After seeing the infamous match on Friday night, I couldn't resist the urge to let my mind run wild. So here are my thoughts on what happened next and why.

Written from Randy's POV - my first time in a slash context, so please don't shoot me.

Inspiration from Gloria by Patti Smith - something about that song just makes me think C-A-N-D-Y. And if you don't agree, then at least agree it is one epic song.

And if the mood takes you, think of this is a loose spin off from Garden of Eden...

DISCLAIMER: I do not own either Randy Orton or Cody Rhodes. Life is so unfair. Nor do I own Patti Smith's immense lyrics.

WARNING: Slash. In huge abundance

Enjoy x

Guilty Conscience

Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine.
Gloria, Patti Smith

I rest my hands against the wall, bracing myself against the heat of the water. It pummels my back, massaging the tired, aching muscles. I blink streams of water out of my eyes and watch as the sweat and oil mixes with the water and trickles down my body – the norm after any match. Only tonight, the water is slowly turning a faint shade of pink.

I thought I had wiped most of the blood off before I came backstage. Obviously not. I watch as a thin pink stream runs from under my arm, down my chest, my stomach, slip-sliding it's way under my bellybutton and then following the groove my pelvis, disappearing into the bend between my leg and torso, tantalisingly close to my cock.

It's like my whole body is pulsing, adrenaline still coursing through me, clouding my mind, my vision. Everything seems to blur into one, images spinning around and around, until I calm down enough to press pause and take it all in. A dull ache slowly becomes a sharp, agonising pain. Images go from black and white to full technicolor. Blood breaking through peachy skin, blood soaked towels and blood streaked across my arms, chest. The bitter taste of metal on the tip of my tongue. Was that real? Or just my imagination?

I shut off the shower and wipe water from my face. Outside, the locker room still seems deadly quiet. In this mood, I need the alone time. Time to gather my thoughts, calculate my next move. I wrap a towel around my waist and leave a trail of watery footprints in my wake.

Sitting on the bench, I rest my head in my hands. There was something in his eyes. I remember that much. The crowd was still screaming, chanting, gasping for breath, but I couldn't hear anything. Everything seemed to fade to black around us. A deafening silence as actions slowed to an almost halt and then someone pressed fast forward and turned the volume up at the same time.

I shiver. Grabbing my shirt I pull it around me and fumble with the buttons, noticing that my hands are trembling. Coming down sucks. But usually I feel strangely calm. Right now, I feel sick with dread.

I have to find him. I need to find him.

I finish getting dressed and stuff my gear haphazardly into my bag. Swinging it over my shoulders, I head off down the corridor towards the medical room. But as I near, I can't quite bring myself to barge in. I can barely muster the courage to knock gently.

Pausing a few metres away, I lean against the wall and feel the toe end of my boots dig into my back. Usually, I hang backstage, waiting for him to emerge. We usually walk leisurely back to the locker room, exchanging thoughts, highlights, improvements. In front of everyone, we shake hands or hug it out, a slap on the back, a cuff around the head. And then later, we unwind in the only way we know how.

But tonight was different. Right from the start. No backstage banter beforehand. Something had changed. Was it me? Was it him? I could feel the anger building in me. No need for characterisation tonight. The burning rage, frustration had been mounting in my stomach, my chest, swelling in my head, counting down, waiting for a release.

It wasn't like tonight was unexpected – it was planned down to the last minute detail. But I just didn't expect to feel the way I did when I saw him walk down the ramp. I didn't expect my anger to over-take my control. The incessant rage clouding my judgement, blocking out everything and for a brief moment, his face disappeared and everything became a blur.

The door to the medical room swings open and my heart skips a beat. But I'm sorely disappointed, or perhaps it's relief. He catches my eye and I raise my eyebrows questioningly.

"He's fine. They're just cleaning him up. You can go in there if you want."

I shake my head. Clear my throat. "Can you tell him I'll be outside?"

He nods and disappears back inside. I take the opportunity to leave unnoticed.

Outside, I light up a cigarette, but stub it out almost immediately. The taste is bitter and the nicotine doesn't hit the usual spot. So I fiddle with the car keys instead and wait anxiously for the door next to me to open. I tug my cell phone out of my bag and switch it back on. It buzzes almost instantly, but I choose to ignore it. Having seen who it's from, I can almost predict what they will be saying. And I'm in no mood for it.

The door bangs open and I turn to see him, his hood up, face half covered.

"They said you were waiting. Why didn't you come in to see me?"

I shrug. I want to reach out, push the hood back and...

"I've got to go back to the hotel room and rest."

"I'll drive you."

"I thought you'd want to go out with the others."

"Not really in the mood."

Even in the darkness, I can see the doubt crossing his face, the raised eyebrow. "When did you quit the traditional post-match beer?"

I shrug again. Actions are so much easier than words. I jangle my keys, push off the wall and walk across the parking lot to the car. He follows a few steps behind. I open the trunk and swing my own bag inside, turn and go to take his from him. His fingers slip over mine briefly, the tingling sensation of his touch running like electrical currents over my skin. But instead of feeling ecstasy, I feel guilt.

He sits in silence all the way back to the hotel. He stares out of the passenger window at the dark nothingness. With the lights off, the street lights only lighting up the interior every so often, I can't even read his features, let alone figure out his body language. Even after a bad match, he's more animated than this.

We crawl into the city traffic, turn off after a while, slip around the back of the hotel; benefits of an underground parking lot. I swing the car into the first available slot and cut the engine. He makes to get out, but I reach out and grab his wrist.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Can't be nothing. You haven't said a word for the past half hour. Normally I can't get you to shut up," I try to smile, but my mouth refuses to cooperate.

Now it's his turn to shrug.

"I said I'm sorry."

"You're always sorry."

I let go of his wrist and he slams the door. I punch the steering wheel. The horn blasts sharply and I swear.

I can see him hovering by the trunk, but I deliberately take my time getting out. There is no way I'm letting him disappear off to the room, shut himself in the bathroom and not talk to me for the rest of the night.

But I don't know what else I can do. I can say sorry a thousand times for everything I ever done to him, but it never seems to make the slightest difference. Our good times are good, but our bad times... It's like hell on earth.

And a match like that doesn't help anyone. All through the planning, he stared blankly at me. He nodded, as if bored by the whole thing and now he's acting like it all happened deliberately. Like I just happened to plan a fucking blood bath right in the middle of our current two week spat.

I walk around to the trunk, get our bags out and hurry after him as he scuttles away to the elevator. I manage to join him in the elevator before the doors close and I lose him to ten floors. He scowls at my presence.

I watch is reflection in the mirrored doors. His eyes meet mine briefly. He looks away, but not for long. He holds my gaze steadily as we climb the floors.

All this because I made a mistake. I would call it an error of judgement. I made an assumption that turned out to be wrong. But was I supposed to think? And now I've had to live with the anger that seems to seep out of his every pore. And then tonight. When he looked at me, blood in his eyes, I was the one who felt fucking guilty.

The doors slide open and we walk silently down the corridor. His hand brushes against mine every few steps, an unintentional move, but to me, it says so much. The ice is beginning to thaw. As we near our room, I pluck up the courage to ask.

But I can barely open my mouth before he cuts me off.

"If you say sorry one more time..."

"Is all forgiven then?"

He shrugs.

"Fuck's sake Cody. You can't hold this over my head for much longer."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not fair."

"Not fair? What's not fair is you thinking that I would fuck around behind your back."

"You didn't exactly help the situation?"

"And you didn't exactly stop and think did you?"

I shut up. Words are meaningless when he's like this.

Inside the room, I head for the window, open it up and take a breath. Then I light a second cigarette and pray this one does what it's supposed to.

Cody slumps onto the bed, turns on the TV.

I glance over at him, watch his his fingers rub the bare skin between his t-shirt and sweatpants. He chews his lip and then catches my eye. I look away quickly.

The cigarette smoke burns my throat as I inhale and exhale, as I try and think of something to say. Something not stupid.

"What would you have done, if you were me?" Shit, definitely the most stupidest thing I could have said.

"I would have believed my boyfriend," he shoots back.

I raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

He pouts and for the first time in a while, I remember how fucking hot that used to be. "Okay... Maybe not... I might have jumped to conclusions too."

"I never said I didn't believe you. You just assumed I didn't."

"You never bothered to correct me."

"What's the point? You wouldn't have believed me. You would said that was guilt talking."

"Well you obviously believed something. You haven't even attempted to come near me since then. Only in the ring. It's like you're repulsed by me."

I stare at him, wide-eyed. He really believes that?

"I haven't come near you because I'm worried I might not come away with all my limbs attached!" I attempt to lighten the mood. It works, sort of.

His lips twitch. For a split second, I think we're going to be okay. And then he scowls. "Well maybe you did believe me, you would have tried anyway."

I groan. "Fuck, Cody. Why do I always have to be the one in the wrong? You hold things over my head, make me feel so damn guilty, force me to apologise when maybe you're the one who should be apologising to me. Maybe if you acted less like a fucking kid and more like an adult, you'd understand why I felt what I felt when I saw you and..."

"Nothing happened!"

"I know that. But maybe at the time, I felt like something could have happened." I run my hand over my head, as I stub the cigarette out.

"So you don't trust me?"

"I trust you."

"Prove it."

I glare at him. "Prove it? I'm still fucking here aren't I?"

He stays quiet.

"I knew tonight was a bad idea."

He still says nothing.

"You knew what was going to happen, yet somehow you even manage to turn that on me, make me feel wracked with guilt."

He bites his lip.

I sigh. "Let me look at your head."

"Why? There's nothing to see."

"It looked bad. Worse than I thought it would get."

"It's fine."

I approach the bed. He stares up at me, anger pulsing from his eyes. So much hate.

"Why'd you hate me Codes?"

"I don't."

"Then stop acting like you do."

I reach out and cup his chin, raising his head slightly, forcing me to look at me straight in the eyes. He can never look away. I push back the hood with my other hand and tilt his head to see the damage. A few minor stitches, nothing serious like he said. The relief that floods through me is palpable. For a moment, when I saw the blood on the towels, on my hands, I thought the worst. My judgement was bad, my mind exaggerating the smallest of details, underestimating him entirely.

'You were so angry," he murmurs. "And I felt horrible. I felt guilty, for what I did. I didn't sleep with him," he says quickly, "but I knew that I had done a stupid thing. The way you looked at me. I felt disgusting. And even when you said you believed me, I just felt worse because... I don't know. All your trust in me was torn to shreds. And in the ring, I know you always say you never mix the two, but it just felt... It's felt all too real. And tonight... You just went crazy and I know it was planned and I was expecting it, but it just felt too much. The way you looked at me. I thought you hated me."

I stare into his unblinking eyes, lose myself in the endless abyss. "I don't hate you. I just... I lost control."

"It's okay..." He touches my hand lightly, his fingertips like feathers, stroking over the skin between thumb and finger and then under, tickling my palm and then tracing the thick veins in my wrist. His mouth sinks down and captures my thumb between his lips.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Me too..."

I lean down and capture his lips, my thumb still in the way. He bites it softly and then releases it, his tongue hot on mine. His hands cup the back of my head as he pulls me over him, the bed creaking at the added weight.

I pull at the hem of his shirt, pulling it, sliding my hands under it. It feels so good to have him back in my arms – no hidden agenda, nothing holding either of us back. Feelings are laid bare, apologies accepted and the slow, soft making up can begin.

I know that he probably aches more than I do right now – his body took the brunt of my frustration and although half hour ago, I was ready to tear into him again, right now, all I want to do is make it up to him.

He moans as I pinch his nipple, hisses as I tug at his bottom lip. And then he groans in appreciation as I flip him over and dig my thumbs firmly into his shoulder muscles. I edge his shirt further up, my hands sliding over his back, seeking out the tight knots, working them loose. He shrugs the t-shirt off and lies back down, a contented smile (the first I've seen for a while) gracing his lips.

I move lower, working the muscles of his lower back and every so often I lean forward, run my tongue over the back of his neck, grinning as he shivers. I work the waistband of his sweatpants down, grateful that for once he decided against his usual jeans. I can't resist any longer. I nip the back of his neck, the noise from his throat going straight to my cock, and then trail my tongue down his spine, taking note of every single tremor.

The peachy skin of his ass is revealed as I reach the small of his back. I sink my teeth into the tempting flesh, inhale the smell of his shower gel and let his soft moan reverberate around my head.

"Turn over..."

As he does, I tug his pants down even further, his cock springing free, almost hitting my chin. He starts to prop himself, but I push him back down.

"Just enjoy," I whisper, licking my lips as I watch him close his eyes and take a deep breath to steady himself.

I flick my tongue over the tip, over and over again. The sheets rustle as he twists his fists into them. I lap at the underside, down to his balls and back up again. Down again... Lower this time. He flinches in surprise. And then relaxes into me. I take him into my mouth, keeping the pace slow, steady. A tentative hand creeps onto my shoulder, then to the back of my neck, where it tightens. I let him set the pace, widening my mouth as much as possible, relaxing my throat as the tip goes deeper. After everything, it's the least either of us deserve.

His fingers stroke the nape of my neck, softly as first and then his nails start to dig. His hips buck higher, my nose hitting his pelvis quicker with every thrust. I slide a hand down, grip the back of his leg and shift it higher. His foot rests on my shoulder, his toes digging in. My finger slides down, slips easily inside. He clenches around it, as he lets out a string of curses. I add another, scissoring them as he explodes, warm, sticky streams hitting the back of my throat. His hand still clenches and unclenches the back of my neck as I ease him from my mouth.

He stares at me with unfocused eyes, as I kneel in front of him and pull him towards me, draping his legs over my thighs. As I lean down to the side of the bed, I can feel the tip of my cock rub against his ass. He moans wantonly, pleading, begging. I refuse to go him in dry tonight. Enough hurt. I retrieve the lube and douse my cock and fingers with the stuff.

I push in one, two... He grinds down and they slide into the hilt in one go. A third... He tenses for a second, then smiles softly, swivelling his hips. I toy with the idea of a fourth, but I decide I can't wait much longer. I need to be inside him. I need to feel that insatiable heat surround me.

Gripping his hip with one hand and my cock in the other, I slowly push into him. His back arches, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he lets out a low moan. I sink all the way in and then pause. His walls grip me hard. His eyes flicker open and that contented smile crosses his lips. I lean forward, feel his legs wrap firmly around my waist and capture his lips as I start to move, slowly at first and then getting steadily faster. His hands slide from my arms to my face and then back to arms, his fingers digging hard. His hot breath on my mouth, the half-words, the half-moan, groans, hisses echoing between us.

The bed creaks.

The headboard bangs against the wall.

I slide my hands under his ass, spreading him wider as I thrust deeper, harder. His teeth sink into my flesh as I howl and break loose inside him. I collapse, breathless onto him, barely aware of his hands caressing my back or the hardness that's digging me in the stomach.

I slide from him and move back.

"Sorry..." I say, gesturing down.

He grins. "Who says we're finished?"

Fin x