Disclaimer: I don't own the WWE or any of its affiliates. I only borrow their Superstars briefly to write about. :)
Rated: T
Warnings: slash, language, AU, character death
Before You Read: This story is based loosely around my own experiences. I work in an assisted living facility and two of my residents inspired the plot for this fic. Hope you enjoy!

How do you handle seeing the love of your life slowly decline before your eyes? Knowing you can't do anything to help them, and that sometime in the near future they won't even remember you, is a crippling weight on your shoulders.

This is the sick fate that Chris Jericho lives with. Once upon a time, he was in his mid-thirties, and his soul mate lit up when he entered the room. They'd embrace and banter about memories made, sewn into the depths of time. Chris would run his fingers through his love's black hair and stare deep into the alluring green eyes staring back at him. He'd press a gentle kiss to the apples of his cheeks and feel his heart swell with love and joy that he had this man all to himself, pressed flush against his chest.

As they grew older, they tried to have children of their own. Many months passed with negative sticks piling up in a mocking heap in their bathroom trash. Tears were shed and anger erupted in a show of pent-up frustrations. However, for Chris' 45th, his boy gave him some of the best news of his life – they were pregnant.

Chris remembered it like it was yesterday. The pregnancy was stressful, as it was his first pregnancy and he was 37, quite old to be having a child. The two hid their worries and reveled in the fact that, inside his stomach, a human being was growing.

Lo and behold, on a hot July afternoon, the two rushed to the hospital as intense waves of pain rippled across his swollen abdomen. Chris held onto his husband's hands, whom gripped onto them for dear life.

"It's okay, Phil, it's alright, my love," Chris tried to reassure him. It was a feeble effort, seeing as how Chris couldn't even stop himself from shaking like a dog in a thunderstorm.

"It-it's not," Phil coughed out. His face washed over in misery, and he swallowed tersely. "Please … hurry up, Chris."

Chris nodded like a bobble-head figurine that got bumped a few too many times before pushing the gas pedal of their car to the floor and gunning it down the highway like a madman. He knew it was a bad idea the second he heard sirens and a police car chasing after him like they were in an intense scene of an action movie.

"Fuck," Chris said, panic rising in his throat. "Baby, we're being pulled over. I'm so sorry."

Phil groaned and threw his head back against the headrest. "You're a twat, Chris."

"I know," Chris mumbled meekly as he pulled off into a rest stop. He slowed the car before parking it, the cruiser parked right behind him. He tapped his feet nervously, anxious for the cop to run his plates so he could explain the situation.

Five minutes and two sets of contractions later, the officer came up to Chris' window. In an authoritative voice, he asked, "do you know why I pulled you over today?"

"Yes, sir, I do know. I was going well above the speed limit. But you see, my husband here? He's in labor, it's our first child, and I'm freaking out," Chris blabbered.

"I understand, but that is no reason to be going 90 in a 65," the officer stated. "I'll give you an escort to the hospital, but the two of us are talking while he's prepped."

"I understand," Chris said, hanging his head in shame. A dark blush burned at his cheeks as he watched the police officer get back into his cruiser and turn his sirens on. He drove ahead of Chris and made it to the hospital in record time.

"If you're arrested while I'm getting a baby removed from me and I have to do it on my own, I'm going to kick your ass so hard you won't know what day it is," Phil warned him. Chris wiped his brow and set about getting Phil out of the damn car and into a wheelchair, praying and hoping they'd make it before the baby clawed its way out of his abdomen like a rerun of a terrifying horror flick. Chris grabbed the baby bag, having packed it four months ago. He wheeled Phil to the emergency room doors. The cop matched his steps stride-for-stride. He made a beeline for the triage nurse, who immediately took Phil to admit him.

"I'll bring him back in five," the officer told Phil, who swallowed back a scream of agony as his stomach visibly rippled in a spasm.

"You do know the offense for drag racing is a $10,000 fine and upwards of 6 months in jail, right?" the officer said to Chris.

Chris nodded and bit his lip. "Officer, I've honestly never been pulled over before. I've never sped, never had any trouble with the law. I apologize sincerely, but I just wanted to get my husband here before the baby ripped through his stomach wall."

A small smirk worked its way onto the officer's face, and one chuckle shook his body. "That would have been a sight."

Chris watched the cop for a few moments more before the officer finally said, "I'm letting you off with a written warning. If anyone asks, you were going 75, and since it is your first speeding count, you're getting off with a warning."

"You're the best, thank you so much," Chris said, shocking the both of them by giving the officer a huge hug. "I gotta go see my husband now. I'm gonna be a father!"

Chris jumped for joy and raced up several flights of stairs to the maternity ward to find Phil was already downstairs in the operating room. A few more flights of stairs and a forehead full of sweat later found Chris outside the room Phil was in. A thin sheet divided his body from his chest upwards. Phil's stomach lay exposed and covered in an iodine solution. He tapped on the glass and waved when a nurse noticed him. She leaned in towards the doctor briefly before making her way out of the operating room and into the prep room immediately after, before letting Chris inside the prep room.

"Are you Dad?" she asked with a friendly smile set on her face.

"Yes, I am," Chris said, his nerves finally hitting him full-force. "Can I be in there with him?"

"Absolutely," she said. She handed him a package of green linens and instructed him to put the attire on. He covered his shirt and pants with thin green scrubs, put blue coverings on his shoes, donned a mask and a hat, and washed his hands thoroughly.

A stool sat near Phil's head, and Chris manned the position. He offered his husband a big smile, and didn't hesitate in giving him a soft kiss and pushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

"Are you going to jail?" Phil asked, good-naturedly.

"Nope," Chris said, smiling. "Sorry you couldn't get rid of me so easily, love."

"Maybe baby number 2 will do the job."

Chris' heart swelled again, and surges of fierce love and protection shot from his heart to warm his entire body. It was an overwhelming sensation, really.

"We're about to make the incision, Phil," the doctor performing the operation informed him. "You might feel some pressure; you won't feel any pain, so you can relax."

Phil remained stoic as the doctor made a cut from one hip bone to the other. Chris held his hand and massaged it gently while stealing glances over the curtain periodically. It all appeared to be a big blood bath of organs, until one slice on a membranous sac shot water all over the front of the doctor's scrubs. It pooled out on Phil's abdomen after the initial blast. The doctor stuck his hands into Phil's exposed abdomen and revealed a mutant-looking arm, covered in a thick white coating. Chris felt his stomach flip, but the nausea subsided as he saw the head, oh the head, coming out of the sac, the rest of the body immediately following and oh, that's his baby. The slightly purple creature covered in a thick cheese-like coating with a small patch of dark hair on its head is his baby. One of the nurses suctioned its little mouth and nose, and cries immediately followed. Loud, beautiful cries erupted from the little one's lungs, and upon hearing the noise the two men promptly burst into tears.

"It's a boy," the doctor announced. He held the baby up while a nurse retrieved a receiving blanket to cover the newborn with. She rubbed his skin gently, removing the coating on his delicate skin in the process. With a hat popped onto his head and a blanket covering his body from the chills of the operating room, she handed him carefully to Chris, who was not expecting to hold him so suddenly. He was so delicate and so tiny and so fragile, and Chris was not expecting those brilliant blue eyes to look up at him, nor was he ready for the soft snuffling noises he made as he adjusted to his new life.

"Let me see," Phil rasped, reaching his hands out. Chris stood up and bent his body so Phil could see the baby's face. A choked sound came from Phil's throat as he bit down on his fist. "He looks just like you, Chris. He's so beautiful, oh my god. We made this angel."

"You're so strong, Phil," Chris whispered lovingly. "You're such a fighter and you're so determined and oh my god, I love you so much."

Chris peppered Phil's face with kisses before he informed one of the nurses what they were to name their precious son.

On July 12 at 3:28 pm, Jackson Keith entered the world and lit up their lives.

Two years after Jack's birth, Phil became pregnant again. In the winter, they brought Sophia Amy into the world. Eleven months afterwards, they had Landon Maxwell to welcome into the family.

As Chris and Phil grew older, their children grew before their very eyes into respectable young men and women. When Chris turned 60, he had three teenagers running rampant and causing trouble, not unlike the majority of teenagers in existence. His kids gave him high blood pressure, but it was a small price to pay for being otherwise healthy at 60 and to have three beautiful children as his own. The wrinkles on his face deepened with every passing year, and by the age of 70, the kids were out of the house and beginning their own adult lives. Phil succumbed to a crippling case of empty-nest syndrome and started to fill the void in their lives by adopting pets. By the fourth dog and fifth cat, Chris sat Phil down and convinced him from adopting any more animals.

When Chris celebrated his 80th birthday with his husband and adult children, he finally started to realize something about his soul mate that Sophia had brought up. Had she not said anything, he probably wouldn't have even realized it. Phil was starting to forget things. It started out as minute things, like where he left his car keys or what he had for breakfast. However, over the past couple years, he'd been forgetting more, like how old his kids were, and mixing up the animal's names on a regular basis. He forgot that he left the stove on, and forgot he had started the shower on several occasions. When confronted about the forgetfulness, Phil always put the blame on something else, saying it had distracted him. With Sophia mentioning it, Chris started to realize the things Phil had been doing weren't normal. This wasn't normal forgetfulness associated with aging. A fearful leap of his heart later, Chris felt his body awash with worry and concern. He looked across the table at the love of his life, who looked back at him with adoration. He suddenly feared the doctor's appointment Sophia had scheduled for Phil the next week.

In the doctor's office sat Phil on the exam table, Chris sitting down, and Sophia standing behind Chris' seat while the doctor asked Phil a series of questions and writing down the results. It seemed the rest of the appointment flew by in a blur. The doctor wasn't exactly sure what was going on, so he decided to send Phil for some brain scans and further testing so he and his colleagues could discuss the case. Phil was scheduled for a spinal tap, an MRI, a CT scan, SPECT and PET scans, as well as more memory testing and behavioral monitoring. Sophia and Chris were to chart his behavior daily, including any and all series of forgetfulness he experienced. Landon helped a lot of the time, but Jackson avoided the situation entirely.

The weeks went by slowly. Every week Phil had a new brain scan and a handful of cognitive function testing. He grew more agitated as the tests reigned on, and started to sleep more. As a man with insomnia his whole life, this change in sleep shocked everyone who knew him. He ate less and became extremely angry when someone accused him of forgetting something. They dutifully wrote down all of Phil's outbursts and presented the information to the doctor leading Phil's case.

Three months of waiting and curiosity finally landed the three of them in the doctor's office once more. Phil shuffled in and assumed his position on the exam table, where he busied himself by biting his nails. Chris took his seat and Sophia sat on a stool.

The doctor knocked on the door, and with him came another man and a woman. In the cramped confines of the office, they first heard the words "Alzheimer's" and "Phil" in the same sentence. In the cramped confines of the office, Chris broke down and started sobbing, something he couldn't remember he'd done in many, many years.

By the time Chris turned 82, and Phil turned 74, Sophia had moved back home to help Chris care for Phil, who needed constant care and supervision. The few short years that had passed had taken quite a toll on both Phil and Chris. Deep-set wrinkles were etched into his worn skin. He gripped his walker at all times with white-knuckle pressure. He shuffled mostly instead of walking, as he forgot where he was going so often that he had no reason to walk quickly. Chris sat back and watched the man he fell in love with, the man who bore him three beautiful children and many years of happiness together, declined into the outline of Phil, though the inside had been lost some time ago. Chris had to sit back and watch as his husband changed before his very eyes, and there was nothing he could do to help him. He swore his love to Phil the day he married him, and he promised to help him in sickness and in health. He felt like he was breaking that promise, because he couldn't make Phil's Alzheimer's disease go away. He had to watch the disease eat his husband and leave a body behind who shared no common traits with the man he had married.

Three years later saw Phil unable to walk. The plaque that stuck itself to Phil's brain and his neurons had accumulated so quickly that Phil was now considered in the "late stage" of Alzheimer's just five years after his diagnosis. The man who spoke so much and so often now said close to nothing. He responded in simple answers and had forgotten who Landon and Jackson were, as he didn't see them often. He remembered Sophia vaguely, and he still remembered Chris. He had his moments where he had to think for a moment before he recognized who Chris was and why he's important to him.

Phil sat in his wheelchair most of his day. Sophia or Chris had to feed Phil his every meal, and Sophia had to toilet him, bathe him, exercise his limbs, and otherwise care for his every need. The last time Sophia had allowed Phil to try to clean himself, he spent nearly an hour trying to scrub off his tattoos, which resulted in a few nasty skin tears.

His sight declined more and more each day, though his hearing remained impeccable. His humor, which is so characteristic of who he is, faded away some time ago, and Chris wished he could go back in time and not take for granted the husband who remembered who their children were.

When Sophia neared 40 years old, she broke down in tears before Chris and declared she couldn't care for Phil any longer. She and Landon were looking for nursing homes to put Phil in so he could get the care he needed. Chris felt his heart fold in on itself at this news and cast a sideways glance at Phil, who fell asleep in his chair and had begun drooling all over the front of his sweater. He suddenly realized how much he had relied on Sophia to take care of Phil day in and day out. He saw the effects of the stress carved into her skin. For someone almost 40, the stress had eaten away at her beauty and left behind numerous wrinkles and heavy under-eye bags. Chris couldn't keep doing this to his only daughter. It would only drive her to her grave. With a sad sigh, Chris gave a nod.

"You can't care for him any longer. I sure as hell can't care for him. I can barely take care of myself. We need help. But, Sophia, I'm not leaving him. Wherever you send Phil, I'm going, too."

At almost 90 years old, Chris found himself in an assisted living facility. His and Phil's "apartment" boasted a bedroom, which housed two beds. A bathroom sat tucked off to the side, and a common living room area connected the main hallway to their room. Phil barely left the bed any more. He was confined to his bed, where many machines made noise all day and all night. The man he married had disappeared long ago; in his place, a severely atrophied man who couldn't even remember who he was remained. Chris asked himself every night in his prayers what he had done wrong in his life. What kind of punishment was he subjected to, having to see his husband fade away before his very eyes? Phil couldn't even remember who he was anymore, and he looked like a skeleton shrouded with a thin layer of skin. Whatever he had done wrong, he had repented for it so many times it played like a mantra in his head consistently throughout the day. He would sit on the edge of his own bed and look across at Phil, who lay on his back with a cannula in his nostrils and a feeding tube snaked down one of his nostrils to his stomach, which kept the body of Phil alive. Every two hours, someone came in to turn Phil on his side or on his back, and they offered Chris a sideward glance of pity. He loathed the pity. They knew of Phil as he was now, not as who he had been. They didn't know how strong Phil was, to have delivered three babies and devote his every breath to his family. They didn't know his sharp tongue or his sense of humor. They saw the man who weighed 120 pounds sopping wet who couldn't do much but lay there. They had no right to offer Chris sympathy. For all they knew, this could have been Phil for his whole life. He didn't appreciate sympathy from people who didn't know what Phil was like before Alzheimer's captured his brain.

At 90 years old, Chris became a widow. Phil passed away in his sleep after being struck with a rough bout of pneumonia. In a way, Chris was relieved Phil was gone. Finally his husband could be at peace. No more would he be confused and restless and unable to care for himself. In the afterlife, Alzheimer's disease couldn't touch Phil. He was able to break free of the hell of the disease he suffered with for too many years. Still, Chris found himself at the wake, sitting in a chair because his legs became wobbly from standing too long, and seeing who was still alive of their old friends and family. He sat in a stiff silence, breaking it long enough to thank everyone who came up to him and offered their condolences.

At the funeral, right before the grave diggers were to start filling the hole where Phil's body would spend eternity, Chris shuffled forward and, with his daughter balancing him, he threw a purple peony and a small bunch of Forget-Me-Not flowers into the grave, which landed on Phil's casket. He stood by while the men threw dirt into the grave, and watched as his husband was covered up by shovelfuls of dirt. Looking up at the sky and squinting against the bright light, Chris watched as the hundreds of purple balloons made their way up the atmosphere. Symbolically, with the flowers in the ground with Phil, Alzheimer's was being buried for good. By releasing the purple balloons, they were letting go of Alzheimer's and the hold it held on Phil for so long. A single tear fell down Chris' cheek when he realized that Phil could finally be at peace. No longer would confusion and sundowning plague him. No longer would he need to be fed through a tube. Phil was free, and with this revelation, Chris could be free, too.

Please Review!