Gonna be home awhile. (Anybody who stops by.)

Don't start.

No, really. Don't fucking start. He knows, there's nothing anybody can say that could possibly make him feel like more of a fuckup than he does right now, so just don't bother. Otherwise, he might get pissed off and that's a whole other story. It's visible by his stance, with a slight slump in the shoulders and the distracted look in his eye that he knows he fucked up. And that he's easy to irritate at the moment.

So right now, he's slumped on the couch, mindlessly flipping through the channels on the bigscreen TV. Xbox 360 can't hold his attention. He's really not answering his cell, either. It's on the charger in the other room. He's got a small bag of M&Ms on the table, along with his socked feet.

Could he use some company? Well, that depends. If you're going to get on his ass, go somewhere else. Otherwise, if somebody wants to stop by for a beer or whatever the fuck, he's home. And he's gonna be home for 60 days.

She was in Miami doing media when she found out about Randy's suspension. While there was justifiable reason enough to be angry with him, she couldn't find it in her to be. Disappointed was probably a better word for it. She called his cell first, and as expected, he didn't answer. She didn't leave a voicemail because she really didn't know what she wanted to say. She had settled on sending him a text that, again, got no response:

i heard. miami for the day. call if you want.

She flew into Tampa the next day and saw him on the couch. A small kiss on the cheek before immediately retreating into her room to put her clothes away was her way of saying that while she wasn't angry at him, she wasn't too thrilled with him either.

After her clothes were stowed away, she came back out and got him a bottle of water, sitting it on the table next to his M&Ms before sitting on the opposite end of the couch, curling her feet underneath her and looking at whatever program he had on the tv. "I called Ted earlier, he said he might stop by."

He hadn't called because he hadn't wanted to. He clearly isn't a phone person right now. But he had given her a text in reply, which was more than he'd done for a lot of the incoming texts:

k.

While "k." texts are normally grounds for someone to blink, squint and then go into a WTF tirade, any answer from him right now was probably more than she'd expected.

Since he was suspended anyway, don't be surprised that he's using. It's not like he's using recreationally, either: 10 years in this business does a lot to the body. It would've been legal if he'd made the trip to the doctor himself rather than borrow (well, buy) the same painkiller at the same dosage from somebody he knows at the gym. When she walked in the door, though, he instinctively shifted and moved the pill bottle behind the couch pillow.

He accepted the kiss to his cheek and his eyes followed her departure to the bedroom. He shoved over and made room for her when she returned, and said, "Cool", responding to what she'd said about Ted.

He hadn't realized until about that moment that he'd been holding his breath until she'd spoken. It was what she'd say that would dictate what he'd say, or do. Had she shown the disappointment any more overtly..her quiet manner speaks volumes, but he's ok with that...he probably would've gotten up, pocketed the orange plastic bottle into his sweatpants pocket, said something like "I'm gettin' the fuck outta here for awhile," and gone out. But she was being good with him, and so he remained pretty docile.

He grabbed for her kneecap to unfurl the foot out from under her. It was the closest of her body parts to him and he tugged until he got it, stretching out her leg and resting her foot on his thigh. His hand rested on the lowest part of her calf right above the ankle and his eyes went back to the TV. Just the mere act of the contact, though...yeah, she was definitely one of the people he'd allow around him now. Ted, too. ALTHOUGH HE'S NOT GOING TO HOLD TED'S ANKLE. FUCK YOU. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. MOVE.

She surrendered her other leg to him and placed that foot on his thigh as well. Mainly because she didn't know what he was initially trying to other than dislocate her knee, but eventually got the hint.

A few moments of comfortable silence before she asked, quietly and still looking towards the television, "How are you feelin'." She figured that was better than asking was he ok, because he obviously wasn't. To the naked eye, he looked to be alright physically. Dejected demeanor, but his hands looked fine which meant he hadn't punched any doors or walls and there wasn't a mark on his body from the skin that she -could- see, so he hadn't hurt himself. Of course she doesn't know that he's using, but there's no far-away or glazed look in his eyes to give her any reason to think that he was.

When you know a person for two years, you learn what makes them tick. If she would have walked in with a snotty attitude and asked what the fuck was up with him, she knew that he would have told her to fuck off and probably would have left too, and that would have made her mad. History has shown that when they're angry with each other, things aren't resolved for a long time. She didn't want that. While she is disappointed in him, she's not going to get on his head because he's probably got enough of that coming from Management and Cowboy. That's why she decided to take this approach, talking to him as casually as she could with her feet in his lap and watching tv, just like they would any other day.

His wrist and a small part of his hand rested on both her feet now, after she willingly surrendered the other one. His eyes were still on the TV but her words registered. A slight note of defensiveness could be picked up.

"Don't you believe anybody if you hear it's Dianabol, 'cause it ain't. I ain't retarded." Dianabol is one of the steroids made illegal a few years ago, but the reason it ain't that, isn't just because it's illegal, duh. It's because while some tests only show it for 4 days, there's a secondary test that can show positive results for 19 days, and the secondary tests are what the labs WWE use conduct. So fuck that.

Weed? Yeah. So what. That's a fine. He's dropped more than $2500 in a night at a strip club. Weed doesn't get you suspended. But he had tested positive for something else, something he'd had trouble with in the past, but something that was no less -required-. So it was a painkiller. Big deal.

Dilaudid's in the morphine family. Then again, so's heroin, except he's not shooting Dilaudid, nor would he buy it off a dealer. It was a legit prescription..just not one made out to him. You try living this life of his without something to kill the pain. Bet you couldn't. And not -you-, as in you, Davis, since you get him. But -you- as in anybody talking shit on him, and there are a lot of those right now.