The midday sun is warm, even if the Undertaker’s demeanor is chilled at best. He had heard, some time ago, that Edge was back in the game. It both had been and hadn’t been a surprise. He had known the Rated R Superstar once, long ago. If it was still the same Edge, he never knew when to stay down. Tenacity, some would call it. Bull-headedness, some others would say. It was a common trait in their line of work, but Edge… Boy had it in spades, for better or worse.
The Undertaker is of the opinion that the ‘worse’ is what brought him back here, to the Valley. He hasn’t been keeping up with the locker room politics like he used to - in fact, he’s distanced himself pretty effectively. He is retired, after all. He served his time. The ones he cared most about, he had right here in the Valley. But he still heard whispers. (He still checked in from time to time. … Even if it meant that he had to be reminded to keep himself to himself.)
All this to say, yes, he’d heard about the Judgement Day. Word had reached his little slice of– Well, not heaven, but close enough. He’d heard that his own name had been thrown around. He hadn’t cared. He’d almost expected it. On top of being stubborn, Edge had also always been prideful.
He wasn’t seeing that now. The Deadman shifted his weight back, looking up and down at the man standing on his porch. It was definitely still Edge. Older, now, more haggard, the weight of some as of yet unknown guilt shackling itself to his shoulders, but still the same as he’d been all those years ago in the Ministry. (Disobedient, unfaithful, vermin, hisses a voice long since silenced. He ignores it.)
“You got a lotta nerve coming around here, boy.” He says, though he does step fully outside and close the door behind him. He doesn’t interrupt when his ‘guest’ speaks. ‘I need help’, Edge says, and the reaper thinks that might be an understatement. Whatever brought him here had to be dire. He notes, silently, that it’s a good thing Kane isn’t here. Things would’ve gotten very heated very fast. Hell, for all Edge had put Kane through - and the Undertaker himself, but that was less important - he was lucky he wasn’t tasting the reaper’s shoe leather right now. … And Edge probably knew that, too. This couldn’t have been an easy trip to make. That would explain why he seemed so sombre. No more jokes, no more quips, no more sharp-fanged grins. The boards creak as the Undertaker shifts his weight (he’d have to check them out later, make sure they didn’t need to be repaired. It didn’t look good on the business). His arms are crossed over his chest, brow furrowed, and he listens.
Even before Edge adds the names of the Judgement Day’s more innocent victims, there is conflict hiding behind the Undertaker’s stoic gaze. Can he really turn his back on someone who needs him? Can he really be like–?
He sighs. Hangs his head, closes his eyes.
There it was. The trump card. As well as the Undertaker liked to think he knew Edge, Edge knew him in kind. And Edge knew he wouldn't say no to that. The Undertaker didn't like many people, but Rey Mysterio was a good man. An honest man. (Almost reminded him of–) This wouldn’t be the first time Taker had stuck his neck out for him. And his son - Dominik - was barely more than a boy. Neither of them deserved this.
The reaper looks up again, tilts his head - listening to something only he can hear - then, with a slight nod, the door behind him opens again, and he turns.
“You might wanna come inside - we have a lot to talk about.”
