A/N: So, this is a different thing. To start out, it's darker and more uncomfortable than stuff I usually write. Also Leakee is physically different from Roman Reigns here, so be watching for that. Planning on four or five parts. We'll see how we do.

Shelter
I. Downward Spirals

Someday.

Fuck you o'clock.

Jon Moxley swims out of an alcohol-stupor hanging over a puke-rank toilet in a bathroom that's so white-bright it feels like it's going to melt his teeth.

The fluorescent light overhead is buzzing like the world's angriest hornest's nest, just BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ, MOTHERFUCKER! RISE AND SHINE!

Mox's stomach heaves again, this involuntary, helpless muscle spasm that brings up nothing but burning bile and saliva. Makes him feel like he's turning himself inside out. Beads of sweat slide down the back of his neck. In this bathroom's icebox cold, it makes him shiver all over.

Another day, another hangover.

The puking passes like it always does, and eventually he manages to claw at the toilet's handle until the goddamn thing flushes with a bang that's at the approximate decibel level of a fucking nuke going off.

Shaking and weak as a newborn fucking kitten, Mox slumps back against the splintered front of the sink cabinet, pulls his knees to his chest, lets his head fall back.

The room does this wobbly kind of tilt-a-whirl spin around him.

It'll pass too - always does - so ain't nothing for it but to close his eyes and enjoy the ride.

He's had better.

There's a whole sheep's worth of cotton wool packed where his brain should be, so even after the room stops its manic spin, even after he cracks his eyes back open and looks around, he doesn't have a clue where the fuck he is.

Nothing new there.

Every morning - 'S it morning? - plays out like a game of Clue, with Mox waking up in random places with nothing but patchy memories of the day before to help him figure out who-what-when-where-and-how.

Jon Moxley in a gutter with a bottle.

Jon Moxley in some random's bedroom with a condom dried on his dick.

Jon Moxley in a bathroom with a Hulk Smash hangover beating up the inside of his head.

Today:

Same filthy fucking clothes - frayed jeans, ragged sweatshirt, ripped boots, battered coat - he's been wearing for what feels like a fucking week at this point. Stringy hair in his eyes. Mouth that tastes like something died in it. Acid-burnt throat. Stubble-itchy cheeks. Backs of his hands stinging from what feels like a hundred little cuts, this angry red webwork of shallow lines that criss-cross their way across his fingers and down to the tops of his wrists.

Match last night?

Dirt under his fingernails.

Is that blood?

Bathroom's light's sickly yellow, so it's hard to tell.

And the bathroom doesn't tell him shit.

Narrow box of a room. He's half-wedged between the sink cabinet and the tub, a dirty brown bath mat rumpled under him. Ring of grime on the floor around the toilet. Yellowing linoleum peeling up around the edge of the tub itself. Some missing shower tiles in the shower. No towels, even if he wanted to hazard a shower.

He doesn't.

The cabinet feels splintery when he uses it to lever himself up to his feet.

Already, the hangover's starting to loosen its vicegrip on his head, the thousand-piece brass band stomping over his brain reduced to a small drum line thump-thumping against its sides.

He braces both hands over the sink and waits for the vertigo to pass. Dodges eye contact with the pale stranger in the mirror. Focuses gritty eyes on the sink basin, which looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years, a layer of dirt and God only knows what else forming a black ring over the once-white porcelain.

Plastic bottle of aspirin on the edge, though, right by the cold water tap, and hey, that's something.

Mox picks it up with a hand that's shy of steady and fumbles for an embarrassingly long time with the fucking stupid fucking moronic goddamn motherfucking childproof lid. Those godfuckingdamn little triangles don't want to line up, until they finally do. Until they finally do, and the fucking lid pops off and suddenly the air's filled with white pills flying every-which-fucking-way.

They plink down all over the cabinet and floor with sounds like raindrops on a hood - plit-plit-plit.

Hit the ground.

Roll away.

"Fuckyou," Mox mutters, glaring. "Fuckyou fuckers."

He pours three or four of the remaining few out into his palm, pitches the bottle to the floor, flips it off for good measure.

Jon Moxley in the bathroom with the aspirin on the floor.

The cold water that comes out of the tap looks a little brown, but Mox cups handful after handful of it into his mouth anyway - anything to chase this rancid fucking taste out of his mouth, anything to keep the aspirin from sticking in his throat.

Nothing worse than melting aspirin on a bile-burnt throat.

And since there's nothing in this closed-in closet of a bathroom worth sticking around for, he shuffles over to the cheap-looking door and lets himself out.

Bland hallway. Blank walls and carpet so worn there's no fuzz left in a few places.

Closed-in and tight, dim.

Two closed doors to his left - one along the same wall as the bathroom, and the other at the end of the hall.

There's light to his right, so like a moth, he goes toward it, the tomb of a hallway the gross-but-not-the-worst-he'd-ever-used bathroom already fading into background static.

He pulls to a bleary stop just inside a living room he's never seen before in his life, an unfamiliar, sagging tan couch and worn-out loveseat flanking the walls to the right. Coffee table overflowing with magazines, paper plates, coffee cups. Empty pizza cartons, shoes, fast food wrappers all over the place. Giant hundred-year-old TV in a cabinet straight ahead. Much nicer flatscreen TV sitting on a stand on top of it.

Smells like a musty locker room and old garbage.

Bachelor pad if he ever saw one.

Cold as a fucking refrigerator in here - that wasn't just his imagination - too, so he turtles his way down into his coat more, shoves his hands in his pockets.

Still not a speck of light shed on what he'd done yesterday.

Jon Moxley in the apartment with no fucking idea.

Last thing he remembers with any clarity was the way his eyes'd watered after he'd drained that first shot of gut-rot cheap whiskey. The way the bar tender's eyebrows hitched when Mox'd said, "Keep 'em fuckin' comin." That was right after he'd gotten that phone call from-

No.

Fuck that.

A throat clears to his left, and Mox's heart skitters in his chest, lurching like it's been lightning struck, and Jesus Christ, who the fuck…

...is that?

Probably a kitchen off to the left, and standing in the doorway is just a solid wall of dude.

Gotta weigh three hundred pounds, easy. He's tall - taller than Mox himself, probably, and that's saying something. Maybe his age. Dark hair all ratty on his shoulders. Goatee mostly buried by a few days' stubble. Narrowed dark don't-fuck-with-me eyes. If not for the blue basketball shorts, socks and sandals, black hoodie he's wearing, he'd have made a hell of an imposing bouncer, what with the stony glaring thing he's doing.

Even hungover-stupid, Mox knows a challenge when he sees one.

Goddamn bull about to charge here.

Mox's been in the ring with worse dudes, though, so he drops his chin and glowers right back. "The fuck you lookin' at, asshole?"

Dude just blinks at him. "You tell me," he gruffs. "'Cuz I don't know."

The back of Mox's next tightens, heats. "Piss off, fuck stick. I'm outta here."

"No," the dude says. He trundles his big ass into the living room and plants himself square between Mox and the door, arms crossed again.

Got this look on his face like every principal in every school Mox managed to piss off over the course of his not-so-illustrious school career.

Unimpressed, Mox slouches against the door casing to his right. There are still a few sticks of gum in his pocket, so he grabs one out, unwraps it, shoves it in his mouth, chews it wetly.

The sharp, cool mint gets rid of the battery acid aftertaste in his mouth.

And still, the big dude there just fucking watches.

Mox heaves a sigh. "You got a name, then? Gonna tell me what I did got you so uptight? Or you just gonna stand there starin' at me all day? Not that I blame you. I'm such a work of art I should be hanging in a fucking museum, but-"

"Name's Leakee," the dude cuts him off. "Roman Leakee. And-"

"Lay-aw-key?" Mox butts in rudely. "The fuck kinda name is that?"

Big dude's whole face clouds over. Mox can practically hear his teeth grinding. "Leakee. It's my name. It's Samoan."

"Oh," Mox says, snapping his gum. Like it's nothing. Like his head's not still throbbing like a rotten fucking tooth. "Well, Lay-ah-key, y'gonna tell me why y'look like someone pissed in your Wheaties? Or you gonna stand there makin' me guess? 'Cuz all I'm comin' up with is Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with his candlestick in his hand for all I know why I'm here. I wander in here last night or somethin'?"

Wouldn't be the first time.

Lay-ah-key shakes his head. "You don't remember."

"No."

"Your drunk ass broke into my hardware store and started trashing it. Ring any bells?"

Jon Moxley in the hardware store with a hammer.

Probably explains why his hands got all cut up.

Still a black hole where memories should be, though, so Mox shakes his head no. Does it again to flick a greasy string of hair off his forehead. "Sorry? Or whatever. I'm sure it was nothing personal."

"Yeah, well, your 'nothing personal' is a problem for me, man," Lay-ah-key says, all sharp and pissy. Muscles in his jaw flex. "Know how much it's gonna cost me to fix that window? Probably fifteen hundred bucks. It was the big picture window. That, and I can't open my shop with all my stock laying around everywhere."

"Well, it sounds like you got a lot on your hands," Mox says, straightening. A cigarette, more sleep, and a gallon of coffee are about his speed right now. "I'll, uh, just be gettin' outta your way then."

"No, you won't."

"No?"

"I realize you got more booze than blood in your system right now, bro, so I'm gonna make this clear: I haven't called the cops yet. Whether I do or don't is gonna depend on you."

Mox slumps back against the door casing, wary and suspicious, a pit forming in his stomach. Sounds like this is heading somewhere he really doesn't wanna be right now. Godfuckingdammit. "On me doin' what, bro?"

He feels like baring his teeth.

Fucking hangover.

Lay-ah-key just looks at him, calm and steady. "Either you cough up cash to pay for all the damage you did, or we're gonna have to work something out. Starting with you get your ass downstairs and help me clean up the mess. And maybe you come in and work at the shop until you've worked off the cost of the window. I got all kinds of stuff in the storeroom needs done. No time to do it myself. Or," he shrugs, "I call the cops. File a report. Let my insurance company pick up the bill."

"Fuck no!" Mox snaps. He needs that like he needs another hole in the head. DJ Hyde'd probably use it as an excuse to try to keep Mox from wrestling for CZW again, the prick. "No cops."

"Okay then," Leakee says mildly. Yeah, this dude would make a hell of a bouncer. "I looked in your wallet while you were passed out. So I know your name is Jonathan Moxley. And I also know you ain't got a penny on you right now. And just judging by how you smell - you homeless?"

Mox straightens again, outraged. "Me? What about you?" He makes a show of looking around the disaster of an apartment. "You livin' in this filth - you a pig? Jesus Christ. I've seen dumpsters cleaner than this place."

"We're not talking about me, bro." Leakee turns and heads over to what Mox assumes is the way out of here, walking around a stack of empty pizza boxes to get there. "Why don't you go take a shower. Use mine. Last door in the hall. Bathroom's in the back corner."

"Yeah," Mox says, biting down on a thumbnail, "or."

Leakee leans back against the door. "Or?"

He's not a bad-looking dude, Mox reasons. Much as he's getting sick of having to resort to this, it's probably better than weeks of actually having to come in and work for this guy. This disapproving principal. A few hours and he could be on his way to bum drinks off of Sami and find a nice pair of tits to fall asleep on.

He's done worse with worse-looking dudes.

'Course, there's always the more-than-likely chance that Leakee's straight and he'll shut Mox straight down, but given the state of the place here, maybe it's been a while since he got laid.

Worth a shot, anyway.

"Or," Mox drawls, chewing a thumbnail, "maybe I go take a shower, and after I'm done, you can do whatever you want with me for a few hours. You know? Wanna plow my ass, rough me up, fuck my face - whatever. I don't care. Sky's the limit. Maybe do 'em all. You can have some extra time 'cuz of what I owe you. 'Cuz I'm tellin' ya, you're gonna pay for the window anyway. I'm broke. And I'll only half-ass help you. But this? You'll get your money outta me this way."

Thing is, he's been rejected enough that he can spot it coming a mile away - the way the dudes recoil from him, immediately go 'no homo', try to get all macho alpha on him.

(Which is fucking hilarious.)

All Leakee really does is stand there against the door staring, wide-eyed and frozen.

That ain't an outright rejection.

Mox casually rubs his dick through his jeans just to test the waters.

Leakee looks, dark eyes following Mox's hand for a good few seconds, his mouth dropping open a little.

But just as Mox becomes confident he's got this in the bag, Leakee closes his mouth, clears his throat, lifts his gaze to settle back on Mox's face.

"I'm straight," he says firmly. Like he's trying to remind himself. "Even if I wasn't, your ass ain't worth the money it's gonna cost me to replace that window."

"Okay, dickface, you wanna be that way, then forget I offered," Mox says, wounded. That was fucking rude. "And not that you're gonna get to know, but my ass happens to be worth plenty. But whatever. Be a stick-in-the-mud. Enjoy your pizza boxes and pornos. And by the way, if you're straight, then I'm the fuckin' Pope."

"Get your ass in the shower, Your Holiness," Leakee snorts, pointing back to the narrow canyon of the hallway. "Sooner we get this done, the better. I really don't want to have to call the cops, but if you're gonna try to jerk me around here, then I guess I will."

Mox makes no move to head off, though. Something - some niggling question - finally pushes through the fog in his brain. "Why didn't you call the cops in the first place last night? If I was trashing your store, why didn't you just do it then? Not that I'm ungrateful you didn't, but why the hell didn't you?"

"I just didn't," Leakee says, one shoulder jerking in a shrug. "You got lucky. You wanna keep stayin' lucky, go shower. I'll get you something clean to wear. You can wash your clothes while we're working."

"Fine," Mox mutters. Feels like there's more to the story here, but Leakee's all stony over there, and Mox is suddenly too fucking tired to keep pressing.

If he's not gonna get sex right now, then a hot shower and a smoke'll have to do.

So he turns around and slumps back down the claustrophobic stub of a hall.

Leakee's square of a bedroom isn't very big - just has enough room for a splintered dresser in the back corner, a bed shoved against the wall to the left, and two nightstands on either side of it. The closet's built into the right side, and one of its sliding doors is half off its track.

The bedroom's just as big a disaster as the rest of the house, piles of clothes growing like weeds in the corners, what looks like a whole case of empty beer bottles covering both nightstands and kicked under the bed, the bedding itself a messy nest in the middle of the bed. The room has the same unwashed smell the rest of the apartment had.

The bathroom's in better shape than the other bathroom, but the garbage can is overflowing with empty shampoo and mouthwash bottles, more clothes on the floor, and the lone towel hanging on the rod smells pretty musty.

Tub doesn't look like it's been scrubbed in a while, Mox notices, but it's a better option than the other one.

And it's warm in here.

He peels his clothes off and lets them join the rest of the mess on the floor, trying not to to think about his skinny fucking frame by wondering how in the hell this Leakee dude can even stand to live like this.

Wondering a lot of things:

How the fuck he got here. Who the fuck this Leakee guy is. What the fuck happened here last night. Why the dude didn't call the cops.

What happened before all this?

(In and among the pulse-pounding and haze, there's something he's not remembering. He just needs the goddamn marching band in his head to stop drumming on his brain, and it'll probably - hopefully - come to him.)

And under all that, there's this itch to avenge his wounded ego - to see if he can lure that big jackass into the sack and get himself off the hook for all this "work" bullshit - bullshit he won't come back for once he leaves here, anyway, despite what Leakee out there thinks.

Say this for today, he muses as he turns the shower on, at least it won't be boring.

Another day, another Clue game:

Jon Moxley in the apartment with possibilities.

If nothing else, it's something to get him through the day.

Right now, he'll take anything he can get.

A/N: The genesis for this was something someone posted on Tumblr ages ago. Drunk Mox breaking into Leakee's bookshop or something. This isn't quite that, obviously.

This is a different Leakee, but there's a very specific reason things are for him the way they are. Shall be revealed over the course of the story. Thanks for reading.