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

Cabana's cigarette has moved home to several different packs now. He can't bring himself to smoke it, not when he needs to think about what means. Chicago bred bastard logic is a damn tricky thing, but at this stage, Jon thinks he's getting used to it, or at least he's getting better at interpreting it. He's not entirely sure he does know how Punk feels, but there's enough hints, enough clues to give an indication if nothing else. Love, he is more than likely in love with Jon, and Cabana seems convinced that Jon is in love with Punk, and Jon, well he's not entirely certain. How can you decide if you are or aren't in love with somebody? It's not something Jon's had much experience with, there's nobody in his romantic past that's had this effect on him certainly, but does that make it love? He might sign every little card with each bunch of those yellow flowers with potentially with love but he's not certain that this is a potential he has the capacity to realise. This current situation though, it can't keep going on like this, he can't keep fobbing Punk off with excuses of being busy, not only for Punk's sake, but for Jon's own. Every day he spends without seeing him, every night he sleeps without holding him, the maladies get worse, get to the point where eating seems like a terrible idea because the worms will rebel, working out is atrocious because the vice in his chest clamps tight and he can't get enough air. He has to at least go to Punk, has to at least see him, if only so he feels better. The next time he can scrape more than a few hours off, he has to go to Chicago; it's the only option really.

Punk's house is pitch black when Jon arrives. The worms in his stomach are rebelling at every step up the stairs and the vice is winched so tight he's almost convinced that he's having a heart attack. The living room is deserted, no sign of Punk in the kitchen or on the balcony, though Jon did notice that his flowers are getting pretty big, Dorothy's still definitely the largest of the four. With the majority of the place searched, he begins to worry that Punk isn't home, that he's out somewhere else. The only place left really is the bedroom. He pushes the door open quietly and peeks inside, relief overcoming him when he spots Punk curled up in bed. He almost sneaks in, and perches on the edge of the bed, his maladies settling, feeling better than he has in a long time. Punk's hair is getting longer, falling over his face, and Jon gently tucks it behind his ear, not bothering to fight a smile as Punk makes a little snuffling sound at being touched in his sleep.

"Shh, Punkin, it's just me..." Jon keeps his voice quiet, but still it seems like Punk is going to wake up, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

"Jon?" He croaks softly, eyes opening, a frown on his lips. "Didn't tell me you were coming home." He mumbles, moving over the bed and flipping the covers down. Home. It might have been a slip of the tongue but the word feels like it should be causing Jon to freak out, yet it doesn't, and that alone should be making him freak out. Despite this though, he feels calm, far calmer than he has in all the time he's been away from Punk.

"Yeah, I'm back." He leans over and kisses Punk's forehead, moving off the bed and stripping to his underwear, taking the spot Punk vacated for him. "C'mere." He pulls Punk close, wrapping his arms around him tightly. "You been up to anything interesting?" The question falls on deaf ears, as soon as he'd settled in Jon's arms, Punk had fallen straight back to sleep. "G'night Punkin." Jon closes his eyes and for the first time in weeks falls asleep easily.

The scent of coffee and a lack of Punk in his arms are what wake Jon up. He indulges his desire to lounge in bed for a few seconds, the scent of Punk all around him, swaddled as he is in Punk's blankets. It's been far too long since he was able to smell Punk; it was far too long since he'd held him. In short, he'd missed Punk. Last night taught him that, and the way he feels this morning relaxed and comfortable merely reinforces the fact that he can't really do without Punk for any real length of time. Not anymore at least, it's too stressful. He pulls on his clothes from yesterday and goes in search of Punk again, hopeful he'll be found quicker than last night.

The coffee scent is coming from the kitchen, and Jon snags a cup, leaning against a counter, listening to the strains of music drifting to him from, by the sound of it, the balcony. Out there is Punk, fussing with his plants, singing to them in a curiously soft tone when compared to the music playing. He seems to be in a good mood, focussed on his work, which appears to be plucking dead leaves from the stalks of his girls.

"You sing to your plants?" Jon leans against the doorframe and watches as Punk spins round to face him, something shocked but happy on his face.

"I, uh... It's good for them." There's actually a tiny blush riding high on his cheeks as he turns back to his plants, and Jon can't resist the urge to tease him for it.

"Aww, no need to be embarrassed, Punkin, it's cute." Setting his empty coffee cup down, Jon steps out on to the balcony, stands as close to Punk as he can without touching him.

"Not embarrassed." He mutters, his back still turned, the little pile of dead leaves at his feet slowly growing.

"No? Then why you all red, baby?" Jon's arms loop around Punk's waist, holding him tightly. Punk growls low in his throat, and Jon laughs. "What?"

"Don't fucking start, it's not even twelve yet, and you just got here... I don't wanna have to kick you out already." Punk leans against him a little, relaxing more the longer Jon holds him.

"You're not gonna kick me out." Jon presses a kiss to the side of his head. "Your mom would have a fit." He laughs, and Punk groans.

"I'm sorry." His head flopped back against Jon's shoulder; eyes closed, an odd little twist to his lips.

"For what?" The temptation presented by Punk throat is too much and Jon doesn't even bother trying to resist trailing kisses along it.

"Colt Dr Drew Cabana." Punk laughs softly, stepping out of Jon's arms. "He's been harassing me, so I imagine he's been harassing you."

"By some trashcans... He's a persistent fucker, your mom." Jon fidgets slightly and glances at the plant in front of him. "You want some help?" Punk shakes his head, waving Jon away, his attention focussed on the plants.

"Persistent is the nice word for him... I swear, he's lucky. If I didn't love him, I'd gut him." Punk mutters, dropping more leaves on his little pile.

"You love him?" Jon hopes he doesn't sound as bitingly jealous as he feels, the odd look Punk shoots him makes him think that he might though.

"Course... He's my Cabana." Punk laughs and turns away, moving on to the next flower. "Don't you have someone you love?" The question throws Jon, makes the worms start roiling in his stomach once more. He doesn't answer, just sits on the low wall and watches Punk, watches the way the fabric of his shirt moves as he tends to his flowers. "Jon?" He glances over his shoulder, and Jon shrugs.

"Sure, I guess..." He mumbles, feeling on the spot and not happy with that in least. Something in Punk's eyes hardens, and he turns back to the flowers. "I... Uh... I'm gonna go for a run." Jon mutters, the air out on the balcony feels sharp. He gets the feeling Punk would much rather be alone right now. "You wan-"

"The park's nice. Quiet this time of morning." Punk doesn't turn to look at him, keeps working on his plants, dismissing Jon, rather like in the beginning of their ill-defined mutually beneficial thing when they'd finished fucking and Punk would make it clear that it was time for Jon to leave.

"I'll be back in a bit." Jon shuffles back inside and feels decidedly sick, the coffee in his stomach not happy sharing space with the worms.

He had intended to actually go for a run, really he had, but what happens instead is that he potters aimlessly around Chicago, wandering the streets and feeling unwell. If he's recognised no one says anything, and he's grateful for that. He's not sure he could pull off a pleasant fan encounter at this stage. He's been out so long that it's almost a surprise when Punk texts him.

I'm going out to eat. - Punkin 3.14

No invitation to come with him, just informing Jon that he's going out. It seems pointless to send back okay but he does, a tiny part of him hoping for a message with when and where to meet to come in response, but it doesn't and Jon can't say he's overly surprised at that.

He winds up in a bar, drinking shots and skulking out to smoke with depressing regularity, more often than not joined by flirtatious other smokers who let him bum cigarettes. There's only one left in his packet, one that he can't bring himself to smoke, so their donations are welcomed.

Will you actually be back? - Punkin 3.14

The text message makes the vice clench so tight Jon feels like he's dying. He's not sure what he's doing here, drinking for no real reason, drinking on his own, drinking to get drunk, and to stop his maladies, only it's not helping in the least, if anything he feels worse than ever.

On my way... Shouldn't be long, got distracted. - sent

He flags down a cab, sitting in the backseat, concentrating on not throwing up. He's drunk but not so drunk that he should be sick, so this feeling can be attributed to the maladies. The journey is painful, by the time he's kicking his shoes off and locking the door, all he really wants is to find Punk and hold him, wrap him up in his arms and hold him tight, because there's something not right between them, something isn't how it should be. He flicks open the cigarette packet once more, seeing the one cylinder in there that had cradled between Cabana's fingers. Scared, they're both scared and they both deal with being scared in stupid ways. Jon by running and Punk by letting what's scaring him go, running in a different but just as obvious way.

"There's coffee in the pot." Punk's voice drifts down the stairs to him, he sounds closed off, emotionless. Jon sighs and stashes his cigarette packet back in his pocket, slipping his coat off and heading up the stairs. Punk's in the living room, curled up under a blanket watching something that looks like utterly brainless shit, but Jon isn't in the shape to object. He pours himself some coffee and tries to work out how to make this better, tries to work out exactly what's wrong in the first place, deciding the sphinx bastard on the couch needs to come with an instruction manual or something.

"You have fun?" Jon asks as he sits down by Punk, sipping at his coffee, focussing on the TV and not Punk.

"Did you?" He snaps back, his posture tense. "You smell like you did." He snorts dismissively, changing the channel, flicking rapidly through them. The rapidly changing sights and sounds making the worms kick into overdrive.

"Urgh... I'm gonna shower." Jon mutters standing and leaving Punk to his rapid-fire channel surfing, not getting any response to his leaving the room.

The water running down his back feels good, it feels comforting. He stands there, letting the water wash the suds from him, trying to work out how to placate Punk, how to make this up to him, when there's a slight draft.

"You out whoring? Huh, Jon?" Punk is plastered against his back, hands groping his chest, down to roughly stroke his cock, making him hard incredibly quickly. "You getting sick of me?" Punk's voice is all barely controlled anger and more than a hint of insecurity. A strange cross between a laugh and a groan leaves Jon. Sick of Punk, at this stage, Jon's beginning to think that'll never happen, and is beginning to reconcile himself with that fact. There's a chance that he might have finally begun to understand the point the bastard Second City Saints have been making all along.

He got stuck in a relationship instead!

A line from that text message Cabana let him read in an airport cafe so long ago. This is a relationship, he's in a real relationship and he's beginning to get used to that.

"You miss the good old days when it was just fucking, huh?" Punk turns him round, pushes his back against the wet tiles, and sinks to his knees, sucking Jon down quickly, bobbing his head, dragging Jon closer and closer to coming. The tightness of his throat, the bristling annoyance coming from him, it reminds Jon so much of times in hotel rooms up and down the country. He stares down at Punk, watching the water run over his features, plastering his hair to his skull, the crinkle of concentration between his eyebrows, the way his dark lashes fan over his cheeks. The sphinx bastard is beautiful, and Jon can't begin to work out how he could be so worried about Jon leaving him, getting bored of him, there's very little chance of that happening.

"Stop, Punk... Stop." It takes an impressive amount of self-restraint to pull Punk from his cock. Punk glares up at him, eyes burning in anger.

"What you already sho-"

"Stop. C'mere." Jon pulls him up, and kisses him, aiming for soft and gentle, but getting aggressively demanding in its place. It seems tonight, Punk is determined to make this more like one of their past encounters, and the way he's moving against Jon, the way his hands are demandingly harsh are inspiring Jon to agree and concede to those demands. He turns them round, forces Punk's back against the wall, nipping at his throat harshly, earning a sharp hiss for his actions. "You want it like this, baby? You want me to fuck you?" His lips moving over Punk's wet skin. "Tear up that pretty little ass with this cock?" Punk seems to shiver in his arms and Jon pulls back to look at him. "You want me to fuck you, baby? Tell me that's what you want." Punk scowls at him and turns his back, his ass almost presented to Jon.

"If you're gonna fuck me get on with it." He still sounds so angry, and Jon closes his eyes, he can imagine the reasons for this rage, almost thinks Punk is justified in feeling it. Jon brushes his finger down Punk's crack and presses against his hole, is surprised to find him already stretched and lubed.

"You been playing with this hungry little hole, baby? You been thinking bout me?" Jon chuckles in his ear and thrusts forward firmly, his cock sliding between Punk's cheeks, the alcohol in his veins clouding his precision.

"Fucking useless drunk." Punk sneers, and the vice clenches at that, but he can't dwell on the thought, not when Punk's grasped his cock and held it still whilst he fucks himself on it. "Can you manage to finish the job?" Still brimming with anger and fury. Jon nods meekly, his eyes drifting closed at the pleasure of being inside Punk.

"Yeah, baby... I'm..." He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, doesn't care about it enough to even try. He fucks Punk as hard and fast, the way he seems to want it, nipping and sucking over the back of his shoulders and neck, revelling in the gasps and moans he makes.

"Harder." He groans, his head flopping back to rest on Jon's shoulder. "Fuck me like you mean it." Jon chuckles low in his throat, and rests his arm over Punk's shoulders, pressing him up against the wall.

"You want it rough before you'll sing for me, hmm, my little nightingale?" He bites at the side of Punk's neck, earning a loud moan. "Sing for me then." He mutters and fucks Punk harder, fucks him like this was one of those nights where he'd be worried about being spotted in a corridor sneaking back to his room, or seen in a parking lot skulking out of Punk's bus, and Punk sings for him, his gasping moans loud and frantic. "Come, Punk, make yourself come." Jon hisses in his ear, and he can feel the moment Punk takes his cock in hand and starts jerking off, his shoulder moving beneath Jon's arm.

"Fuck." He comes quietly, and Jon stills as he trembles through his orgasm, then starts fucking him again, pulling out to come over his ass, feeling like it's marking Punk as his in some childish way. Jon stands staring at Punk's back, the rivulets of water running down it, washing his cum away, and thinks that this might have been a bad idea. No matter how good it was, because it was good, sex with Punk is always good, it was still likely a bad idea. Once he's recovered, Punk gets out of the shower with an off-hand good night, and Jon feels horribly sick.

The morning is awkward, painfully awkward. Jon woke groggy and feeling ill on Punk's couch, the blanket tossed over him, and Punk sitting on the coffee table watching him, eyes distant and concerned.

"I'm sorry." Is all he says before leaving Jon alone. Sorry wasn't what Jon wanted to hear, not really. Sex isn't something he should be apologising for, especially good sex, but apparently, Punk feels like it's something that shouldn't have happened. He finds Punk tending to his flowers once more, watering them in silence, an oppressive air about him.

"Morning, Punkin." Jon walks up behind him and holds him close, kissing the side of his head, wanting whatever was wrong last night to have been forgotten. It's a new day, and his last before he has to fly to the next city. He doesn't want to leave things more fractured and confusing than they were when he arrived.

"Jon." Punk sounds pained, apologetic still. Jon sighs, and squeezes him tightly. There's one solution to this, one way to make it right, but the thought of it scares him.

"We need to talk..." Jon trails off and presses another kiss to the side of Punk's head, feels him tense up, hears him take a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling it out slowly.

"I've some stuff I need to do today." He says eventually, still so tense in Jon's arms. "I'll be gone for a while. Uh... Make yourself at home, I guess." He pulls away from Jon, leaves the balcony, the building, all without looking back once.

That afternoon Jon's sitting out in the sun on Punk's balcony, waiting for him to come back from his mysterious stuff based errand, judging by the swearing and banging when he gets back it was at least partially grocery shopping.

"You buy me something some special for my going away dinner, Punkin?" Jon smiles over at Punk when he appears at the door. It seems his time away has cooled his temper, or his resolve, something has changed with him, he's at least looking at Jon now.

"Yeah, I did actually... It's called food... I think you'll like it." He smirks back and starts fidgeting, his hands fisting his sleeves, as he retreats into the living room.

"What is it?" Jon trails along behind him, catching his shoulder and turning him around. Punk stares at him, all eyes and concern.

"So... Uh... You wanted to talk right? So let's talk, I mean now's as good a time as a-" Jon cuts Punk off with a soft kiss, if the nervous rambling wasn't a little much, the hand wringing and plaintive expression definitely were.

"We do need to talk, Punkin... I... There's something I wanna tell you." Jon has the rather grim feeling that he's wearing an equally pensive face, but as he sat out there on the balcony, he came to the conclusion that they have to be honest with each other. He needs to leave Chicago knowing exactly how the sphinx bastard feels. Punk steps away from him, folding his arms over his chest, a hard little look in his eyes. Its impressive how quickly Phil can pull the shutters down and how fast the hardened CM Punk can stand in his place.

"What?" His tone as hard as the expression in his eyes. Jon shakes his head and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, before stepping closer to Punk, crowding him up against the wall behind him.

"Stop it." Jon keeps his tone light; trying to work out what would snap him out of this. Cabana's point with the cigarette lodged in his mind. They're similar. They're jaded and cynical, all jagged edges and mistrust. What would work on Jon should, in theory, work on Punk. "It's something you need hear-"

"But nothing I want to?" Punk snaps, slipping from where Jon has him pinned. "If you're done here, go. I won't stop you." He makes a move to leave the room, and Jon grabs his wrist.

"Stop... Just stop, okay." Punk freezes in Jon's hold, waiting, tense, mistrusting, exactly how Jon would be in his place. "I... I'm not done here." Jon smiles slightly as a little of the tension bleeds from Punk, a little of Phil peeking his head round the corner, checking if it's safe.

"Good, neither am I." Though, not brave enough to come round it yet, but Jon supposes that's okay, he's not really sure he's brave enough to come round his own corner either.

"Good... I... Punk, Phil..." Words are one of Jon's strong points, he can cut promos with the best of them, but actually talking to Punk about their relationship is apparently beyond him.

"What?" Punk turns to look at him, Phil brave enough to take a baby step out from behind his defences.

"I... You know this was easier in my head." Jon laughs and pulls Punk to him, kissing him softly.

"You love me?" He all but whispers in Jon's ear when they part. Jon nods, a tight little gesture, and Punk pulls away from him, some gloriously bright smile on his face."You love me? Ha, good... Good." He grins and Jon shakes his head at him.

"You love me back though." Jon smirks as he tenses up again, awkward stupid creature he is, like Cabana said, Jon knows how he feels, and he certainly knows how Punk feels, there's no need to be surprised or on guard. They're the same, Jon knows this is scary, and it is, but they need to be brave together, because really that's what all of Cabana's interfering has been about. He knows Punk inside out and back to front, which give him depressingly accurate insights into Jon, because for all he and Punk are different, they're cut from the same cloth, and that bastard knows how to sew far too well.

"I... Yes." Punk says firmly, eyes narrowed. "I love you." Admissions of love should not be given like an invitation to a fight, yet that's how Punk issued it, all bristling and tense, expecting to be shot down or worse.

"Okay... Okay... So... You love me... And I... I love you. Now what?" Saying it, finally admitting it out loud feels incredibly good. The smile that spreads over Punk's face is infectious. Jon can feel a matching once stretching his own lips.

"Now... I guess I should feed you." Punk shrugs and wanders off to the kitchen, that happy little smile on his face. Jon shakes his head and laughs. They finally told each other how they feel, finally have their emotions out in the open, and the World didn't end. In fact, Punk's acting like nothing's changed, and perhaps for him it hasn't overly, even if the smile on his face, and the light in his eyes says differently, but Jon won't call his sphinx bastard on that, not when he is Jon's sphinx bastard.

Finally! Though, I did watch all those documentaries on castration for nothing... Damn. - Punkin 3.14's Mom

Somehow, it's unsurprising that Punk has already told Cabana. The removal of the threat of castration is a relief, if nothing else, it feels good, and in honesty, Jon feels good in general. Punk might be acting like nothing's changed for him, but for Jon, for the first time in a long time he feels absolutely fine, no worms, no vices, no itches, no twitches, just warm, content, domestic and most importantly, in love.

Rebellecherry, AshJovillette, littleone1389, Brokenspell77, alizabethianrose:

Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together once more, all I can say is I should be asleep... I really should be.

And we are done here, confessions of love, official boo-ing, and dinner... Not a particularly exciting end but very much the intended one. :3

Thank you for the lovely reviews, comments, follows and faves. Your continued indulgence is more than appreciated! *^_^*

Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.

Got slashy request? Ask me and I'll ask you a million questions in return but there's a chance you'll wind up with something back. ;)