The Thought That Counts

Randy Orton sucked at buying presents. Just plain sucked. No matter how hard he tried, he always picked the wrong thing. Wrong size. Wrong color. Couldn't get it cleared through customs. The poor guy couldn't catch a break.

As he stood hopelessly in the middle of the department store, adrift in the sea of merchandise as Christmas carols sung by pop artists he would never have paid money to hear in the first place assaulted his eardrums with their false seasonal cheer, Randy seriously considered cutting his losses and picking up a gift card. Then the recipient of his gift could buy his own damn present.

It really should not have mattered anyway. He was wasting his precious time and money on someone who probably would not understand its significance. Would probably laugh and throw his effort back in his face. Randy certainly was not expecting a present in return.

"You look like a boy who just found out that there's no Santa Claus." John Cena removed his cap, shaking the melting flakes of snow onto Randy's head. He grinned as Randy shivered and slapped his hands repeatedly. Sometimes Orton was almost too much fun to torment. Almost.

Nearby, a small boy asked his mother, "Mommy, is there really no Santa Claus?" His bottom lip trembled fiercely.

Rather than give him an answer that would have been untruthful and unkind, the woman hauled her son further down the aisle, glaring at John over her shoulder.

"Great!" Randy smacked John's shoulder. "Another life you've ruined!"

"Hey, you came to me for help, remember?" Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked up a random aisle. Thus forcing Randy to follow him or risk getting left behind. "I could be at home, kicking back, watching a World's Dumbest Criminals marathon."

It irked Randy beyond description that he had to depend on Cena's assistance. The man had questionable taste to begin with. Randy was probably better off on his own.

"I need you to focus, John." He managed to corral the man before he strayed too far. "This gift has to be awesome. Something amazing. The best gift you could ever hope to give."

As usual, concluded John, Randy was going over the top. "You got a budget or is the sky the limit? Because I can think of a few dream presents that could break McMahon's bank."

Randy shook his head. He wasn't getting it at all. "It doesn't have to be expensive. It just has to be… perfect." Only perfection would do.

"Oh…" John picked up an item, seemingly at random. A remote controlled helicopter. "Perfect," he replied. "It only has to be perfect. Well, perfect and awesome. Yeah, I'm sure we'll find that in no time."

As the seconds ticked by and with the afternoon stretched before them, Randy became more and more convinced of his comrade choosing folly. What, exactly, had he been thinking? "Forget it. If you're not going to take this seriously, then I don't want your half-assed help." Even if it took him until closing time, Randy would accomplish his mission.

"Don't get your undies in a knot, Ro-ro."

"Don't call me that!" Big, friggin' huge mistake.

John chose to take a more practical, less emotional approach to tackling the problem. "Who are you buying this perfect present for?" Randy wouldn't meet his eyes, leading John to conclude that the recipient was a closely guarded secret. "Okay, well… What do they like? What are they into? Music? Clothes? Hardware?"

"He likes music," said Randy.

"Okay…" Now they were getting somewhere. "How about concert tickets to his favorite band?" John refused to make a comment on the gender of the person Randy was going to such great lengths to please. "The really good seats. As close as you can get and, if you like him, like him, you can get two tickets and go with him."

Randy finally cracked a smile. "Like him, like him," he repeated. "Are we in the second grade?"

"I am not about to go into the deep and meaningful feelings you might have for another dude. That is not the nature of our friendship. I am John Cena, not Carrie Bradshaw."

"Now whose britches are getting in a twist" He watched John turn the toy helicopter around a few times in his hands before placing it back on the shelf. "But that does sound like a good idea. Thanks, John. And I hope we can further explore your Sex and the City addiction at a later date."

Grateful to have completed their task in record time, John clapped a hand on Randy's shoulder. "Anytime, Randy. And by anytime, I mean never again."

"If Michael Cole comes at me with one more sprig of mistletoe, I'm cleaning his clock." John sprawled across the bench in Randy's locker room. "I don't care how much he blames it on the eggnog."

Randy pulled an expertly wrapped box out of his bag and handed it to John. "Merry Christmas." He anxiously waited for John to tear off the paper.

Mostly to piss him off, John took great care peeling back the tape and unveiling the gift. "Awww, Ro-ro… You shouldn't have."

"Seriously, dude. You keep that up and no one will find your body."

The box John uncovered was that of a cherry red remote controlled helicopter.

"It's the same one you picked up in the store a few days ago," explained Randy. He moved John's legs out of the way so he could sit beside him "When you were helping me pick out a present."

"Oh, yeah." John nodded. "The awesomely perfect and perfectly awesome present for Mister Terrific." He studied the helicopter in his hands. "What did you come up with, if you don't mind me asking?"

Randy did not mind at all. "Well, I liked your suggestion about the concert tickets, but none of the artists you ever mentioned being into were having performances." He waited for understanding to dawn in John's eyes. Took a while for him to put two and two together. Once he had, however, the shock was apparent. "Instead," continued Randy, "I got you this helicopter. I figured it was something you wanted."

It was one of the rare and fleeting moments where John found himself at a complete loss for words. It was a speechlessness brought on by Randy's kindness, his intuition as to what John liked, and his classification of John as someone special enough to go to such elaborate lengths for.

One word tumbled from his lips. "How?" How could Randy have known when John had barely expressed an interest?

The how, apparently, was simple. "The way you held onto it. We weren't in the store for very long and it was the only thing you picked up. When you want something, John, you are very reluctant to let it go. Which might explain your single-minded pursuit of the World Championship." Randy tapped the side of the box. "Open it."

Seeing that the power to speak had abandoned him again, John could do nothing else. He carefully pulled out the flap. A white piece of paper was stuck between the side of the box and the cardboard containing the toy. Without further prompting, he pulled it out. Unfolded it. Then read the words aloud. "John, do you like me? Yes or No. Circle one. Sincerely, Randy. P.S. I like you, like you." John looked from the man at his side, then back down at the love note.

"Since we're being so grade school about this," said Randy, "I thought we should do it properly." He held out a pen for John.

John intended to do him one better. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a paper napkin that had been folded several times over. From the napkin he produced a sprig of green. He held it over Randy's head. "Mistletoe."

"That's not mistletoe. It's parsley from the catering truck."

It was time for John to show him how far beyond grade school was willing to take matters. "Shut up and kiss me."

END