Disclaimer: I don't own anything except my OC(s).

Thanks so much for the reviews for the last chapter! They mean so very much to me. I know that this update is way overdue, but school kind of got in the way and inspiration for this fic has been kind of fleeting. But here it is! Nothing much happens, but I hope that it is enjoyable regardless. Maybe it'll get me back into the swing of writing for this fic of mine. Again, I'm sorry the update came so late, but I do hope y'all enjoy!

Against the Tide
Chapter Three: Confusing Countenance

As cheesy as it sounded, the world stopped spinning.

Seriously, I swear to Jeebus.

The check looked so out of place in my hands. Okay, maybe not the check per se, but the amount on the check was completely and utterly insane.

In-sane.

I wasn't sure what to do, really. There seemed to be a million thoughts in my mind as well as none at all. I wondered if this was how Randy Orton felt on a daily basis before he started beating the ring half to death and doing the very thing his theme music indicated.

I actually, probably, very-much needed to be RKO-ed into reality at that moment.

Shaking my head and ridding myself of that childish reverie, I looked at Rose, who was occupying the guy at the bar. No one else in the restaurant that could implicate me in being the worst waitress in the world.

So I ran.

I wasn't sure why I was running - really, I wasn't. I'm going to just go with the realization that John Cena just left little ol' me a one hundred dollar tip. Or the fact that I'd been stunned by the number of zeroes on the check. I honestly don't remember a time that I had gotten a tip with one zero on the tail end of the number, let alone two.

I pushed the restaurant doors open and breathed in the sweet night air.

Darkness was the only thing that greeted me.

I wasn't sure what I was prepared to do. My mind had suddenly exploded with insults and indignant comments. Curse words and crude comments paraded through my brain. I supposed being vulgar was my security blanket.

My head twisted from side to side, searching for the man who had very clearly lost his mind and decided to either mock me by giving me more money than I deserved or...

Or he really was that nice.

Bullshit, I told myself. What kind of person did that? Give away money so haphazardly it was like giving away gum? Seriously.

I had done nothing to deserve such charity. And that was what it felt like. Charity. I wasn't sure what emotion I was actually feeling. So many were boiling around in my chest, swirling together so that I couldn't distinguish one from the other. I ran a hand through my hair and tangled my fingers in the strands, wishing beyond anything that I could just walk the few extra feet and pile into my car and just sleep there.

Of course, a voice in my head said, he does have a shit ton of money to throw around as well.

If I were to be honest with myself, I knew I didn't deserve the money at all. A part of me even felt guilty that he had decided to do such a thing to such an awful waitress. Such an awful person. It was something I was trying to rationalize within myself, why he would even contemplate giving me the amount of money he had.

The cool night air blustered against me, raising goosebumps on my arms and causing me to shiver just slightly. I hugged my arms around myself and closed my eyes, exhaling loudly and forcefully. The exhale turned into a growl halfway out of my chest, and I was glad that there weren't any other witnesses around. I'd hate to think they'd been hoping to come across Bigfoot when, in reality, it was a disgruntled, Cena-hating waitress with a freaking check for one hundred dollars in one fist.

It was then I realized I was, indeed, crumpling the check in my hand. I gave a yelp and frantically straightened out the paper in my hand, cooing at it as if it were my own child.

I kept staring at it as my fingers smoothed the wrinkles from the check. The writing was all still there - and still readable. The numbers, my name carefully spelled out, and Cena's signature at the very bottom. The writing was strangely pretty, unlike most male's handwriting I had been subjected to, and I found a smile creeping over my face despite myself.

I shook my head, wanting to rid myself of any and all Cena positivity.

Ugh, I'm going soft.

I looked up then, trying to find any sign of me being watched. Or filmed.

Maybe I was being Punk'd? Or on that one show the Miz was on? Hater, I think it was called, except it was spelled like H8ter for some godforsaken reason. Avril Lavigne probably produced that show.

Stop going off on tangents, Tessa! I told myself.

I saw no signs of movement. The only cars in the parking lot were mine and Rose's, James', and the rest of the workers. Plus the random fool at the bar that just wouldn't go home.

Sighing, I resigned myself to the fact that I probably would never know why exactly Cena gave me the tip he did. He was probably only at the humble little restaurant because he was hungry and it was on the way to his hotel room.

I would, most likely, never see him again.

Normally, this would not rub me the wrong way.

But, like you've probably realized, this was most certainly not a normal situation.

I ran my hand over my hair, wanting desperately to yank out a few strands. This was not the sort of thing that most people stressed out over, I knew. You get money, you are grateful. But when that money most certainly is not deserved and you get a generous - okay, more than generous - portion of it...yeah, that was when things get dicey.

I guessed I could be pretty noble when push came to shove.

Seeing that Cena had most definitely skeedaddled, I figured it would be appropriate to go back in the diner. My shoulders sagged in defeat, I opened the door and walked into the remainder of my shift.

"What was that all about?" Rose asked.

Not able to lie my way out of a paper bag, I presented her with the check.

Rose gaped.

There was a beat, and then she said, "That's John Cena's John Hancock. Do you know how much you can get for that on eBay?"

I fought the urge to cram the check down her throat.

I was sitting at a table, across from someone whose face I couldn't see. It was almost like watching one of those true life crime documentaries where the face of one of the victims had been blurred out.

A chuckling reached my ears, soft and masculine, not altogether unpleasant. It was different than the laughter I was used to. Fake and forced, a fabricated response to make me seem funnier than I thought I was, to get on my good side. This laughter was different. Interested and completely, utterly involved in what I was saying. The very notion of such a thing was enough to leave me speechless.

"So," the voice said, "I'm looking for the money I gave you."

A pause.

"Uh, what money?"

"You know," the man prodded. "The check."

"What?" I didn't like the direction this was going.

"You know you didn't deserve that money..." the voice continued, menacing. It was at this point I knew where this confrontation was going. "And you spent it - "

A dramatic pause as the lighting became harsh, revealing the face of John Cena. I gasped loudly as he pointed a large finger directly in my face.

" - on CM Punk merchandise!"

I looked down at myself, horrified at what I had done - and yet, not, because Punk had some pretty cool merch. My hands and forearms were taped and marked with X's as per usual of the Second City Saint. I was wearing the latest Punk shirt. I was wearing the Best in the World hooded jacket over that. I was even wearing his little wrestling trunks and the matching boots.

While I was sure I looked pretty badass, Cena had other ideas.

He reached forward and slipped a finger underneath the Punk beanie hat I didn't even realize I was wearing, stretched the elastic and then let go, smacking me in the forehead almost too violently for someone with the nickname 'Fruity Pebbles.'

"Ouch!" I exclaimed, grasping my forehead.

"You will give back the money you stole!"

"I didn't steal it!" I defended myself. "You gave it to me."

"You might as well have stolen it, you stupid, Punk-loving cow!"

Suddenly, the scenery changed and we were standing on a dock overlooking the ocean. The waves were fierce, looking as if they would overtake the wooden platform where we stood.

"H-Hold on, Cena, I can explain - "

"There is no explanation for being so greedy and mean!" Cena echoed, and it was like the voice of Morgan Freeman playing God in that one movie coming down and smacking in my face. "Zack! Jericho! Let's fit her for some cement shoes."

Out of nowhere, two sets of arms grabbed me. I looked frantically around and saw that it was, indeed, Zack Ryder and Chris Jericho, restraining me as Cena prepared the cement shoes, looking rather like a vaudvillian caricature.

"No! No! I didn't mean it!" Cena started to forcefully slip my feet into the cement as I started to plead. I turned to Jericho. "I love you!"

"I love no one dressed in Big Show merch," he replied, frightfully cold.

Then, I looked down at myself, seeing that my awesome Punk merch had morphed into Big Show's.

"Weeell, it's the Big Show," Zack began to sing.

"Nooooo!" I screamed melodramatically.

It was then, when my lungs were completely depleted of any oxygen I might have used to prolong my life, that they decide to hurl me off of the dock.

I crashed into the ocean, unable to even try to keep myself afloat due to those damn cement shoes. I sunk deeper and deeper. The salt water was invading my lungs and I swore I could hear the cackling of the wrestlers above and I was drowning and drowning and drowning because I suck so much -

I sat up in bed, panting heavily, feeling the urge to scream and claw my own eyes out. I was surprised I was in bed at all, as realistic as the dream was. I found that I was clenching my chest as if I were in some old dame from a black and white movie.

I glanced at the check, placed gently on my nightstand and held in place by one of the random paperweights I kept around the apartment.

"Damn you, Cena," I said to absolutely no one.

My decision was made then, I supposed. It was a crazy and possibly stalker-ish decision, but it was one that I needed to make in the wake of my crazy ass dream. I shuddered at the memory.

I grabbed my cell phone, punched in a number that I knew as well as my own, and waited.

As the half-awake voice of my best friend greeted me, I barked, "Drew? Yeah, it's Tessa, you dumbass. You still got those tickets to the WWE show in Philly next week?"

End Chapter Three.