A/N: Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed. Onward. Leakee's having a bad day.

Mox pokes his head into the second bedroom with trepidation and held breath.

Given the state of the rest of the apartment, he's a little terrified of what he's gonna find behind that closed door. What he'll smell when he does.

The door creaks open slow and with some resistance, like it hasn't been opened in a while, like the hinges are reluctant to move.

Or like a box has spilled over and fallen in the way.

Boxes.

The same sort of unused, dusty smell that had permeated the storeroom downstairs wafts out at him now. He sneezes it out explosively once, twice - hard enough that he almost drops the whiskey bottle. But it is just dust. Nothing like the low, wet mildewy smell that permeates the rest of the apartment like some sour cologne.

And the room he steps into isn't that bad: lot of boxes stacked everywhere - along the walls and on the bed, marked with words like 'Clothes' and 'Sales Receipts 2000' and 'Purchase Orders 1999' - and a whole lotta dust. It's a smaller room than the back with, as far as Mox can tell, a smaller bed and a nightstand shoved against the left wall. Dresser somewhere in between the box stacks, covered in almost an inch of dust.

Nobody's been in here for a while.

Getting the dozen or so boxes shifted off the bed is a sneezy affair, the stale air swirling so thick even opening the window doesn't help, not at first. Mox resorts to fishing a shirt out of his duffle and tying it around his lower face.

By the time he's got the bed clear and the plain navy blue comforter in the washer (it's streaked with dirt and something dark and sticky), his sinuses are pounding, and this dull, low anger beats in his chest: How the fuck do you live like this?! he mentally shouts at Leakee's closed door.

He gets the boxes moved into less-apt-to-topple towers along the wall, and by then the air's better in there. It's a little dim. The only view is of the alley, and most of that is blocked by the bland brick building across the way. But it's better than nothing. It's a room with a bed that actually isn't crawling with bugs.

(Which is another thing Mox finds surprising: he hasn't seen any roaches. He's have figured a place like this would be overrun with them. He'd seen a few worrying cobwebs in his room, but no spiders and nothing crawling around.)

His phone rings just about the time he's about to try out the bed. Sami, according to his caller ID. He considers ignoring it, but decides he feels just masochistic enough to answer it. "Yo."

"Mox?"

"Yeah. 'Sup, Sami?"

"Where are you?" Worried. Uncertain. Things Sami never is.

Frowning, Mox sits on the edge of the bed. "Around. What's up?"

"I just - man, Danny called me."

"Havoc?" Mox's stomach tightens. "And?"

"What's this shit about you maybe having HIV, dude?"

Fuck. Here Mox hadn't even thought about that bullshit in like three hours. "I don't know if I do or not yet," he admits. "Gonna have to get tested over the next, like, six or so months. Won't be able to wrestle or anything, either."

Shocked silence falls over the line. Mox gently twists open the whiskey's cap. Smells the sharp alcohol. Doesn't drink. That wasn't so bad. Ripping off the Band-Aid. A full fifteen or so seconds crawls by. Finally, Sami says, "Holy fuck, man. Holy fuck. What...? How? How did it...?"

"Oh you mean Havoc didn't run his big fat fucking mouth about that, too?" Bitter. Mox can feel his lip curl.

"He said something about some guy you put in the hospital last night," Sami says. "He thinks the guy, uh, r-"

"Don't," Mox cuts him off. His heart's jittering in his chest, and Jesus, he doesn't want to hear that word. "Sami, don't. It's fine, all right? I'm fine. The guy did, but, listen, it was my own stupid fault, y'know? I was so fucking shitfaced I couldn't've pushed a fly off me and - I mean, yeah, it was a couple different times, but I just - I was a fucking idiot. Brought it on myself. But I got him. That guy. He's breathin' through a fucking hose in a hospital, and if he's lucky he just won't wake up 'cuz I'll finish him off. I got him. It's fine. It's fine."

"No it's not fine, Mox," Sami flares at him. "Me and Chrissy were about to kick you out and we didn't know! We didn't know any of this happened to you, man. What the fuck, dude? You didn't tell me any of this. And we just... Jesus."

"It's not your problem," Mox tells him. "You and Chrissy, you don't owe me shit. Okay? You don't. It's fine. I got a place to crash for a while and I'm gonna be helping this dude out with his hardware store."

"What dude and what hardware store?"

"That one on 34th. Got a board up over the window right now, but I'm gonna help him get it cleaned up and back open. The guy that owns the place has an apartment above it with a spare room. Bed and everything, so that's where I'm staying."

"Oh." Sami sounds surprised, relieved. "Oh, well shit, that's good."

"It's a start."

"You talk to Zandig or anybody yet?"

"Nope. Just found about all this HIV shit last night and the testing shit this morning, so, like. I'm still processing. Six months."

"Fuck, that's rough, man. I am so fucking sorry." And there it is. The sympathy. "Is there, shit, what can I do, man? Anything?"

"Just keep it to yourself for now, huh? I don't want this gettin' around yet. Sit on Danny if you have to. I don't want him running his goddamn mouth. Otherwise, I'm okay, dude. You-"

All of a sudden, there's a heavy thump from next door, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor.

Mox shoots out of bed, alarmed, and sets the untouched whiskey down on the dresser. "Hey, listen, I gotta go. I gotta get back to work here, but I'll be in touch, huh?"

"You better, asshole," Sami says. "We're going to Dayton this weekend, but I'm not doing anything next weekend. Come over."

"Will do," Mox says on his way out his door. "Talk to you later, man." He hangs up without waiting for Sami's answer and shove his phone into his hoodie's pocket, and races down to Leakee's door. One curled fist hits the door in a sharp knock. "Lay-ah-key? You okay in there, dude? I heard something fall."

There's no answer.

Fear burns like acid in Mox's throat when he reaches for the doorknob. Visions of coming home as a kid to find his mother passed out in her own puke claw their way into his mind's eye like scenes from a horror movie he's never been able to forget.

That's not exactly what he finds in Leakee's room when he bursts in, but his worry doesn't abate at all.

Leakee's sitting up on the floor, kind of half-slumped against the side of the bed, shirt all rucked up in the back. His eyes are glassy and half-open on a photo album in his lap. The nightstand had fallen over to one side, spilling an alarm clock and a couple pills bottles onto the floor. There are probably ten fresh empty beer cans around him.

The big guy doesn't even turn his head when Mox walks into the room and hunkers down beside him. Or, for that matter, when Mox shakes a meaty shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

"Huh?'

"Hey," Mox tries again. "Come on, dude." He snaps a finger under Leakee's nose. "Look at me."

It comes as a huge relief when Leakee blinks a few times and lifts his head. Half-open eyes focus somewhere around Mox's chin. "Huh? Whaddya want?"

"You with me?"

"Said I wanned t'be left 'lone," Leakee mumbles in a beery exhale.

"I heard something fall," Mox explains. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"'m fine."

My ass. Mox gets back up and steps over Leakee long enough to right the nightstand and to put the alarm clock back. Before he heads over to sit down beside Leakee again, he scoops up the two pill bottles and carries them over with him.

"Hey," Leakee protests when he sees the bottles in Mox's hand. He tries to take them. "'S're mine."

"I know," Mox says easily, batting Leakee's sluggish paw out of the way. "Just seein' what they are."

He reads the labels on both, and recognizes the names as heavy-duty anxiety meds - the kind that guys around CZW take recreationally. They drink a bunch of booze with them and get really zoned out, sluggish - just like Leakee is. Mox himself has done it a time or two, and remembers the way he felt like he was cruising about six feet under water before he passed right the hell out.

So the big guy had had some kind of panic or anxiety attack in the parking lot, and he'd taken meds for it - and capped it off with a bunch of beer.

Okay. All right.

Mox rattles the bottles, which are both close to halfway full. "How many of what did you take?" he asks.

Leakee blinks off into space a few times and then mumbles, "Three. Only s'posed t'take two, but wasn't helping."

"But three and a shitload of beers is, huh?" Mox says. He remembers seeing a couple of the guys - all smaller than Leakee - drown four or five with a whole bunch of whiskey and they were fine, but even so, he's not unconcerned here. "That help?"

A slow nod. "Better."

"Did you fall out of bed? Why are you on the floor?"

"Somethin' caught m'foot."

"Were you going to the bathroom or what?"

"...yeah?"

"Wanna do that and get back in bed? Probably more comfy than the floor. Here." Mox plucks the photo album off Leakee's lap, sets it aside, and finds the offending blanket that's still curled around Leakee's ankle like a flat gray snake. "Can you get up?"

"Mm."

Between the two of them they get Leakee up onto his feet, and headed off into the bathroom. Guy wobbles like a drunk on a pitching ship the whole way, but he makes it. Mox shuts the door behind him, and turns to kick the beer cans out of the way and get the bedding at least back on the bed, keeping an ear out for any thumps or stumbles. When he doesn't hear anything but heavy pissing, he darts back into his room for a handful of things, and brings it all into Leakee's room.

Leakee stumbles out of the bathroom looking just totally groggy and out of it, and Mox is there in a flash to make sure Leakee gets back to bed in one piece. Which he does. It's no big deal. Leakee's unsteady, but not quite to the point where he's falling over, and manages to get laid down on his own without much trouble.

Once he's situated, Mox heads over to the pile of stuff he set down on the floor, and sits down on the pile of sheets and the pillow he'd dragged off the other bed. He'd brought his old Walkman and a dog-eared novel he'd been working his way through for about a month, along with the whiskey he knows now he's probably not going to drink yet - not yet.

Just in case.

Things fall quiet for a good couple hours.

Mox reads his book - a Stephen King novel - and keeps an ear on the deep, even sound of Leakee's breathing.

Thinks back to all the times he did this as a kid, sat on the floor of his mother's bedroom after she'd staggered in and passed out, and listened to her breathe. He remembers being terrified, in the way little kids are, of not hearing her breathing anymore, of all the hitches and gasps between breaths, remembers flinching sometimes when she'd snore. Because even then he knew she was doing Bad Things to herself. As he got older and understood just what those Bad Things were, the fear got replaced with a kind of helpless anger - especially on nights where he was the one who'd have to pick her up and put her to bed - but even then, he still watched.

Just in case.

Somebody had to.

Fuck knew the good-for-nothing pieces of shit boyfriends she dragged home never did it, and as mad as he got at her, he didn't want her to actually die.

Still doesn't.

Should probably call her again, he thinks, rubbing his eyes like an overtired child.

It startles him when he hears the bed shift and sees Leakee suddenly looking down at him from the foot of the bed. Big guy had wormed his way down there and is curled up on his side, eyes open a glassy crack. "What's up?" Mox asks him.

"What're you doin in here?" a slurry mumble.

"Just chillin'," Mox shrugs. "Need somethin'?"

"Thirsty."

"Lemme get you some water," Mox says, climbing to his feet.

"Beer," Leakee says.

"You've had enough beer for right now, dude." Mox honest-to-Christ wants to laugh at himself. That's a sentence he didn't think he'd ever say in his life, like a real adult and everything. He darts down the hall, takes a deep breath to hold, and races into the disgusting kitchen just as fast as he can for a couple bottles of the water he'd grabbed at the store today.

By the time he's made it back to Leakee's bedroom, Leakee's sitting up hunched over on the end of his bed. Mox taps the back of his hand with a cracked-open water bottle, and then, as soon as Leakee takes it, retreats to the nest of sheets on the floor.

Leakee takes several slow drinks, while Mox sips his own water. It's not very cold, but that's fine.

For one of the few times in his life, he has no idea what to say, so he chooses not to say anything. The silence spiderwebs between them, grows thick like the dust, and settles. Mox studies the red pillowcase marks on Leakee's cheek, the way they merge with the goatee and disappear down by Leakee's chin. And gets studied back in return by those half-open, glassy dark eyes.

Your move, Mox thinks, silently willing Leakee to say something. C'mon. Open the pod bay doors, Leakee.

But Leakee doesn't say anything.

I'm sorry, Moxley. I'm afraid can't do that.

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Mox blinks first, and reaches for his book.

Except:

"Prolly think 'm pathetic, huh?" Slow. Slushy. Soft. Like Leakee's talking with a mouthful of marbles at low volume. "All this shit 'n I can't even go to the damn store."

Mox lowers the book back to his lap. "Nope."

"No?"

"You just - you got some problems, is all. Nothing pathetic about it. Fuck, dude, what does that make me? I'm here mooching off you when I broke into your store two weeks ago. 'Cuz i got nowhere else to go. You're not the pathetic one in this room, believe me? You got, what, anxiety issues and shit? Like panic attacks or whatever?"

Such a long time goes by where Leakee just sits there staring off at nothing that Mox doesn't even know if anything he'd said penetrated or if an answer's coming. But eventually one does in the form of a nod, and, "Said it was depression and anxiety."

"Who said?"

Leakee takes another long drink. Gives himself a little shake. "Doctor."

"You saw a doctor?"

Well, duh. He'd have had to to get his pills.

But if Leakee noticed the stupidity of the question, it doesn't show. "Yeah," he says. "After."

"After what?"

"Parking lot."

Frowning, Mox leans forward. "What do you mean? Like another one of those, uh, like, panic attack things, or...? You had one of those, or what?"

It takes a while for Leakee to answer again. The water bottle crackles and crinkles as he squeezes it, cheap plastic folding and buckling under that meaty paw. "Jumped. Got jumped. Got hit from behind. Broad daylight. Took m'uncle's watch. His car. My money. Left me there knocked out in the parking lot. Cops never found 'em."

"Holy shit, man," Mox says. "That's terrible. Wow. Fuck. I'm sorry that happened to you."

At that, Leakee actually grunts a little laugh. "Says th'guy broke into m'store."

"I'm gonna help you fix it," Mox says, and if he hadn't meant it before, he does now. Guilt creeps up on him and snags him its jaws. Fuck, what an asshole he was. "I'll help you fix it, man." He shifts again and gestures at the wreck of an apartment around them. "So all this, did it start with that, then?"

"No."

"Before that?"

Apparently, Leakee's said all he means to, because he finishes off the water and throws the crumpled bottle onto the floor. Then he crawls backward onto the bed and lies down. "You c'n go 'way. 'M fine."

"Nah, I'll hang here," Mox says, because stubborn is Jon Moxley's native language, and there's nobody who speaks it better. "You just go back to sleep or whatever you wanna do. If you want anything to eat or anything, or whatever, lemme know. I'll get it for you."

"I don't wanna talk."

"Hey, I'm just gonna read my book. You don't gotta entertain me. It's fine. Just sleep."

He goes back to at least pretending to read his book, while Leakee shifts and shuffles around on the bed, gets comfortable, and zonks back out. He's probably gonna be fine, and there's probably no need for Mox to sit here anymore, but somehow he can't bring himself leave.

Never could before, either.

Just in case.

Just in case.

A/N: Thanks for reading.