Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

"Alright, that's us. Thanks man, I think it'll be a good one." Jon nods slightly as Cabana types at the computer on the desk. It hadn't felt too long and he's glad, he'd been mildly concerned that he'd get off topic, on to the one thing he really wanted to know from the other man. It had been burning in the back of his mind, all the way through this interview.

"Is he okay?" He asks, proud that he'd waited till after all of the recording equipment was stashed away and the interview saved onto Cabana's computer.

"Who?" Jon almost smiles, who indeed, did he really need to ask?

"Punk." At this Cabana laughs and shakes his head.

"Punk is dead, man." The smile on his face is easy-going and free but the look in his eyes is hard and cold.

"Sure, he is." Jon nods, Cabana's smile doesn't waiver and his eyes don't soften. He wasn't around when those two were together on the Indys, only crossed Cabana's path a couple of times really but he's heard stories; loyalty like this is something so rare in this business, an honest bond in a world of falsehood and lies. "What he die of?"

"Gonorrhoea." Cabana says, nothing in his tone changes, light and easy, as though this was a mildly amusing truth and Jon stands, holding back a sigh. He'd known there would be no point in asking Cabana, you'd get more answers out of an actual corpse than the man Punk calls his best friend. "Thanks again, man." Cabana stands and seems to be ushering him out, a brief hug and then his door closed in Jon's face.

He hadn't meant to come here, what he'd meant to do was go back to the hotel, get ready for the show. Yet, here he is, his hand hovering over the call button, wondering what the hell he's doing. Punk has made it clear that he doesn't want to talk to anyone about what's happened, doesn't want to explain his actions, the stonewalling from Cabana confirms that as surely as the unreturned text messages and ignored calls do.

"You know, if you're visiting the dead, it's customary to bring flowers." Jon closes his eyes and lets those words sink in. He's not heard that voice in weeks, so many weeks; it feels like a balm of sorts, soft and calming. "Why are you here?" He looks at him and for the first time in months, possibly for as long as he's known Punk, he looks healthy.

"Aren't you gonna invite me in?" Jon leans against the door and lets his eyes roam over the other man. His hair has grown some, the top long and messy, the bags under his eyes smaller, he looks good, even if he is dressed ridiculously, shorts, in a Chicago winter and two coats, one of which Jon vaguely remembers seeing laying on the back of Cabana's couch, more than likely he was there the whole time, listening in.

"No." His tone is short and clipped. He walks up the steps and stands by Jon. "Why are you here?"

"I..." Jon sighs and shakes his head. "You change your number or you just ignoring me?" Punk laughs and opens the door, not closing it behind him, an invitation to follow him into his home.

"Not talking would be an indication, to most everyone else, I wasn't interested in them." He says as he toes off his shoes and starts up the stairs, not looking back, trusting that Jon would be behind him. The heavy door closing sounds incredibly loud in the deserted stairwell, Jon hangs his coat by the door and kicks off his sneakers. Punk leads the way into his home, Jon trailing behind, eyes focussed on his back. Jon has been here, maybe, twice before, every time it was a flying visit and the place had felt much like his own, there were things here and there but it didn't feel lived in, now the main room feels different, less like a place where someone crashes and more like somewhere someone lives. A dirty mug forgotten on the table, cushions scattered on the floor where they've been kicked, the remote for the TV on the arm of the couch instead of by the set, little things that make a house feel like a home.

"I'm not most everyone else." Jon says, smiles slightly as Punk takes off his coats, throwing them on the couch and stepping closer.

"No, I guess not." It's been weeks since they've kissed, weeks since Jon has tasted this man and yet it feels exactly the same, his body moves in exactly the same way, his hands harsh and demanding as always, tugging on his hair, clutching at his shoulders.

"I want answers from you, you know." Jon says between kisses, his own hands groping at the other man, squeezing his ass.

"Hmm?" Punk smirks lazily, there are times when this man reminds Jon of a sphinx, all riddles and mysteries and yet he expects nothing but the truth from others. He starts walking backwards, leading the way to the bedroom, the few previous occasions Jon has been here, that was the only place he really saw. Each visit had been hurried, their relationship something started on a whim and never defined beyond mutually beneficial encounters, occasional advice and the warning that if Jon was looking to advance his career with sex, he was barking up the wrong tree, Punk wasn't influential enough to be of any benefit. When questioned on what he got out of the relationship, all Jon had gotten was one of those confusing sphinx riddles and a headache from trying to understand, the exact words forgotten thanks to the life of Mox, yet the tone is one Jon is sure he'll never forget. Frustration always colours the words of CM Punk but in everything he has said so far, it's been conspicuous by its absence.

In the bedroom, Jon stares at him, at a loss for words, stares and strokes the hair on his cheek. Punk strips and sits on the bed, eyebrow raised. Jon still stares, not quite sure how to proceed. Punk sighs, changes position and looks at him, eyes all narrowed and tense; body sprawled and relaxed, at total odds with himself, as always.

"What?" Jon asks, fidgeting slightly, there are times when Punk looks at him like he's under a microscope, times when that stare is too much to endure, makes him feel uncomfortable and small, like a transfer student being introduced half-way through term.

"I'll answer one." He says, shifting to prop himself up, head in one hand, displayed like he was going to ask Jon to paint him like a French girl. One question, Jon shakes his head and makes himself busy with undressing, pulling his shirt over his head, the rest of his clothes following quickly. He gets on the bed, kneels in front of the other man and regards him carefully. One question.

"Why?" Punk laughs softly and moves, kneels opposite him and kisses Jon carefully, one hand in his hair, no other contact beyond that and lips. His eyes shining with glee as he pulls away.

"Because." Jon scowls, hands grabbing at his shoulders, pulling back and kissing him thoroughly.

"Not an answer." He growls against Punk's lips, kissing him once more.

"Not really a question though, was it?" Punk laughs softly and withdraws from him, moves up the bed and opens a drawer in the nightstand, throwing a bottle of lube at Jon. "It's what you're here for right?" He asks, a lazy smirk on his lips. Jon catches the bottle and shrugs. He pulls at Punk's ankle, forcing him to lie flat on his stomach.

"Maybe, maybe not." Jon presses soft kisses over his shoulders and strokes his firm little ass; he missed this man's ass. Is it the only reason he's here, maybe, maybe not but it's certainly a part of the motivation.

"Maybe not?" Punk asks, laughter in his tone, Jon kisses his shoulder again and opens the lube, coating his fingers and parting Punk's ass cheeks, pressing one finger into his hole. Punk groans, his knees come up under himself, shifting to rest on his hands and knees whilst Jon preps him.

"Want you." Jon mutters against his back as he fucks into him, balls against his ass and Punk's fingers clenching in the bedclothes.

"Easy, it's been a while." He hisses and Jon withdraws, pressing apologetic kisses to his shoulder blades. He guides Punk to his back, spreads his legs and lines up with his hole carefully.

"Missed you." Jon breaths against his lips, brushing their mouths together softly, leaning back and cupping his face. "Missed this." He moves his hips back and forth a few times easing back into Punk's body, then stills, fully sheathed inside the other man's body, feeling him relax and adjust to being filled with Jon's cock.

"I see." He says dryly, eyes narrowed and focussed on Jon's own, his lips twisted in a wry little smirk.

"You miss me?" He asks, kissing his cheek and moving down to press kisses to his throat, worrying a small mark there. Punk doesn't complain, it surprises Jon, he always complains about having to get cover-up done. Jon rests his forehead against Punk's, not much chance of him coming back tonight, possibly any night, Jon thinks as he examines the mark. "Do you?"

"Hmm, I could be persuaded into it." He mutters, hips bucking, hands trailing up Jon's back to tangle in his hair, drawing him down for another kiss. Jon indulges the kiss, keeping it slow, in time with the gentle rocking of his hips. This isn't like the other times he's fucked Punk, this is something else, something softer, more careful. Punk's words, that Jon barking up the wrong tree for a leg up in his career, comes back to him. Maybe even back then, Punk had been planning on leaving, issuing a warning that starting this would be futile, only this isn't about Jon's career, it never was. It's something ill defined and mutually beneficial. He stares down at the other man's face, his eyes barely open but staring at him, a heavy dark gaze, the weight of it curiously comforting. Jon kisses him and speeds up, thrusting in earnest into the other man's body, Punk's back arching as he brushes against his prostate.

"You like that?" Jon asks, quietly smug. "You like my fat cock fucking your pretty little ass?" Punk's eyes snap open; he squirms out from under Jon, shoves him onto his back and grabs his cock, lowering himself onto it.

"If I wanted shitty dialogue, I'd watch porn. Shut up." Jon attempts a laugh but the tight warmth of Punk's body robs him of amusement. The other man sets the pace hard and fast, riding Jon with practiced ease. It's almost impossible to believe that Punk isn't some kind of well-practiced whore but the tightness of his body suggests otherwise, unless he only fucks very small cocks. Punk pinches one of Jon's nipples, bringing his attention from his thoughts and back on Punk. "Pay attention to me." He snaps and Jon nods, taking Punk's cock in his hand, stroking him slowly, at odds with the fast and hard motions of his hips. Jon comes first, body tensing and quivering beneath Punk, as the other man take a hold of his own cock, brings himself off with quick efficient strokes, coming in his hand quietly, eyes closed and head bowed. Jon takes his hand and licks the cum from it, Punk groaning softly and rising off of Jon's dick. He sighs and wipes his saliva-dampened hand on the comforter. Jon reaches out and snags his shoulders, pulling him down to rest against Jon's chest. He lies stroking Punk's sweat dampened hair for some time, feeling the weight and warmth of the body on top of him.

"You coming back?" It's a stupid question and the way Punk tenses and pulls away from him, answers more eloquently than words ever could. "Why'd you leave?" Punk starts getting dressed, his back staunchly turned. "Don't you miss it?" Jon's own clothes are gathered up in Punk's arms, when he finally turns to look at him. "Don't you miss this?" His clothes are flung at him and Punk leaves the room. Jon sighs and gets dressed, he'll shower in the hotel, probably, maybe at least, honestly, he'd like to keep the sweat and cum Punk spilled on him, a little longer, would like more of it but it seems that Punk is done, with the WWE and everyone there in.

He's waiting by the door, his eyes hard and unreadable, Jon's coat in his hands. He pulls Jon into a brief hug, draping the coat over Jon's shoulders and for the second time today, Jon finds himself staring at one of the many fine front doors in Chicago. Jon shakes his head and pulls his jacket on properly and starts walking away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a piece of paper crinkling beneath one of them. The fuck? He thinks as he pulls the paper out and stares, a cell phone number and the words.

I expect flowers next time - Phil

I felt kind of bad that all Dean got was some off camera in Icarus so this is kind of paying him back for his kind services in that particular fic.

I'd appreciate any all comments on Mr Ambrose, I've never tried to write him before so all thoughts are more than appreciated.