. 'Guy took one look at the mess you made in here and took off. Haven't seen him since.'

     Another blow, a harsh slap to his other cheek. 'I know you are lying.'

     'You don't know shit.'

     A punch this time and fuck, that hurt! Almost knocked Punk's jaw right out of joint. 

     'No more to the face, Ludwig,' the larger man warned with a growl. The blonde replied with a 'yes, General' and continued his interrogation.

     'We know you left together early this afternoon. Where is he now?'

     Punk allowed himself a small glimmer of hope that they hadn't seen them going to Joe's place.  'I told ya already, I don't know,' Punk retorted.

     Ludwig punched Punk right in the gut. The bruises from his earlier fight with Giovanni exploded like cluster bombs, spreading bursts of pain throughout his abdomen. With his arms pinned above him, Punk couldn't bend over to relieve the pressure and had to endure the horrific cramping in his gut, trying to breath through the agony in short, jagged pants.

     'I expect the truth this time. Where is the Scotsman?'

     'Fuck you,' Punk croaked. Another gut punch and Punk started coughing up blood again. That was the least of his worries. Ludwig had turned his attention to Punk's left hand. One-by-one, he tapped each of the cage-fighters inked digits, all of them turning blue from the tightness of the rope wrapped around his wrists. 

     'Ene mene miste,' Ludwig muttered under his breath. 'Es rippelt in der kiste, ene mene meck, und du bist weg.' He settled on Punk's pinkie finger and held it taut in his fist. Punk only managed to grab a breath before his finger was bent back fiercely, breaking the fragile joint with a loud snap! Punk screamed, his face twisted with the shock and pain while neither of his captors blinked an eye.

     'Where is the Scotsman? Or I break another.'

     'Ok, ok,' Punk hissed between his teeth. 'I get it. Look.' He motioned upwards with his head, Ludwig followed his gaze. 'You see this one?'

     Punk stuck up his middle finger. 

     Unamused, Ludwig snagged it in his fist.

     Snap!

     'AAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH!'

     'Where is the Scotsman?'

     Punk spat at his captor in reply, hurling a large, wet glob of blood and spit that splattered across his face and dripped down his cheek. The smug, calm mask evaporated, a tight snarl took over and Ludwig grabbed Punk by the jugular, cutting off his air supply. 

     'I still have eight of your fingers left to break then I will move on to another piece of you and break it too. Now, tell me. Where is the Scotsman?'

     Punk struggled to gasp in a breath, his face turning scarlet.

     'Ludwig!' 

     The blonde stood down at the order and stepped away, keeping his cold, hard stare on Punk who coughed and spluttered, trying to heave some oxygen into his empty lungs. Clawing dread tore down his spine him when the larger man stepped forward and he knew his dire situation was about to get far, far worse.

     'I knew you would be a tough one to break,' the so-called 'General' said in his brash accent. He was holding something in his hands, large and shiny. Punk recognised his old championship belt in its glass case. 'You're a fighter? A champion. Me too, back home in Austria. I defended it all over Europe. Retired unbeaten.'

     Before Punk could blink, the man rushed at him, glass case raised above his head like a club. Holding his breath, Punk braced himself for the blow, stuck fast as the titan thundered towards him. Punk yelped as the case smashed directly above his head and shards of glass fell like hail onto his bloodied face and shoulders, getting stuck in his hair. 

     But there was no pain. It hadn't touched him - just a ploy to scare him. 

     And it had worked!

     Punk trembled from head to foot, creaking his eyes open again to find the General looming over him, blood dripping from the hand where the glass had sliced his skin. He didn't even seem to notice.

     'Now tell me where my slave is?'

     'Your... your what?'

     The bloodied hand grabbed Punk by the chin, smearing fresh blood through his beard. 'The Scot. Where is he?'

     Something about hearing that word being used to describe Drew, confirming the fears that Punk knew deep down but was loathe to admit, ignited the cage-fighter's rage and he stared down his tormentor with his brow furrowed and teeth bared. 

     'Fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch!'

     The General stared back stoically, unmoved by Punk's outburst. His gruesome hand trickled down from Punk's jaw to the collar of his shirt and shredded the fabric, slicing it down the middle like he was gutting a wriggling fish. The painted skin of Punk's chest was exposed and examined expertly, the General placing his finger right on the centre between Punk's pecs. 

     Then he drew back his hand...

     Every single muscle in Punk's body tensed up.

     The blow sent him crashing against his own staircase, his spine colliding with the hard wood. Any air he had gulped back into his lungs were flushed out and Punk felt himself begin to suffocate. He was given no opportunity for respite, blow after blow pounding against his battered torso, cracking a new rib with each brutal strike.

     By the time the onslaught finally came to an end, Punk hung like a mangled piece of meat from the butcher's hook, mouth drooping open as his shattered chest tried to catch air. Each raspy breath stung like a knife slicing between his ribs. His chin was grabbed again, fingers digging into his jawbone.

     'How about now? Now, will you tell me where my slave is?'

     Despite the fear, despite the pain, Punk laughed. A loud, obnoxious laugh. 'You empty-headed fucking dumb fuck!' he sneered in his tormentor's face. 'You really think this is working? You have no fucking idea. I'm from the cage. I know pain! I've broken my fucking fingers during a fight and kept on punching. Whatever you dish out, I can take.'

     The General tilted his head back, narrowing his eyes.

     'But the more you hurt me, the more you convince me...' a glob of blood dribbled from Punk's lips, sticky crimson staining his teeth, 'that I'm never gonna let your ugly ass take him again.' He paused to grab a strangled breath, letting his words sink in. 'So I guess, you're just gonna have to kill me, because I'm never gonna tell you where he is.'

     The hold on his chin became unbearable and Punk tried to calm his stampeding heart, waiting for the end to come. 

     But then... his captor began to chuckle. 'You hear that Ludwig? He said to kill him. He makes the orders now.' The blonde gave a snide grin but nothing more. 'No, no, no, no,' the General shook his head. 'No, I am the one in charge here.' He pulled Punk in close, so close the cage-fighter could smell his foul breath. 'And I don't want to kill you. I actually quite like you. You're a lot of fun. I think we should have more fun together, do you agree?'

     The General placed his thumb against Punk's lips, pressed them through and into his mouth. Punk could taste the acidy tang of the other man's blood on his tongue as the strange digit hooked itself around his bottom teeth. 

     'You won't tell me where I can find my slave? Fine! Then you will take his place.'

Chapter Text

     Joe's shoulder was squeezed and he glanced up to find Drew looking mournfully down at him. 'Oh,' he shuffled in his seat, feeling a little embarrassed all of a sudden, 'uh, thanks.'

     Drew rubbed his fist back and forth over his heart, his brows furrowed. I'm sorry.

     'Look, I didn't mean to... I know that what Punk did for you was...' Another squeeze told Joe that it was ok then the Scotsman sat on the floor next to Joe's legs. Pulling his knees up, he wrapped his large, hairy arms around them and set his chin down, looking like a sad dog waiting for its owner to return. The image was so vivid that Joe nearly patted the Scot's head, but he caught himself in time and the pair sat in silence, the minutes ticking by.

     When the waiting became unbearable, Joe turned on the television. It was some kind of late night show - he didn't care which exactly - but it made the room feel less empty for the pair of them. Staring blankly at the screen, they both twitched at any sound from the street outside but it was only a passing car now and again.

     Eventually, there was a tug at Joe's trouser leg and Drew tapped an invisible watch on his wrist. His face said it all. 'Yeah, you're right,' Joe admitted. 'He's been too long. Let's go look for him.'

     The two men leapt up to their feet and Joe shoved on his jacket, only for Drew to tap him on the shoulder. 'Yeah?' The Scotsman lightly grasped the lapel and pointed to his chest. It was then that Joe noticed the bright blue colour 'Oh, oh yeah, right, you were wearing that,' he shrugged off the jacket he had returned to Punk that morning and handed it over to Drew. 'Stupid thing always looked dumb on me anyway.' He gave a short-lived chuckle as the Scot pulled his arms through the sleeves. 'Suits you though,' he admitted with a sigh.

     Quickly locating his own jacket, the pair headed out into the night in search of Punk.

     The cage-fighter was locked in a cage.

     Surely there was some level of grim irony to that statement that Punk could find a crumb of humour in? If he wasn't so beaten and worn down. And scared.

     He lay on his side, struggling to keep conscious as he shivered against the cold. The dog cage was cramped; he couldn't lie flat with his legs stretched nor sit upright without his head colliding with the steel bars. So instead, he lay in the fetal position, knees bunched up to his chest to try and generate some warmth into his shattered body.

     He had no idea where they'd brought him. The room was bare and hard and cold. Like some kind of engine room or something, long abandoned. All stone walls and concrete floors. Silence. Not even the pipes above rattled. And there was no noise from the outside world, no honking of traffic or stamping of feet or wail of sirens. Just empty silence. Except for the occasional squeak of a mouse... oh god, he hoped it was a mouse! 

     He'd woken up in this room. They'd kept him heavily sedated during the whole journey here. Then, as he wobbled back into the real world, his wrists cuffed and his mouth tightly gagged, they'd removed every piece of his clothing, exposing him to the frigid air. Punk could barely keep his eyes straight as that blonde bastard, Ludwig, held him upright, wrenching his hands up by his ear. So that the General may examine him.

    He'd been awake enough for that! But too weak to fight back. Even his own neck had struggled to keep his chin up while rough fingers assaulted every crevice of his body. Poking inside his mouth, scraping down his torso, pinching and twisting their way down his hips and thighs and back up again. Kneading, fondling, squeezing him between his legs, while Punk grunted feebly in protest.

     Then he felt a thick finger sliding down beneath him and he found enough strength to jerk away, tightening his cheeks to stave off the invasion. His resistance was punished by another horrific chop to his already bloodied chest and he crumpled, a marionette with its strings cut, to the floor.

     He lost the battle but won the war. The examination stopped there. But he was under no illusion. Why rush? When they had the cage-fighter imprisoned and at their disposal, a toy to play with at their leisure. 

     Punk bit down on the cloth gag between his teeth, hoping he could gnaw right through. Use his voice to scream for help. But they had stolen every weapon away from him, including his hands, which were encased in leather mitts and locked tight with duct tape. At least they'd set and strapped his broken fingers - a small mercy - but he felt the loss all the same. He had vowed to free Drew with his fists, but now they were compromised, utterly useless. He couldn't even scratch an itch.

     A gust of cold air rushed him and Punk bunched up tighter, feeling the slack waistband of his black briefs slipping down. After they had coaxed the scant underwear onto him earlier, the General had tied the collar around his neck. Gently, like draping a delicate gold chain around his lover's dainty neck. Then took a moment to pause and savour the sight of his new pet... before strapping on the muzzle! The same muzzle that Punk had removed from Drew, the same one that had been left on his table as a warning, the same one that had sat in a pool of rancid blood. He could smell it as it was fixed tight around his head, the iron tang that alarmed the reptilian part of his brain.

     They'd then rammed him into the dog cage and locked it tight, leaving him alone in the dark, strange room. And Punk had lay there since, exhausted, miserable and in pain, staring at his impotent fists as if his gaze along could shred the leather and break them free.

     When it suddenly hit him like a fallen tree! This was where they had kept Drew! This had been his cage and if Punk found it cramped then how the hell had a man of Drew's size survived all those years in here? These were his briefs which was why they fitted so poorly. This was his muzzle, that had silenced his voice for so long he'd forgotten how to even use it. 

     And these were his mitts. For when the isolation had become too much and he had painstakingly taught himself a new way to communicate, they'd stolen that away from him too. Punk's heart split in two at the discovery. Monsters! he cursed to himself. Fucking monsters!

     But, at least, Drew would be safe. Now that they had somebody else to torment. He thought of the Scotsman waiting for him back at Joe's and-

     A howl tore through Punk. Joe! Punk had told him he'd be right back, he'd promised he would be right back. The last thing he'd ever said to Joe was a lie. 

     But then, wasn't it just the latest in a string of lies and empty promises he'd made to the man he was supposed to love? 

     His bruised eyes began to water. He tried to bat them away but his mitted fist butted against the mesh of his muzzle. 

     Curling up tighter, he screwed his shut and tried to sleep, finding some tiny glimmer of solace in the fact that with him locked up in this cage, both Drew and Joe finally had a chance to be free.

     Joe felt sick. It had been one thing to hear that Punk's place had been trashed but another thing entirely to see if for himself. Literally everything that wasn't fixed down had been targeted. And it hurt! To see the home they had built together lying in ruins- the petrol blue crockery they had picked smashed on the floor, the painting Joe had commissioned for the anniversary of their first date ripped from the wall, the couch they'd cuddled on to watch movies together shredded and gutted.

     If Joe was a more poetic man, he'd have seen some kind of metaphor in the wreckage. Instead, he focused on finding Punk.

     A whine caught his attention. It had come from Drew who was signing wildly with distress in the sitting area. Joe couldn't decipher what he meant when he swiped his open right hand over his left but from the way he touched his index and middle finger to the area by his eye and down, he guessed he found something.

     'What is it?'

     Drew answered with the first sign again, accompanied by another fearful whine. Joe rushed over and immediately spotted the large, gruesome stain on the carpet at the foot of the stairs. Blood! 

     'Oh shit, is that-? Was that there before?'

     Drew trembled his head from side-to-side. The feeling of nausea worsened. 

     'Maybe it's not his,' Joe desperately clutched at straws. 'Maybe, he didn't even come back here.' He turned away from the grotesque sight, trying to stop himself from retching. 'Maybe it's-'

     But he stopped. Words trapped in his mouth. Stumbling on heavy legs, light-headed and dizzy, he bent down to snatch up a crumpled bundle of black fabric. He opened it out and his knees almost buckled beneath him. It was Punk's hoodie. The one he had been wearing when he had taken off from Joe's house into the night!

     'No,' he choked out. 'Oh no, no.. Phil, please no!'

     He fell onto the couch, burying his face in the fabric. He could smell Punk on it, and a thousand memories sprinted through his head. A thousand memories falling into a thousand regrets. He should never have let him leave. He should have grabbed hold of him and stopped him. Fucking choked him out even. Whatever it took to get him to stay.

     But now, he was...

     A harsh knock interrupted his grief and Joe looked behind him to find Drew rapping his knuckles against the wooden dining table to get his attention. 'What is it?' Drew was pointing at the middle of the table. Another blood stain? What did it mean?

     'I... I don't under-'

     Drew placed his hand over his mouth, fingers splayed like a mask or cage or-? Then he pointed to the centre of the table again. To the blood.

     Joe shook his head helplessly. He couldn't follow and Drew was getting frustrated. The Scot banged his fist against the table and took a pause. Joe gripped Punk's hoodie tight to his chest.

     Eventually, Drew straightened up and walked over to Joe, holding his hand to the side of his head. 'My phone? Yes, I have my phone.' Drew started signing, motions that were somehow weirdly familiar, like Joe had seen them before. 

     Like that very morning!     

     D. R. E. W.

     'Yes! Yes, I understand!' Joe grabbed his phone and pulled up the tab with the BSL alphabet, still open from earlier that day. 'Ok. Go!'

     Drew's eyes were shimmering wild and blue as he stroked his thumb over his chest in a circle of eight. 'Punk, yes,' Joe nodded his head, focused. Then Drew touched his thumbs together. Right index finger lying across his left palm. Then it moved to the tip of his left middle finger. Right index and middle finger splayed out on his right palm. And finally right index touching the tip of his left index.

     A.

     L.

     I.

     V.

     E.

     'Punk's... alive?!'

     Cat paw! Cat paw! Cat paw! 

     'How do you know?'

     Drew whacked the side of his open hand against his palm then pointed to his chest. The look in his eye said it all. Trust me!

     'Then we have to call the cops! They can help us find-'

     Frantic head shake! 

     'But-'

     Trust me!

     Joe felt lost. 'So what do we do? We don't even know where he is?'

     Cat paw...

     Wait! Cat paw?

     'You do?' Cat paw again. But there was a terror in his eyes, a fear he was failing miserably to hide. 'Oh... I see. You don't need to come. You can just tell me and I can-'

     Drew shook his head, a steely determination in the way he set his jaw.

     'Ok then,' Joe drew his own courage to steady his frayed nerves. 'Let's go.'

     The bed was soft and warm. Sheets fresh, a bright white. He could still smell the detergent on them. Early morning sunlight softly swayed in through the curtains, the melody of birdsong. 

     Two large arms were snug around him, holding him tight. Firm. They'd never let him go. Never.

     Punk sighed sweetly and turned to cuddle closer into Joe's chest. 

     Only... it wasn't Joe!

     Two beautiful blue eyes glistened sleepily at him and Punk's heart began to sing as brilliantly as the birds outside his window. His lips broke into a dreamy smile as the arms heaved him in, a protective shield to keep him safe. He could feel the soft strands of Drew's chest hair tickling his cheek, hear his deep, even breaths. Feel his soft lips on his forehead as he kissed him lovingly.

     Bang!

     Punk's eyes sprung open and in an instant, he lost everything. The warmth, the safety, the joy!

     He was back in the dog cage. Cold and alone. 

     But the image of Drew holding him lingered like a ghost in the air beside him. A vision he longed to grasp with both hands but was vanishing fast.

     They were both looming over him, the General smiling cruelly while Ludwig set to work unlocking the padlock that held his cage door shut. The last remnants of his dream about Drew faded but they were enough to give him the focus he needed. He had to get out of here!

     The padlock snapped open. The instant it was removed, Punk struck. Smashing his bare sole against the cage door, it went flying back into Ludwig's already bruised face, sending him sprawling onto his back. Punk wasted no time in shuffling out the cage and went to run but found his path blocked by the imposing figure of the General himself. 

     Punk stood his ground, glaring venomously at his captor when Ludwig struggled back to his feet and cut off his retreat from behind. Punk was trapped, surrounded on either side by his kidnappers.  

     'Go on,' the General sneered, enjoying the hate radiating off the cage-fighter. 

     Punk's hands and wrists were bound... but his feet were not! He rushed forward, lifting up his arms to fool his opponent into thinking he was going to punch then swiped with his foot, smashing it into the side of the General's knee. The larger man began to buckle so Punk kept up the assault, repeatedly targeting the joint until a meat of a fist came straight for him and he was forced to retreat. Rolling under the punch, Punk popped up behind the General and crunched his heel into the back of his knee. The larger man went down with a cry.

     Out the corner of his eye, Punk saw Ludwig making a move so he threw his bound arms around the General's neck, wrenching them back until the short chain of his cuffs cut into the larger man's throat. The blonde stopped, snarling like a vicious dog on the end of a taut leash. Punk jerked harder, his arms trembling from the effort when he spied a huge hand reaching up for him. He pulled away, out of its reach. 

     But forgot about the muzzle!

     Thick fingers curled around the bars of mesh and yanked. Punk was wrestled down to the ground like a bull caught by the horns, kicking and bucking until a heavy boot stepped onto his neck. And began to press down. 

     'Give in,' he was ordered but Punk kept fighting, trying to wriggle free as the boot crushed down harder and he struggled to breath. 'Give in!'

     His oxygen was cut off. Then flashes of black light began to take over his vision and he contemplated letting them finish him off, stop short the stupid game they were playing with him. 

     But then he thought of Drew, his sad blue eyes and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. The way he signed Punk's name with a shy blush on his cheek. He thought of the kiss they'd shared the day before, the one that had been so achingly brief and how badly he wanted to try it again. Without feeling so conflicted this time. Savour it and enjoy it.

     If he died, he would never get the chance. 

     That hurt!

     So he tapped.

     'Good boy.' The boot was lifted from his throat and Punk gasped in a series of painful breaths. 

     He was hauled up off the floor and up, the chain linking his cuffs strung onto a hook suspended from the ceiling. His feet couldn't find the ground below; the hook was calibrated for Drew's height. Glancing down, Punk wasn't surprised to find the tattered remain of a chain sunk into the ground. The other half had been removed from Drew's ankle that very morning. So it was here, he surmised, it was right here that you wrenched yourself free. If Drew could do it, then surely Punk could too... right?

     The General was chuckling, barely breaking a sweat from their scuffle. 'I said you would be fun, did I not?' he mocked. 'You're smarter than I expected. But not smart enough.' The larger man stepped in close and began tracing his thick finger over the waves on Punk's chest, just like Drew had done. Only when the Scotsman did it, Punk's skin broke out in sweet shivers of electricity. When the General did it, his gut began to knot and twist.

     'I don't approve of these,' his captor said, his finger trailing up the serpent by Punk's armpit. 'The body is a temple. We don't graffiti our temples.' He looked down, stabbing his digit into Punk's heaving diaphragm. 'But this one... I had to look up what 'straight edge' means. Is it right that you don't drink or smoke or take any kind of drug? I like that. You are a man of discipline. I like discipline.'

     Punk scrunched up the bridge of his nose. Something about the way he'd said that last sentence disturbed him. 

     'Is it also right that once you break your sobriety, you are no longer considered 'straight edge'?' He held out his hand and Ludwig passed him a bottle of what looked like vodka. Punk's stomach lurched. The General said no more as he twisted the cap off and threw it aside, while Ludwig removed Punk's muzzle. 

     Punk tried to thrash his way loose but the back of his head was gripped tight and the neck of the bottle forcibly shoved into his mouth, rammed over the cloth gag and right to the back of his throat. Fire poured out, igniting the walls of his gullet all the way down deep inside of him. He tried to cry out but his voice gurgled on the poison. He panicked, choking, struggling to draw in breath. Drowning. He was fucking drowning! 

     'Breathe through your nose,' he was ordered, the voice cold and unfeeling as he writhed in agony, bare feet clawing at thin air. Tears began streaming down his cheeks as he spluttered, globs of wet spray misting from around the large, blunt implement lodged between his open lips. Dribbles of alcohol-infused drool slipping down his chin. Stop! Fucking stop! I can't breath! I can't-

     'Breathe through your nose!' The order was given again, harsher. Punk obeyed. Breathing in as deep as he could, just like Joe had taught him. Tried not to think of the horrific reaction his body was having to the noxious fluid, the way his stomach was cramping badly and... oh shit!

     He threw up. Vomit battering against the tide of alcohol gushing down his throat. He no longer knew what was coming up or going down. He tried to breath. Focus on fucking breathing!

     The torture continued. The bottle emptied down his throat. Toxic fumes stinging his nasal passage, acid stripping the lining from his oesophagus. The venom sitting in the pit of his belly like a nest of fire ants.

     Finally, the bottle was removed. Punk's guts heaved up everything he'd been force-fed, clear bile cascading down his naked chest and legs and splattering onto the concrete floor below. Chunks caught in the back of his gag, filling his mouth, sitting on his tongue. The stench of vodka and puke overwhelming his senses.

     Through his watery vision, Punk saw the General place the soiled bottle neck into his own mouth and tip it back, gulping down the dredges of vodka. Keeping his hard gaze locked onto his captive, the larger man swirled the alcohol around his cheeks like mouth wash.

     Then grabbed Punk again. Locked his mouth tight over Punk's gagged lips. And spat the last of the vodka in. 

     His chin was tilted back, their mouths sealed together. His exhausted body swallowed it down. 

     And kept it down.

     His mouth was eventually released but the grip on his chin remained. 'See? How easy it is to break your discipline? Your spirit will soon follow.' Punk's shoulders jerked feebly as he tried to clear his ruined passageways. 'Now, since you are no longer straight edge, you won't be needing that ugly graffiti anymore, you agree?'

     Punk's skin began to crawl. 

     His torment had only just begun...

Chapter Text

     Drew was hurting bad. Heart pounding, muscles aching, every breath coming in hard and ragged. Fresh blood slid over his hot skin, drenched with sweat. And everything hurt! Just like it always did at this point in the fight. When both combatants were starting to tire in the deep waters, each man balancing precariously somewhere between victory... and death!

     The crowd were feral tonight. Voices a riot of high-pitched shrieks blasting in his ears. They were all around him as Drew tried to back away from his opponent, suffocating him, grabbing at him, slapping him on the back and shoulders. Whacking against his open wounds, their palms coming away red and wet.

     The chain rattled, dangling from his wrist, connecting him to the man hellbent on slaughtering him. Somewhere in the bout, his opponent had yanked the chain hard and Drew had heard a loud crack. He wasn't sure if his wrist was broken or just badly sprained but he knew his whole hand had swollen up like a boxing glove. He couldn't even curl his fingers into a fist. 

    His opponent began pulling on the chain tethering them again, luring Drew in like an exhausted fish on a hook. Smiling as he bit down on the hunting knife between his teeth, the same one he'd used to slice through Drew's skin. The Scotsman had been able to fend off any major blows so far but he was growing weary, ground down and hurting. One mistake, one strike through his defences was all it would take.

     Drew's bare feet skidded across the floor, failing to find grounding in the macabre tug-of-war. His opponent's features becoming clearer, the mad glee in his eye as he yanked the battered Scot closer. The knife was removed from his teeth and held aloft. A last wrench and Drew was within reach of his blade. A clean stab to the neck and the much larger man would be finished.

     But Drew struck first, smashing his forehead against the fragile cartilage of his opponent's nose. A catastrophic headbutt that they ironically called a 'Glasgow Kiss' back home. The other man crumpled in a wail of pain and seeping blood. Drew saw his chance and grabbed up the chain, wrapping it around his foe's neck and pulling it tight. 

     Tap! His mind screamed, pleaded with the other man. For the love of God, please tap! He couldn't endure another name, another face added to his kill list. Another soul weighing down his guilt. Tap! Please tap! Please!

     But his thoughts did not get through to his opponent who went limp in his arms, his face a deep shade of purple. At the first sign of unconsciousness, Drew released him, let him flop onto his back. The MC stepped forward, took one look at the unresponsive fighter and declared Drew the winner to a din of mixed reactions from the mob around him. Some cheering for their wins, other protesting their losses, some baying for Drew's blood themselves.

     Yet the whole time, he watched his beaten foe. Waiting for movement. Breathe! Breathe!

     A hand pressed against the middle of his chest and pushed him back. Pushed him away from the limp body before he could confirm there was still a pulse beating within it. Wheeler Yuta quickly unlocked the metal cuff from around Drew's puffy wrist then grabbed his arm and escorted him away from the growingly agitated crowd.

     'Good fight,' Yuta hushed out softly. 'Good win.' Drew liked Yuta, he was a good kid, but he could already see the change taking over him. The bruises on his face like a poison slowly sinking in. The other members of the Blackpool Combat Club had a particularly nasty method of hazing their newest recruits. They said it was to toughen them up, but really it was to bring them in line. Softness and sympathy were not welcome traits in their gang.

     Drew looked forward to returning to his cell downstairs, where hopefully a warm meal and his bunk would be waiting for him after the medic had stitched him up. However, he wasn't ushered towards the side door leading to the steps, instead he was taken to Mr Regal's table.

     Fingers of terror gripped the Scotsman. What did Regal want with him? Had he been disappointed with his fight? But... Drew had won! It had been a tough battle but he had come out victorious, that had to count for something, surely? His heart kicked like a mule against his ribs as he was lead up into Regal's private booth and came to a halt a foot from the large table, laden with fine food and drink. Instinctively, he sank down onto his creaking knees, his head bowed low for his master. 

     'That'll be all, Yuta.' The soft grip left his shoulder with a squeeze and Drew had to stop the terrified whine from bubbling up his throat. He began to tremble, a feeling like a noose tightening around his neck.

     'Is this him?' Another voice piped up. One that Drew had never heard before.

     'This is the man in question,' Regal answered, his voice flowing with easy charm. 'Scotsman. Six foot five and two hundred and sixty five pounds. Dark hair. Blue eyes.' Why was he reeling off his attributes like that? Like he was selling a used car?

     'Can I have a closer look?'

     'Be my guest.'

     Drew heard a sharp whistle and glanced up to find a grim-faced man pointing to the floor in front of him. Realising he was being beckoned over, the Scotsman went to stand when the stranger shook his head. 'No, don't get up.'

     Drew didn't understand. He turned to Regal for help but the Englishman was glaring sternly at him. Do as you're fucking told! So Drew did what he thought he was being told. He crawled on all fours! Ass up, back arched, like a whipped dog. Feeling a burning in his cheeks from the humiliation.

     'Good boy.' The stranger's mocking made it worse. 

     Drew struggled, his bad wrist was weak and unable to support him on one side. No matter what he did he couldn't hide it. The stranger immediately clocked the injury but said nothing.

     Once he'd reached his destination, Drew's chin was grabbed and tilted back. The large man loomed above him, menacing. 'Hmm, pretty,' he noted, his tone cranking up Drew's dread. A thick thumb wormed its way between his lips, pushed down on his bottom teeth to open his mouth up wide for him to inspect. Now Drew was starting to panic!

     'Is he well behaved?' the man asked as he poked his fingers down the back of his throat, making him gag.

     'Hmm-mm,' Regal nodded, taking a sip of his red wine. 'Very. We haven't had any trouble from this one. He's a good fighter too, strong and-'

     'I don't need him to fight,' the man interrupted. Then what? Drew pleaded internally, what do you want with me?

     'Stand,' the man commanded and Drew shakily got up to his feet, silencing any grunts of pain as his fresh wounds flared. However, he had no such luck with his heartbeat, which drummed loudly in his chest. 

    A pounding that became deafening when large hands stroked down his flanks and rested on his hips. Drew flinched when the fingers hooked into the waistband of his fight shorts and yanked down, dragging them all the way to his ankles. Quickly, he covered himself with his bloodied hands but both of his wrists were captured in a vice-like grip and torn apart. 'Hands behind your back!' 

     The fire in Drew's cheeks roared red hot as he glanced around the audience looking on, piqued by that morbid curiosity that afflicts all animals when they spy one of their own being devoured by a predator. On one side was Regal and his two right-hand men, Mox and Claudio, while on the other, Regal's guest had two men of his own, one blonde, the other bald. Six pairs of eyes on him, twelve eyes staring as the man's large hand slid between his legs and cupped his genitals in its palm, feeling the weight of them like they were a sack of gold.

     'Yes, very nice.'

     A shriek tore through the air, making Drew jump. The man had shoved back his chair and was now getting to his feet, Drew's cock and balls still trapped in his grasp. He stood to his full height, only an inch shorter than the tall Scotsman and locked his fierce eyes onto Drew's startled blues. He said nothing, only began to knead the fragile flesh in his hand and watched as his victim squirmed. 

     Then slapped Drew hard across the face!

     The Scotsman reeled from the blow, grunting as the hold on his groin tightened, forcing him to keep his feet.

     'What are you going to do?' The stranger asked with a mocking sneer. 'Are you going to hit me back?'

     Slowly, Drew turned his face back around, teeth grit and intense blue eyes glistening through the threads of his long, damp hair, glaring defiantly. Betraying the fact that Regal had oversold just how 'well-behaved' his prisoner was.

     The stranger squeezed him viciously between the legs, giving a slight twist to remind the Scotsman he had full control over him. Drew ruefully backed down and kept his clenched fists behind his back, trying to ignore the stranger's other hand wrapping around him to stroke down his shoulder blades, finding the groove of his spine and following the trail down, down, down.

    'Has he...' the man paused, mulling over his words, '..been broken in already?'

     Regal didn't even look up from his meal as he asked Drew, 'have you ever been fucked up the arse?'

     Drew gaped, blue eyes wide and round with shock. Thinking of nights when the drink had flowed too freely among the guards, when they huddled together and chose a cell at random. It often took two or three to hold him down while another-

     Drew lowered his head in shame, lifted up his fist. Gave an anguished cat paw.

     'What was that?' the man asked, suspiciously.

     'He said yes,' Regal explained matter-of-factly. 'We don't permit our prisoners to speak. Instead they must learn sign language for when we need them to communicate. British sign language. That way they can't go spilling their sob stories to some nosy, sympathetic yank.'

     'I see,' the man replied, thoughtfully. 'So he doesn't speak?'

     'Shouldn't do. Is that a problem?'

     The grim lips tightened. Considering. 

     The hand holding his genitals finally let go. Only to lightly grab hold of his injured wrist and coax it from behind his back, bringing it up to Drew's chest height. With one hand on Drew's wrist, the other seizing him by the base of his fingers, the stranger slowly twisted the inflamed hand. It began to throb, it took all of Drew's fortitude not to let the discomfort show. Nothing more than a slight twitch of his eye.

     But the man continued, prising Drew's swollen hand further back. The pain grew, getting worse until Drew couldn't hide it anymore, his lips pursing, the bridge of his nose crinkling. Yet, still he kept on winding it back on itself, cold eyes boring into his, waiting, knowing he would get the result he wanted if he was only patient.

     And finally, when he snapped Drew's injured hand back at a terrible angle, the stranger won his victory. Drew let out a wail of distress as the pain shot through his entire arm. As soon as he did, his wrist was released and Drew fell to his knees, clutching his throbbing hand to his chest protectively.

     'No. It's not a problem at all,' the stranger replied to Regal's earlier query, smiling down at the quivering Scot at his feet. He barked out an order in a foreign language and the blonde man stepped forward, placing a black briefcase on the table and sliding it across towards Regal, who opened it eagerly. 'As we agreed.'

     'A quick inspection, if I may?'

     'Go ahead. If you don't mind me doing the same.' 

     Thick fingers entangled in Drew's hair and yanked him up to his feet. He was shoved belly first onto the table, the hand in his hair holding his cheek flat against the hard wood while, behind him, the stranger wetted two of his fingers in his mouth. 

     Panic grabbed hold of Drew and shook him viciously. Trying to snap him out of his stupor while a huge thigh punched between his legs and drove them apart. Everybody was watching, everybody was looking. Not even Claudio had the decency to turn away as his cheeks were split open and a chunky, slick finger probed between them. 

     Except Regal. The one man he needed to look at him at that moment.

     The finger forced its way in and Drew squealed.

     Still Regal refused to look his way.

     He had to get him to look at him!

     Drew freed his hand trapped beneath him and loudly rapped his knuckles against the tabletop until his master glanced up from the stack of money in the briefcase towards him. Pinned facedown, Drew couldn't get the full motion he needed but he was able to get his point across. His flat palm, flying from his chest like a bird. A finger pointed at Regal, making the sign of a 'x' in the air.

     'Yes,' Regal said, closing the case with a snap. 'I did promise you your freedom, didn't I?'

     Drew's blue eyes looked up pleadingly at his master, gasping as another finger probed deep inside of him. 

     'But I thought you would have figured it all out by now.' Regal nodded to Mox and Claudio, the pair of them turning to leave. Drew's breathing quickened, heaving his shoulders in short, terrified pants as Regal cocked his head down at him. 'This is the real world, petal. Nobody keeps their promises!'

     And he left.

     Closing the door to his private booth as Drew was brutally broken in by his new master.

     'This the place?'

     Drew blinked back to reality and looked ahead. As soon as he spied the large chain link fence, he felt a stab of fear. Taking in a deep breath to help him focus, he lifted his fist.

     Cat paw.

     'Ok,' Joe was working on his breathing too but to his credit, nothing else gave away his nerves. His hand curled around the steering wheel was rock-steady, his brow lowered and his jaw clenched. A man who was no stranger to a fight, and knew on his best day, he could beat anybody.

     But this wasn't just any ordinary fight. Punk's life hung in the balance.

     'So what's the plan?'

     Drew flicked his finger between them and drove his open palm forward towards the fence. We go in.

     'Both of us?' Joe turned to him, narrowing his eyes. 

     Drew heaved in another focusing breath. He gave a determined nod of his head.

     'Fine,' Joe cut the engine then reached down behind his seat, retrieving a hefty crowbar. Drew gaped at the weapon, wondering if Joe always kept him with him, or had grabbed it specifically for the rescue mission. 'Let's go.'

     The pair of them got out of the car and crept through the shadows towards the large, looming barricade. Making sure the coast was clear, Drew scaled the fence and leapt down onto the other side. Turning around, he expected to find Joe following suite but the other man was busy jamming his crowbar into the chain locking the gate tight. With a grunt, he tore the metal apart, the chain slumped to the floor and Joe casually walked through the gate.

     'I prefer to keep my feet on the ground,' he stated. 

     The two men then took in the sight of their next predicament. A strange building stood before them, a huge slap of cold grey concrete. A ladder lead up to a door halfway up its facade with a walkway winding around the side of the circular building.

     'What is this place?'

     Drew ignored the question and pushed on ahead. He didn't know what the building was once used for and didn't care. All that mattered was that it was currently where they were holding Punk.

     And where they had held him too!

     Grabbing hold of the ladder, he climbed up, finding a hefty padlock on the door. Once Joe had heaved himself up onto the walkway, his crowbar made short work of the lock and the door swung open, squeaking on its rusty hinges. Beyond, there was nothing but black shadows.

     For the first time, Drew's nerve failed him.

     It must have shown because a big hand squeezed his shoulder. 'Stay here and keep watch,' Joe told him, giving Drew an out. 'I'll go in.'

     Drew answered with a resigned sigh and quivered his head. Lifting up both hands, he crooked his index fingers and touched them to the corner of his eyes then down. Be careful!

     'I'll watch out,' Joe reassured the Scot before stepping into the darkness and out of sight. 

     Drew felt like his heart was trying to escape out of his mouth. He'd been fine coming back, nervous yes, but the sight of the fence and the building hadn't fazed him since he'd only really seen them for the first time when he had escaped. But as soon as the door opened and he got that first whiff of stale, damp air, all the terror and pain had come crashing back.

     Life as Regal's gladiator had been brutal, but every minute of being Gunther's slave was a waking nightmare. Memories of being locked up, practically naked, in a cold, cramped cage. Isolated entirely from the world around him, days flowing into one another until time meant nothing at all. Reduced to little more than a dog with the collar around his neck and the muzzle covering his face. Abused and beaten and flogged and raped repeatedly. Used for whatever sick purpose his master desired, completely at the mercy of the his sadistic whims. 

     He'd fought back at first, but he was outnumbered, three dangerous men to one, and they always managed to overpower down. One day, he'd found the courage to rip off his collar and threw it at Gunther's feet, spitting a large glob of saliva onto the so-called General's polished shoes. 

     He paid a heavy price for his insolence. His master was overcome with blinding rage and Drew was beaten so badly he was certain he would be killed. Even his captors believed they had murdered him, going as far as to call in Thatcher to dispose of his body, however, to Drew's great dismay, he regained consciousness. They had left him alone in the cage for several days afterwards, perhaps hoping he would pass on quietly but the Scotsman refused to die. Once he'd recovered enough from his injuries, the abuse began again. Only this time, Drew stopped fighting back. 

     And he never dared remove his collar again.

     Time wore on and the spirit that had burned inside of Drew sizzled out like a flame in a rainstorm. Where courage and pride had once been, fear and dread took its place. And hopelessness. Dark, empty hopelessness.

     Until the day he dangled from the hook in the centre of the room, and made an incredible discovery - his cuffs were loose! Giddy with terrified excitement, he wriggled his hands loose. A new-found strength, borne from the promise of liberty, fuelled his limbs as he yanked at the fetter around his ankle, somehow managing to snap the chain in half and Drew dashed for the door. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his calf, he ran and ran and ran, until his lungs collapsed and his legs soon followed and he found himself lost in a raging storm, alone and terrified.  Knowing his kidnappers were on the hunt and following his scent.

     But then a stranger found him. 

     Soft fingers, long and slender, reached out to help him when nobody else did. Their feathery touch unfastened the clasps of his muzzle and tenderly removed Drew from its foul grip. As those wondrous fingers threw his own personal cage away like trash, Drew had spied letters inked into them, spelling out a word he knew so well. A word that he had become nothing more than a fantasy, a figment of his imagination that he could never hope to cling to.

     Free!

    Drew read them as a sign so when the stranger mentioned something about hot coffee and warm muffins, he took a chance. 'It melts in your mouth, I swear.' A promise! Even though Regal's words swarmed Drew's mind - 'nobody keeps their promises' - he accepted the offer and went with the stranger back to his apartment.

     Those tender fingers were strong. They carried the injured Scot the whole way back, never once hurting him but never once threatening to drop him. He'd felt safe in their grasp, the first time he had felt safe in years. So many years!

     And when he arrived at the apartment... Drew ate the best damn muffins he had ever tasted in his whole life! They did indeed melt in his mouth.

     It was something so small and insignificant. Punk probably had no idea of the importance of those two little words - 'I swear' - but it meant everything to Drew. Despite a bellyful of gooey muffins, hot coffee and a fluffy blanket around his shoulders, Drew felt the greatest warmth radiating from his chest. A spark reigniting the furnace of his soul. All because of a promise kept.

     As the night wore on, Punk fulfilled more of his promises. 'I'm not gonna hurt you!' He didn't take advantage of him, even when Drew succumbed to his conditioning and crawled on all fours to show his appreciation for the meal. He never touched him inappropriately in the showers or molested him while Drew slept.

     'You're safe with me'. When nightmares had driven Drew from his slumber and he'd awoken in the strange room, forgetting for a moment where he was, Punk had allowed the Scotsman into his bed and held him close, chasing the terrors away during the hours of darkness. For the first time in... he didn't even know how long, Drew had slept, peacefully and deep. With Punk's tender fingers stroking his hair, soothing him with their gentle touch. 

     By the following morning, Drew had fallen in love with those two inked hands. A quick glance over the rest of the man who possessed them, with the distinguished grey in his beard, green eyes that blinked shyly whenever their gazes met and his soft, muscular body adorned with beautiful frescoes, and Drew concluded there were fewer pictures of perfection in the world. 

     Yet here he was, standing on the outside, waiting around like a coward.

     'As long as I'm still breathing, I’ll never let them take you. I can promise you that.' 

     Punk was in this ordeal all because of him. Because he'd made a bold pledge to Drew and just like he had done for every other oath he took, Punk had set out to fulfil it. However, when he had not returned after promising Joe he would be right back, Drew knew something terrible had happened. When he'd discovered the muzzle missing from Punk's dining table, he realised the horrifying fate that he had wriggled free from now had Punk in its coils.

     Drew breathed in slow and long, bunching his fists up tight. Lifting his head, he forced all the fear down to grab the handle of the door.

     And went inside to save the man he loved!

Chapter Text

     Joe didn't know what he expected to find beyond the door but it certainly wasn't a huge circular pit beneath his feet. The chasm cut so far into the ground that he couldn't even see the bottom, making him wonder if it had once been an old sewer shaft or something. There was certainly a weird smell about the place. 

     Leaning slightly over the railing, he looked down into the consuming darkness below and shuddered. Drew was convinced Punk was being kept here - from his own personal experience it seemed - and, if Joe was being truly honest with himself, he was afraid of what he would find down there.

     A staircase wound its way around the edge of the circular shaft and Joe carefully followed it, round and round, further and further down, until he left the light behind like a cloud hanging above his head and the shadows crept in tighter, coiling its way around him. By the time he reached the bottom, he could barely see an inch in front of him and the cold became so biting he shivered through his layers. But it was the silence that spooked him most. A thick silence, unnatural. The kind that greedily devoured every sound around it.

     Joe ground his teeth together. What kind of place was this to keep another human being prisoner?

     Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he found a door before him and entered, discovering some kind of engine room beyond. Dark, grey and empty. There was a terrible stench in the air that somebody had sloppily tried to mask with bleach but Joe had been in enough locker rooms and fight cages to instantly recognise the putrid, tangy concoction of blood and vomit. However, a quick glance around the room told him there was nobody here. His heart sank. Drew had been wrong. They had taken Punk somewhere else. 

     He scrubbed his hand over his face, feeling it tremble against his lips. What did they do now? How could they possible hope to find one man in this sprawling city, that is, if Punk was even still in Chicago. He could be anywhere by now, and knowing the kind of dangerous men keeping him captive, his time was rapidly running short. They had to find him before it was too late but how?

     Joe wished he'd called the police when he'd had the chance.

     He turned to leave when he spied something glinting out the corner of his eye. A hook hanging from the ceiling. That was... odd. And down below, was that a chain bolted to the ground? Broken, like it had been snapped in half?

     Joe flashed back to the cuff and chain around Drew's ankle! Son of a bitch! He was right!

     He looked again and this time, he found the cage. Lodged away in the far corner, so innocuous he hadn't even noticed it. 

     And there inside the cage - it was not a bundle of rags like he first thought, it was-

     'Punk! Holy shit!'

     Joe sprinted to the cage and crouched down beside it. Punk wasn't moving. A spasm of horror caught in Joe's throat, recollecting another time he'd found the tattooed man unresponsive but he swallowed it down. He had to focus on getting Punk out of this cage and away from this horrendous place.

     His hands were shaking as he attacked the padlock with his crow bar, eventually snapping it off. Practically ripping the door off its hinges, he bent as far as he could inside to gather Punk up in his arms and gently carry him out. 

     He recoiled at the sight of some horrid mask they'd clamped onto Punk's face, all leather straps and metal wires. The first thing Joe did was remove it, breaking each clasp between his strong fingers before tossing it away with all of his strength. It clanked somewhere in the shadows at the far end of the empty room. 

     With it now gone, he could see Punk's features clearly yet the horror remained.

     Punk was a mess! His skin was grey and cold to the touch. There was horrific bruising around his eyes and neck. And his lips, those sweet lips that Joe used to kiss every day, were cut and swollen, dragged back by a tight gag between his teeth. It was knotted so brutally that Joe struggled to untie it, his fingers fumbling as they shook with rage. The moment he removed it from Punk's mouth, his nostrils were assaulted by that same stench he'd clocked in the room and he fought a wave of his own nausea, throwing the soiled rag away with disgust, like it was a burning bag of dog shit.

     Cradling Punk's head in his large hand, Joe tried to rouse the cage-fighter, fearing for a moment that he was too late and he had already slipped away but his chest still heaved. Small, shallow breaths but breaths nonetheless, stretching and pulling the bloodied, tattered skin stretched across his ribs. 

     There were bandages circling Punk's waist, dark patches seeping through the layers. Joe held his breath as he hooked a fingertip under the top of the wraps, too scared to pull it down.

    'Joe...?'

     Joe jumped at the sound of his name, but his fear was quickly replaced with overwhelming relief when Punk's eyes fluttered open. 

     'Yeah, yeah it's me,' Joe confirmed through a wobbly smile. 'I'm here. I've got you.'

     Punk's hand shot up, quivering like a flower in a storm as he placed it against Joe's cheek. 'It is you,' he whispered with wonder. Then his hand flew to his own face. 

     'I got rid of that fucking thing,' Joe explained, understanding what he was looking for. 'We're getting out of here. Can you stand?'

     'Yeah,' Punk wheezed. 'If you help me.'

     Punk gritted his teeth but the second he tried to sit up, his lips split apart and he let out a terrible wail of agony. The sound so piercing that it drove a stake of pure fear through Joe's heart. 

     'Phil? Phil, what's wrong. Are you-?'

     'Keep going! Pull me up!'

     He screamed through his teeth the entire time Joe helped him up to his feet, and once up, he swayed from side to side like a drunk, his bound hands clutching at his abdomen. Right on the bandages. The nausea abruptly returned.

     'What did they do to you, Punker?'

     His ex-lover said nothing. Instead he snuggled into his side, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder to hide the tears slipping down his cheeks. 

     'I hate when you call me that.'

      What fragments remained of Joe's heart shattered at the grief in the other man's voice. 'You used to.'

     'Yeah, back when we were just friends,' Punk whimpered, digging his face in deeper. 'But now... we're more- We're not just- We can never just-'

     'I get it,' Joe hushed out, wrapping both of his large arms around Punk and hugging him tight. 'I'm sorry, Phil.'

     'No, I'm sorry,' his strained voice answered from the centre of of Joe's warm embrace. 'I'm sorry for fucking everything up! For being the shittiest... the shittiest fucking-'

      Punk's shaking was getting worse. He was so cold, like Joe was holding a slab of ice. He pulled him closer, desperate to transfer some body heat into him. 

     'Shhhhh, shhh, it's ok. It's ok.' A shiver of his own rumbled up his spine and Joe began to feel the peril of their predicament set in again. Punk could barely stand and he needed to help him up several flights of winding, steep staircase. Not to mention the sadistic bastards who'd taken him could return any second. 'Listen, we need to get out of here. I'll help you, ok? We'll just take it one step at a time.'

     'Ok.' At last, Punk removed his face from Joe's chest. His eyes were red and swollen, this time not just from the bruising and Joe had to fight back tears of his own. 'Ok. I can do this. Just... ignore me if I make a little noise, ok?'

     Joe drew in a long, deep breath, steadying his frayed emotions. 'Ok.'

     However, they only took one step when they both froze, ears pricked to the sound of heavy footsteps thumping towards the door. 'Oh shit!' Punk exclaimed, eyes wide with panic. 'Oh shitshitshitshit!'

     Instinctively, Joe pulled Punk in, preparing to protect him at all costs as he watched the door slowly slide open.

     And a familiar figure peered in.

     'D...Drew?' 

     A sudden change came over Punk. Like a caterpillar emerging from its cocoon to become a majestic butterfly. He straightened up, Joe grabbing his arm to steady him as he wobbled onto his own two feet, and began to move, shuffling towards the tall Scotsman at the other side of the room as if in a trance. Joe held on, clutching him by the wrist tightly but it was no use. Punk kept pulling forward and one-by-one, his fingers fell away until he was forced to let go.

     An invisible fist punched directly into Joe's stomach as he watched his lover leave his side. Agonising pangs of jealousy rearing their ugly heads, hissing and spitting at the Scotsman coming into the room.

     But he just as quickly batted those feelings off again. It wasn't fair to feel that way. After all, Punk was only doing what he'd been asking him to do for months.

     He was finally moving on.

     A hurricane of wildly different reactions whirled across Drew's face the moment he spotted Punk. Joy. Relief. Horror. Sorrow. Guilt. Each one hitting the cage-fighter as powerfully as the drum of each pounding heartbeat against his own broken ribs. Once the initial shock had passed, Drew rushed towards him, grabbing Punk's cheeks in his large hands and examining every bruise anelt on his battered face with a frantic concern.

     'I'm ok,' Punk tried to comfort the Scot but his voice was croaky and stuttering with sobs. Those beautiful blue eyes that he'd craved so much flicked down, found the bandages around his stomach and furrowed. 'Ignore those. They're... I mean I...'

     Fortunately, Drew was immediately distracted by the mitts around Punk's hands. Scrunching his nose up with contempt, he tore them both off, first the right before turning his attention to the left. But as soon as he removed the second mitt, he let out the most pained wail Punk had ever heard.

     'DREW! DREW! WHAT'S WRONG? WHAT-?' 

     Tears pooled in the Scotsman's eyes as he tenderly clutched Punk's left hand, his gaze darting between the straps around his broken fingers then up at Punk who read his expression loud and clear. 'They tried to get me to tell them where you were,' he explained with a heavy sigh. 'Like there was any fucking chance of that happening. I told them to kill me... instead they brought me here.'

     Drew began to sniff and droplets spilled from his eyes. He guided Punk's hand to his lips and delicately kissed the cage-fighter's shattered fingers. The love and affection that Drew freely rained down on him shocked Punk to his core and the tips of his ears began to grow hot and pink.

     'It's not a big deal, really,' he tried shrugging it off, 'I've broken fingers before. Sometimes even popped them back together myself.'

     He laughed, too forcibly. But when Drew dropped his hand and instead cupped his cheeks again, the laughter died. He was looking right at him. No... right into him. Deep and probing, seeing past the bruises and bravado, seeing past the cracks, the paper thin mask. Seeing the red wetness of his hazel eyes, seeing the lump stuck tight in his throat, the pain, the terror. 

     Punk hadn't felt so exposed in years. Not since the night he'd cracked his skull and made a rash decision in the haze of his concussion to kiss Joe right there in the hospital entrance as they were leaving. Hadn't felt so unguarded, so... vulnerable!

     Yet, just like it had back then, it felt the same now. 

     It felt right!

     Punk leapt up onto the balls of his bare feet, skipping right up to the tips of his toes and placed his lips against Drew's. The Scot flinched, taking a step to balance himself. 

     Then immediately tightened his grip on Punk's cheeks and kissed him right back. 

     The most glorious music began to blare in Punk's soul, rousing and melodic, sweeping him right off his toes and up into the air until he was soaring high above the clouds. Their first kiss had haunted his lips like the touch of a ghost but this? This was something entirely different! Full-blooded and passionate. Blazing like the fires of a furnace, sparks flying and catching, the flames spreading as they claimed one another's mouths.

     One of Drew's hands grasped the back of Punk's head, the other clutched the small of his back, pulling them closer together until their chests touched. And oh god, he wanted it! He wanted it all. To feel this closeness, this connection, this affection. He wanted to grab at it all while he could, especially when he'd been convinced he'd never get another chance again.

     Clap! Clap! Clap!

     The lovers broke apart with a lurch, terror in both of their eyes. Looking at each other with a shared dread that only they could fully understand.

     For there, standing tall in the doorway, blocking their only means of escape, was Gunther, the General himself!

Chapter Text

     Panic!

     Terrible, all-consuming panic!

     It gripped every piece of Drew and refused to let go. From the moment he heard that voice, he'd lost all feeling in his body, every sense driven right out of him with blinding fear at the arrival of the man who had caged and tortured him relentlessly. 

    'How very touching,' the General stated, still clapping his hands menacingly. 'The damsel in distress has fallen for his knight in shining armour - how sweet! Cliched, but sweet.'

     A sudden movement to his left and Punk was standing between himself and Gunther. Drew's mind screamed at him to grab the cage-fighter and stop him but his limbs refused to move, stuck fast like rusted tin. Unable to do anything but watch Punk straighten his battered body out, chin up and brows furrowed. His feet were planted, cuffed hands raised to shield his face, shoulders slightly stooped and it was then that Drew realised this was Punk's fighting stance.

     Despite being bound, beaten and broken, the warrior was still ready for battle. The Scot felt dizzy all of a sudden. This man who had already sacrificed so much for him, who bore bruises and bandages for him, who's tender fingers had been snapped one-by-one for him, and yet, he refused to back down. What little breath he had left in his lungs, he was willing to put on the line for a man he barely knew.

     A stabbing pain ached in Drew's chest. 

     'I hoped you would come back for him,' Gunther's piercing eyes found Drew and he cowered back. There was no hiding from the General - he could see him clearly over the top of Punk's head. His terror took over and he shuffled closer to Punk, curling the tips of his fingers over the waistband of the black briefs and holding on tight. Punk let out a small grunt, as if in pain but did not lower his fists.

     'And even if you didn't,' Gunther went on, 'it did not matter. I had a new toy to play with. Isn't that right?' He sneered at Punk who flared his nostrils in reply, fire blazing behind his hazel eyes. 'We've had a lot of fun together, haven't we?'

     Punk jerked, about to make a move when a deep voice boomed across the room.

     'Hang back, Phil.' Joe appeared at Punk's side, cracking his knuckles. 'I've got this.'

     Far from looking threatened, Gunther seemed more perplexed. Tilting his head at the large-set man, he uttered, 'I don't remember inviting you.'

     'Get Drew out of here,' Joe ordered his ex.

     'Not a chance,' Punk spat back. 'I'm not leaving you, fuck that!' 

     Joe placed a solid hand on his shoulder. 'For once, don't argue with me. Please?'

     Punk hesitated, hopping irritably from foot-to-foot but before he could act, Gunther interrupted the moment. 

     'Nobody is going anywhere.' 

     Opening the lapel of his military coat, he unleashed a loaded handgun, pulling back the safety with his thumb. All three men froze, rabbits caught in the headlights of a speeding car. 'At least, not without my saying so' Gunther smiled ruthlessly at his prisoners, aiming the gun directly at Punk. Drew yanked back on his saviour's briefs, trying to pull Punk away, a pitiful attempt to save him from harm but it was useless. Where could they go? What could he do? They were all trapped, cornered deep underground where nobody could hear their screams or the blast of gunfire. Fish in a barrel, waiting for their turn on the chopping block.

     'Ludwig?'

     The General's lackey appeared behind him, similarly armed. He'd been hidden away, blocking their only exit this whole time. They truly never stood a chance.

     'I don't need this one,' Gunther said, pointing at Joe. 'Take him upstairs and... deal with him.' Ludwig gave a sharp nod of his head and advanced towards Joe with his pistol up. The large-set man raised his hands, his face pensive. Calm and cool as he was marched out of the room by the blonde.

     Punk on the other hand...

     'Hey, wait! What's happening? Where are you taking him?' He lunched forward, tried to grasp Joe's hand before he disappeared from sight but Gunther thrust the gun towards him, forcing him back.

     'Don't worry about your friend,' the General sneered, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. 'He won't feel a thing. You should worry more about yourselves.' Punk shoved Drew backwards in order to put some distance between them and their capturer. 'Now, the question is...' Gunther waved the gun between his two prisoners. '...what to do with you both? I'm sure that, with enough persuasion, we could squeeze both of you into that cage. What do you think? You could be together at last?'

     The cage-fighter had planted his feet again, fists raised, putting his body on the line to shield Drew. The Scot held tighter onto his waistband, afraid to let go. 

     'Or should I look at this in a more practical way? Two slaves, two mouths to feed. And with Vinci gone, our numbers are even. No, now that I think about it, two is too many. But the question is; which one do I dispose of? You?' He focused the gun right between Punk's eyes. Before lifting it up to Drew's height. 'Or you...?'

     In a flash, Punk was gone, torn free from Drew's grasp. He gaped at the cage-fighter's rippling shoulder blades rushing away, right towards Gunther. His cuffed hands grabbed the larger man's gun hand by the wrist and threw it up to the sky. The gun fired, the whizz and clang of the bullet's ricocheting off the concrete walls screeched in all three men's ears. 

     'DREW!' The Scot heard Punk's cry and found him tussling with Gunther's arm, fighting to keep it raised up out of harm's way. 'GET OUT OF HERE!' But it was a hopeless battle and before Drew could move a muscle, Gunther wrestled back control. A deafening chop swiped Punk off like an annoying fly. The tattooed man hit the floor hard, landing nastily on his front. He cried out as a boot stamped into his lower back, keeping him down, vaguely aware that he was the target of the handgun's crosshairs again. Closer this time. Dangerously close.

     Above him, Gunther snarled at Drew, stuck fast like his feet were embedded in dried concrete. 'Get into your cage. Now!'

     'DON'T LISTEN TO HIM, DREW! RUN FOR-' The cold, steel muzzle of the gun pressed into the back of his skull. Punk froze, afraid to even breath, one wrong move away from death.

     The horror was mutual. Drew let out a strangled wail of desperation.

     'Get in your cage. NOW!' 

     What could he do but obey? If that's what it would take to save Punk? His vision turned blurry, a film of tears locked tight behind the membrane. He lowered his head, turned and started to shuffle towards the dreaded cage in the corner.

     'No... Drew, no...'

     'SILENCE!' Gunther rammed his boot into Punk's cheek. A splatter of blood ripped from his splintered lips across the filthy floor. 'You have been fun, little fighter, but you are too much trouble. Why waste my time training you when I already have a good, obedient slave to play with, hmm?' Punk's whole body jerked at a sharp click right beside his ear. The General chuckled viciously; he had only put the safety back on.

     'Shooting you is too quick. Too painless. Let's string you back up again and finish what we started yesterday, only this time, your 'lover boy' can watch.' Gunther bent down to grab Punk, Drew turning slightly to spy the huge man ripping the bandages away from Punk's stomach. He nearly threw up when strips of tattered, raw flesh were revealed beneath. Red, wet ribbons where once there had been soft, lightly tanned skin.

     And words!

     It suddenly dawned on Drew what they had done. He dreaded to think how, but they had scraped away the 'straight edge' tattoo that had arched over his naval.

     As soon as Gunther had torn away the last of the bandages he socked Punk right in his flayed abdomen. The cage-fighter crumpled with a cry. The General grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him towards the hook hanging from the ceiling.

     'Yes, he can watch,' he said again with a heartless sneer. 'Watch as I strip every last piece of flesh from your bones. Watch his saviour scream and beg, watch him die slowly and painfully right before his-

     'NO!'

     The room went still. 

     A look of furious shock twisted Gunther's face as he looked down at his captive.

     But Punk had not been the one who'd spoken.

     Two pairs of wide, shocked eyes turned to Drew who stood tall in front of his cage. Fists clenched at his side, shoulders heaving. Every inch of him shook but there was a determination in his eyes that would not waver. 

     Gunther was the one to break the silence. 'Did you just-'

     'No!' Drew returned, his voice croaky but firm.

     Both Gunther and Punk stared back, stunned with disbelief. 'Drew...' Punk hushed out, his hazel eyes turning watery. But then he was tossed to the ground. 

     'You will not utter another word,' Gunther's heels clicked as he walked towards Drew, his voice low and threatening like a growl. 'You will do as I say and get back into your cage.'

     'No,' Drew shook his head defiantly. Staring down his tormentor, he pawed at his throat. His legs wobbling like jelly as he unfastened the collar and pulled it away from his neck. Brave, quivering hands threw it at Gunther's feet. The General gawked at the discarded collar while Drew lifted a finger and tapped it against his chest, right over his heart. 'N-not... y-yours!'

     The General's features darkened at the disobedience of his prisoner and he thumbed the safety back on his pistol again. 'I will not repeat myself a third time. Get. Back. In. Your-'

     Drew pounced, shoulder low, tackling Gunther to the floor. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he stumbled up to straddle the man who had tortured him for so long and pulled back his fist. The first punch slammed hard into Gunther's mouth, cracking against his teeth through the soft flesh of his lips, the second's aim was poor and hit his cheekbone. It didn't matter; the seal was broken. Old habits and muscle memory flooding back into the ground-down Scot, and he may as well have been in a seedy warehouse, surrounded by baying men, fighting for his life. 

     He remembered all the pain and humiliation that he'd been subjected to, first from Regal, then from Gunther and his henchmen. He thought of his beautiful, brave and selfless saint, Punk, who'd shown him nothing but kindness, imagined the horrors they had inflicted on him and the fury exploded out of him like flames finding several canisters of gasoline. Drew attacked his hated foe with a barrage of punches and forearms, breaking skin and teeth and bones until their face turned into a mask of hideous red.. 

    But his target was not just anyone. He was a seasoned fighter too, a champion, a cut-throat killer and he bucked under Drew's hips, using the Scotsman's weight to unbalance him and toppled him onto his back. Suddenly it was Drew pinned down on the floor, the General on top and he beat the Scot mercilessly. Each chop to his chest cracking against his sternum, breaking it apart.

     The murderous demolition of his body felt all too familiar to Drew. Brining him back to that time when he'd first thrown his collar at his new master's feet. Back when he had felt the fingers of death briefly grab hold. He could feel them again now, digging their claws in and even though he tried to block the fists pounding down on him, he knew he would not survive a second time.

     Two huge hands grabbed the sides of his face, thick thumbs boring against his eyes, gouging their way in. Gunther spat at him in German, harsh, barking words that tore holes in his ear drums. The thumbs dug in deeper and Drew opened his mouth to scream when a large hand squeezed around his tongue and pulled, trying to yank it right out of his mouth.

     'GET OFF OF HIM, YOU FUCKER!' 

     The hands suddenly released him and Drew blinked up to find Punk on Gunther's back, bare legs wrapped tight around his wide waist, and his hands on either side of the larger man's neck. The short chain of his cuffs pressing against his jugular. Punk heaved back with everything he had, holding on tightly with his locked legs as Gunther writhed beneath him like an enraged bull. The cage-fighter grit his teeth, closed his eyes, pulled tighter but it was no use. Gunther was too strong. His hold was slipping-

     Drew leapt up and wrapped his huge arms around the behemoth, pinning Gunther's arms to his side in an anaconda grip. His legs went limp, weighing down the large-set man like an anchor to the floor. Gunther squirmed and struggled against his grasp, face turning a heated red with rage. Punk arched his back, every muscle and vein bulging from his forearms as he wrenched on the chain, jamming it deep into Gunther's jugular.

     'Go to sleep, you motherfucker. Sleep! Sleep!'

     And Drew clung desperately, holding his tormentor down and Punk kept applying the pressure and finally, finally the monster started to weaken. Dry, shallow gasps as his windpipe was cut off, a floppiness setting into his limbs.

     His knees buckled, he fell forward. Drew let go and he collapsed against the floor, Punk falling with him, still attached to his back like a spider monkey. But even when his battered body collided with the ground, Punk reset his shoulders and pulled on the chain, not taking any chances. Drew watched as the General's terrible face turned purple, lips going slack, eyes lolling.

     'Is he-?' Punk glanced up at him. 

     Cat paw.

     Punk relaxed his arms, left them dangling around Gunther's neck as he tried to will some breath back into his spent body. But Drew never once removed his gaze from his tormentor, watching his chest, looking for any signs of life. Once upon a time he would have silently willed his opponent to 'breathe... breathe' but this time he did not care. Did not care if the sadistic man lived or died.

     The barrel chest began moving. He lived. Drew fought back the disappointment.

     Punk couldn't move. Drew had to help him thread his bound arms over his defeated foe's head and up to his shaky feet. He nearly keeled right over again and Drew held him close, being mindful not to graze the gruesome wounds on his stomach. 'We need to get out of here,' Punk said through his rapid pants. 'We have to find Joe before they-'

     'Before they what?'

     The two men snapped around at the sound of a welcoming voice and saw Joe walk in with Ludwig's pistol in his hand. Punk huffed out a laugh, smiling wide as he stumbled over to his ex and threw his arms around him. 'You son-of-a-bitch!'

     'Oh, come on, you didn't really think that scrawny twink could take me, did you?' Joe looked down at Gunther's unresponsive body. 'Can't believe you two finished that asshole off before I had a chance to kill him myself.'

     'You were taking too long,' Punk teased. 

     'Yeah, about that...' Joe heaved a sigh, catching Punk's worried eye. 'I was calling the cops. They're on their way.' He glanced between the two lovers, catching their collective panic. 'Get Drew out of here.'

     'W-what?' Punk gaped at Joe. 

     'I'll deal with the police. Now go, get Drew out of here while you can.'

     But Punk faltered. Looking up, he caught sight of the Scot, trembling from head to foot, a line of fresh blood lining his cheek. He glanced over the scars marring his body, his big blue eyes full of trauma and pain. The unconscious body of the man who'd imprisoned him, tortured him, assaulted him lying at his feet.

    'No...' Punk replied, resigned. 

     'What?' Joe spluttered.

     'Those bastards have to be put away,' Punk said, his voice small and pained, 'if not, they'll keep coming for him again and again. They need to pay for what they did to him.' He spread out his tattooed arms, exposing the gruesome wounds covering his body. 'I'm a walking piece of evidence. Drew's their main witness. We need to be here, to talk to the cops.'

     'But Phil,' Joe stepped in close, cupping his large hand around the back of Punk's head. An old gesture that comforted the stricken cage-fighter. 'He's an illegal immigrant. They might send him-'

     'You were right before,' Punk cut in, scrubbing his tongue backwards and forwards over his lip to stop his emotions bursting free, 'I was being selfish. I have to do what's best for Drew, even if...' he looked up, caught those blue eyes watching him and he nearly broke down, '... even if it tears me apart.'

     Drew rushed for him, pulled him in tight and stroked a hand through his hair. It felt good, being the one comforted for a change, being cared for.

     From the sidelines, Joe ignored the sinking feeling in his chest. 'Go outside the pair of you,' he said to them. 'Get some fresh air and look out for the cops. I'll keep an eye on this piece of shit.' Waving his stolen gun to emphasise his point, Joe took up position over the fallen General while Drew helped Punk out the door and up the stairs.

     Dawn was breaking outside. Not the spectacular kind but the quiet, sullen kind that usually preceded a wet, grey Chicago day. To Punk, however, it was the most welcome, beautiful sight. He breathed in the air of freedom greedily, for even though his capture had only been a matter of hours, he had truly believed he would never make it out of that cold room again.

     The wind lifted and Punk began to shiver against its chill. Warm fabric engulfed his shoulders and he discovered the royal blue jacket he'd given to Drew. The tall Scot pulled the lapels in tight and zipped it up, ensuring the embers of his body heat didn't escape and kept the frozen cage-fighter warm.

     With some difficulty, Drew helped Punk down the ladder to the ground and the two of them walked to the gates of the compound. There, they found the splayed body of Ludwig, bruised and battered with his hands tied to a metal post with a belt. Joe's handiwork, obviously. The blonde was starting to stir. Punk gave him a fierce kick to the head to put him back under again.

     'That's for breaking my fingers, asshole!' Punk spat.

     Prompted by his words, Drew reached for the cage-fighter's injured hand and gently lifted it up, placing a kiss on each digit. 'They'll heal,' Punk tried to comfort the Scot but he continued lavishing his affection on both of Punk's tattooed hands. His busted knuckles, his strapped fingers, his chafed wrists. Every part of those wondrous, miraculous hands.

     He crossed his own hands over each other, went to place them against his chest but paused. Rapid thoughts whirred behind his blue eyes as he smiled softly and gently grasped Punk's hands again. 'L-lo-v-ve,' he stuttered out, huffing a laugh at the welcoming sound of his long-lost voice. He pointed to the first of Punk's fingers, counting them down as he went, 'love, love, love, love...' each repetition growing more confident and clear. Ten in all, one for each finger until at last, he hesitated. Blue eyes flickered up to catch hazel. 'Love,' he said at last, circling his thumb around his chest in a figure of eight.

     Punk gasped, his words failing him.

     Drew's brows quirked upwards, questioning, as he pointed a finger at his own chest. '... love?'

     He felt numb all of a sudden, on the verge of floating away on the wind itself, as light and as fragile as a feather.

     'You know what...' the corner of his mouth curled, '..I think I might. Fuck...'

     Drew's perfect pink lips spread wide in a dazzling smile as he grabbed Punk's face, the cage-fighter hopping up onto the tip of toes again and their lips met. No more hesitation, no more doubt. They were taking the chance while they could. Red and blue lights began to flicker around them, the wail of sirens breaking the silence of the night, but the neither of them noticed, too engrossed in their lover's sweet embrace.

     And when they finally broke apart, Punk nuzzling against the glow of Drew's hand, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over his swollen lips, he knew he had made the right choice that dark, stormy night. 

     He had risked it all for Drew.

     And he would gladly do it again.

Chapter Text

     Punk stared up at the blue sky above as another plane took off, the roar of its engine booming against his ears. His heart thrummed as noisily in his chest and he began to gnaw on his bottom lip.

     Damn, he didn't expect the nerves to start this early.

     'Is this it?' Punk was startled from his musings by Joe's voice behind him. His ex was pulling a small suitcase out of his trunk.

     'That's it,' he replied, taking the suitcase from Joe when he noticed the reproachful look in his ex's eye. 'I travel light.'

     'That's not 'light',' Joe corrected, 'that's practically empty'.

     'I'm not going into the middle of the jungle,' Punk said with a shrug. 'I can buy whatever I need when I get there.'

     'True,' Joe admitted then put on his old, familiar 'Mom' tone. 'Did you pack warm clothes?' 

     'Yes,' Punk said with a fond roll of his eyes.

     'Plenty of socks?'

     'Yes.'

     'Underwear?'

     'Don't wear any.' He tried to keep his poker face but Joe's brow deepened and he couldn't hold it. 'Yes.'

     'Euros?'

     'They actually use pounds over there,' Punk relished in the chance to correct his ex's world knowledge for once with a smug grin. 'And yes. But I've got credit cards too.'

     'What about-'

     'Joe,' he put his hand on the larger man's shoulder and looked him in the eye, 'I'm telling you. I'm good.'

     'Ok, ok,' Joe shut the trunk and the pair of them began to walk towards the airport. 'Still can't believe you're fucking doing this.'

     'Neither can I.' Punk looked up as another airplane took off and dragged in a stuttering breath. He changed the subject quickly. 'So how's your packing going?'

     'Last of it will be shipped off on Friday,' he replied.

     'That was fast,' Punk noted.

     'Yeah, well, most of it was boxed already,' Joe rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. 'And with you leaving town, I didn't see any reason to stick around.'

     'Guess not,' Punk's shoulders slumped. 'I'm... gonna miss you.'

     'Hey, I'll only be in SoCal,' Joe said. 'You know you can visit any time. Larry too!' Punk stiffened, biting down on his bottom lip. 'You wish he was coming with you today, don't you?'

     'So bad,' Punk admitted.

     'It'll only be for a week or two. Once you're settled in Anyway, I'm sure he'll be having a great time getting spoiled rotten by his Aunty AJ.'

     'He's gonna be three times the size the way she keeps feeding him,' Punk groaned, finding it harder to keep on his straight face. By now, they'd arrived at the airport doors and he stopped in his tracks amongst the hustle and bustle of travellers rushing in and out of the sliding portal into the cavernous building beyond. 'What time is it?'

     '2.16,' Joe replied.

     'Shit, we're early! My flight's not for hours!'

     'I'm the one who drove you here,' Joe scoffed. 'Of course you're early.'

     The doors opened wide before him. Punk caught a glimpse of flashing boards and desks and queues and baggage racks and felt a fresh wave of panic!

     'You wanna... go grab a coffee?' he asked Joe, suddenly.

     The larger man mulled it over. But only for a second or two. 'Sure, I'd like that.'

     Punk was staring out the coffee shop window, chewing on his thumbnail when Joe came back from the counter with their order; two large cups of coffee and a piece of pie. 'This to share?' Punk's eyes lit up at the sweet treat.

     'Course not,' Joe shook his head wryly. 'It's all yours. A little 'farewell treat' from me.'

     'Oh, well, thank you,' Punk replied and plunged his fork straight in.

     'How's the hand doing?' Joe said, observing it cautiously, like it might burst into flames any second.

     'Good.' Punk wiggled his fingers. Two of them moved more sluggishly than the others. 'Lost some of the range of movement in them but it shouldn't affect things too much.'

     'Hmm,' Joe knew what that meant. 'Still eyeing up that one final run, huh?'

     The fork stopped in mid-air. The larger man found Punk with his bottom lip pouting and his brows furrowed, contemplating. 'Don't know. Haven't really thought about it.'

     Joe's brows rocketed up to the sky. 'Huh. Well how about that.'

      Punk didn't even realise the significance of his words to his ex as he took another greedy bite of his pie. 'Did I tell you about the sentencing?'

     Joe stiffened, the grip on his cup grew tighter. 'Twenty years each. A fucking joke.'

     'Least they're locked up,' Punk noted with a sharpness in his tone. 'Least it's all over now and we can put it behind us.'

     'Hmm.'

     'Least now I don't have to stick around for the courts anymore,' Punk went on. 'I can finally leave and go be with Drew. This long-distance shit sucks!'

     'I know it's been hard for you both,' Joe admitted. 'I'm glad you're finally gonna see him again. In person this time, not just on a screen.'

     'Urgh, it was painful. Especially with Drew's crappy Wi-Fi!' Joe gave a small huff of laughter while Punk chewed thoughtfully on some pastry. 'And hey, at least you don't have to worry about me now.' 

     Joe lowered his cup and fixed his eyes on him. 'Phil, I'll always worry about you.' A warm glow pulsed in Punk's rib cage. 'If anything, I'll worry even more, I mean, you're gonna be in an entirely different country in an entirely different continent.'

     'It'll only be for a year or two. Until Drew gets his visa sorted.' Punk heard Joe taking in a deep breath and knew something was up. 'What?' he eyed him suspiciously.

     'It's just... the longest I've ever seen you leave Chicago was like a month and a half. And you got so homesick that we had to watch Ferris Bueller every night for a week.' Punk let out a loud laugh at the memory. 'And we were only in fucking Miami! This is... Scotland, we're talking about.'

     'I'll miss Chicago,' Punk admitted, scraping some creamy frosting onto his fork, 'but I'll be fine. I'll be with Drew, and... I know it sounds cheesy as hell but when I'm with him, I feel... it feels like home.'

     Joe absorbed Punk's words. His lips slowly wobbled into a content smile and he nodded his head. 

     'You know something,' Punk picked up the conversation again. 'I like this.'

     'What, the pie? Yeah I thought it would be right up your-'

     'No' Punk shook his head. 'I mean this.' He motioned with his finger between the pair of them. 'You and me. Going out for coffee. Talking. Like friends.'

     'Phil, we're not friends.'

     Punk's head shot up with a heartbroken squeak but Joe only grinned softly back at him.

     'You were right when you said we could never be just friends. We've been through so much together, we mean too much to each other. We're something else.'

     'Then what? What are we?'

     Joe took a long, slow slurp of his coffee, eyes squinted in thought. 'We're... BFFs.'

     Punk snorted a laugh then held up his cup. 'I'll drink to that. To BFFs.'

     Joe clinked his own cup against his. 'To BFF's.'

     The connecting flight from O'Hare to JFK was easy enough but the long haul over the Atlantic was gruelling. Punk tried to distract his over-active mind by watching the in-flight movie or reading but as the little plane icon edged further along the red dotted line on his screen, the butterflies in his belly manifested into a herd of flapping turkeys and he could only bring himself to stare out the window at the clouds and blue sea below and try to keep calm.

     He'd never been bothered by a descent before but when the 'safety buckle' light pinged on and the turbulence kicked in, he began to sweat. Halfway through the landing, the old lady sitting next to him placed her hand over his. 

     'It's alright, dear,' she cooed, wrapping her warm, gnarled fingers around his. 'My husband was a nervous flyer too. We'll be safely on the ground very soon.' He wondered for a moment how she knew then noticed his fingernails were digging into the fabric of his armrests, his knuckles white.

     'Thank you, m'am,' he murmured back.

     'Are you coming over for a holiday?' the lady asked. She was British but he couldn't place where from exactly.

     'No, m'am, I'm...' he could see fields of green coming into view out the window beneath them. Followed rapidly by grey square of houses, a city, tiny at first getting bigger and bigger. 'I'm... gonna be living here. For a while. With my boyfriend.' It felt strange saying it out loud. Like an out-of-body experience.

     'Oh, how lovely,' the woman smiled sweetly. 'Will he be there to meet you at the gate?'

     The turkeys in his stomach began pecking at his lining. 'Yeah. Should be.'

     'If you ask me, that's the most wonderful thing about flying,' she squeezed his hand again and wrinkled the bridge of her button nose at him. 'Families and loved ones coming together again after being apart.'

     Her words were like a salve, soothing some of the chaos inside. 'Y-yeah, guess you're right.'

     'I'm sure your boyfriend will be over the moon to see you again.'

     'Thank you, m'am.'

     She held his hand the whole way down until they landed with a bump on the runway. Punk helped her take her suitcases off the conveyor belt at the baggage claim. 'You're so kind, dear,' she said, then beckoned him down to her height so she could kiss his cheek. 'Now you make sure and tell your boyfriend how lucky he is having such a gentleman as you.'

     Punk huffed a laugh at that and waved as the old lady disappeared through the gate. Then he turned back to the conveyor, his eyes finding his own bag circling round and round and round. His hands remained in his pockets, standing, waiting until one-by-one the conveyor emptied out and he was the last one standing. 

     He tried to breathe, the way Joe had taught him but every drag stuttered and choked him. 'Come on, this is stupid,' he scolded himself under his breath. 'You've walked out in front of thousands, millions even. You can't get stage fright now!'

     He lifted his case and trundled up to the gates, passed through security and border control and finally he started that long walk into the hub of the airport itself. Stepping through the open doors he glanced around timidly, scanning each face in the crowd.

     Then let out an audible gasp.

     Drew was right there! Leaning against a column with his arms crossed over his chest. His dark hair was tied back and he was wearing jeans with a blue sports top under his leather jacket. As soon as he spied Punk, he straightened up, his dimples popping into his cheeks with a smile and his dazzling blue eyes shimmering like the morning sun on the ripples of a mountain pool.

     And in that single instant, all the nerves melted away. Punk wondered what the hell he'd been so nervous about. The hard part was over - this next step was easy.

     The two lovers bashfully walked towards one another, their cheeks reddening. Punk let go of his case, left it standing alone as he lifted both hands in front of him.

     A wave.

     A thumbs-up.

     First two fingers touching the side of his eye then swiping towards Drew.

     Straight left index finger touching the curve made by his right thumb and forefinger.

     Right index finger curled on his left palm.

     Right index finger touching his left index finger.

     All fingers interlocked, palms facing.

     Punk finished and looked up expectantly at Drew who's stunning sapphires had grown twice their size. Then they softened. His lips parted.

     'It's good to see you too, Punk.'

     If Drew had been stunned at Punk's little surprise, the tattooed man almost fainted with shock at his! 'You... you can...'

     The Scot gave a hearty laugh at the slack-jawed expression on his boyfriend's face. 'Aye,' he said, scratching his fingers through his beard, 'I've been seeing a speech therapist for a few months now. Sorry I didn't tell you before - I wanted to surprise ye.'

     Punk just gaped back.

     'But you did the same!' Drew pointed out. 'How long have you been learning BSL?' Nothing in reply. 'Punk?' He waved his large hand in front of his boyfriend's face. 'Anyone home?'

     A soft smile wobbled onto Punk's lips. 'You do have the accent.'

     Drew dipped his head, the bridge of his nose turning a deep shade of pink. 'Aye well. It's not as broad as it once was, but it's still there, at least. Here, I'll help you with your bags.' Drew grabbed hold of the small suitcase's handle then looked around, confused. 'Is this it?'

     'Urgh, you sound just like my ex!'

     Drew chuckled. 'How is Joe?' he asked while they made their way out of the airport. His free hand dropped to his side and found Punk's. The tattooed man beamed, enjoying the feeling of physical connection with Drew after being apart from him for almost a year and a half.

     They chatted comfortably as Drew drove them out of the airport parking lot and onto the motorway. Punk was completely enchanted by the sound of Drew's voice, even if it felt so strange and almost unnatural falling from the Scot's lips. He closed his eyes to listen deeper to it; the rich bass, the rugged accent, the lilting intonation when he was telling a joke. The words themselves passed him by but the sound alone was such an opulent feast that he felt full to the brim.

     Outside, the landscape skimmed past, changing from the tall city blocks to pretty flat fields, wooden fence posts, the odd weathered stone building. 'So, this is Scotland, huh?' 

     'This? Fuck no!' Drew scoffed. 'This is England. You'll know when we reach Scotland.'

     'How will I know when-?'

     'Trust me,' Drew arched a cheeky brow at his boyfriend, 'you'll know.'

     Punk shrugged off the cryptic statement and they continued to chat, about Larry, about AJ, about all the pitfalls in visa bureaucracy when all of a sudden, Punk sat upright and pressed his face to the window. 

     'Holy shiiiii...'

     It had happened so suddenly, like they had travelled through some magic veil into a whole new world. All around them, towering green hills loomed high like mighty sentinels, crowds of them holding the narrow road in their giant hands. Punk felt so small all of a sudden, gaping up at the majestic peaks, dotted all around with fluffy freckles of grazing sheep. Off to his right, a gap opened up between two of the giants, revealing an awe-inspiring waterfall rushing down the entire height of the jagged cliff, its clear waters sparkling with a million stars of sunlight. 

     'Told you, you would know,' Drew piped up, smugly. 'Pretty, huh?'

     Punk tore his gaze away from the flawless masterpiece outside his window and found something even more dazzling, more breath-taking, sitting right there in the car next to him. He thought back to that fateful night in the storm, remembering the filthy, bedraggled, pitiful creature in a muzzle that he had scooped onto his back and taken home. 

     That creature had transformed into an angel. Celestial, unearthly. 

     Magnificent.

     His grin hiked up his cheek making his crow's feet crinkle fondly. 

     'Beautiful,' he said, breathlessly.