୨ৎ .ᐟ 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ── aj styles.
. ݁₊ ⊹ plot: just some random-ass headcanons about you and aj styles while the two of you are married (this is 2008-tna aj styles)!
. ݁₊ ⊹ notes: THIS IS JUST TO KEEP YOU GUYS HAPPY AND FED WHILE I’M WORKING ON ONE OF MY BIGGER FICS YET TO COME!! ENJOY!!! :]
- no one really talks about how much of your relationship happens while traveling. in airport terminals, rental cars, hotel hallways that smell like carpet cleaner and regret. aj practically lives out of a duffel bag in 2008, annnddd somehow, you live in it too: your hoodie (always folded wrong), your shampoo bottle always taped shut because last time it exploded and he still teases you about “lavender attack, gate c.” he’s hyper-competent in the ring, but traveling turns him a little feral, and you’ve become the quiet constant that keeps him sane. the boarding passes are usually tucked into your passport, his hand automatically finding the back of his neck when he starts pacing. “i’m not anxious.”, he insists. he just… hates lines. hates waiting. hates not moving. you’re the pause button he forgets he needs.
- you learn his tells fast. the way he starts cracking his knuckles when the flight’s delayed. how he leans his shoulder into yours like a check-in without words. marriage to aj isn’t fireworks every day, but rather muscle memory. it’s knowing when to say something and when to just exist near him. sometimes that means leaning your head on his shoulder and letting him scroll through his phone pretending not to smile. sometimes it means reminding him to eat something throughout the trip that isn’t beef jerky. love, in moments like these, is maintenance. and you’re very good at it.
- you: “we’re boarding.”
- aj: “already??”
- you: “you’ve been staring at the departure screen like it owes you money.”
- aj: “…rude.”
- you: “c’mon, champ. you get aisle seat this time.”
- aj: “you spoil me.”
- you: “married you. legally obligated.”
- he always squeezes your hand a little tighter when the plane lifts off, like gravity’s the only thing he doesn’t trust. you don’t comment on it. you just let him anchor himself. when he finally relaxes, head tipping toward you, you think about how many versions of him exist out there and how lucky you are to get the quietest one.
- your house is a shrine to chaos and routine in equal measure. ring gear drying over chairs, wrist tape abandoned on the counter, his travel bible occasionally used as a paperweight because neither of you want the mail flying off of the kitchen counter. aj’s meticulous about the things that matter to him, and endearingly messy about everything else. you’ve learned not to move his stuff without warning—not because he’ll get mad, but because he genuinely won’t know where to find it afterward and will spiral for a solid five minutes.
- on nights before big matches of his, there’s a rhythm you both fall into. you sit on the floor while he tapes his wrists (practicing how he’ll tape them for tomorrow night), humming something you heard on the radio. he pretends not to listen, but he does. he always does. he asks you what color gear looks best under the arena’s lights even though he already knows your answer. he just likes hearing it.
- aj: “blue or red?”
- you: “blue. always blue.”
- aj: “you say that every time.”
- you: “and you still ask.”
- aj: “yeah, well… marriage means respecting tradition.”
- you: “pretty sure that’s not in my vows.”
- aj: “it was in mine!”
- afterward, when everything’s packed and ready for tomorrow, he sits beside you on the couch, quiet in that way that’s half-focus, half-calm. you rest your feet in his lap, and he absently rubs circles into your ankle like it’s a reflex. no speeches and no pep talks. just presence. you’ve learned that the best way to love him before a match is to be the place he can come back to afterward.
- backstage, you’re known. not a shadow, not a spectacle: just aj’s wife, who knows when to step in and when to disappear. the guys (samoa joe, kurt angle, christian cage, kazarian, and chris sabin) clock it early: he’s sharper when you’re around. calmer. like the volume’s been turned down just enough. you sit on road cases during shows, chatting with whoever wanders by, pretending not to notice how often aj glances your way. he does it without thinking, like a compass check. north is wherever you are.
- there’s a story that floats around about how you once handed him a towel post-match without even looking up, eyes still on the monitor. it gets exaggerated every retelling. by the fifth time, you’re basically a psychic. you let them have it. aj just laughs, shakes his head, and mouths, “they’re ridiculous.”, at you across the room. later, he’ll kiss your temple and say he likes that they know better than to mess with you.
- aj: “they think you’re magic.”
- you: “i handed you a towel.”
- aj: “yeah. perfectly.”
- you: “you were dripping sweat everywhere.”
- aj: “romantic.”
- you: “extremely.”, you reply, playfully rolling your eyes.
- off the road, life slows in a way that still surprises him. grocery runs where he insists on pushing the cart like it’s a competition. evenings where you cook and he “helps” by stealing bites and getting in the way. he’s playful at home, a little smug, a little flirty, like he’s still trying to win you over even though the ring’s already on your finger. he’ll drape himself over the back of the couch just to be close, arm heavy and warm across your shoulders, breath brushing your ear when he laughs.
- sometimes you catch him watching you from the doorway, expression unreadable, like he’s memorizing the moment. those are the nights he pulls you into a hug out of nowhere, chin resting on your head, sighing like he finally made it somewhere safe.
- you: “what??”
- aj: “nothin’.”
- you: “you’re doing that stare.”
- aj: “can’t i admire my wife?”
- you: “you can! just… warn me.”
- aj: “nah.”
- laundry night is the least glamorous ritual you two share, which is exactly why it works. gear piled up like evidence, socks that could stand up on their own, that faint detergent-and-sweat smell that means he’s bee home for more than 12 hours. aj insists on helping even though he folds like a man who’s never met a drawer before. you sit cross-legged on the floor, sorting colors, listening to him ramble in that low, unguarded way he saves for off days. it’s when the thoughts he doesn’t air anywhere else finally wander out. not fears (AJ doesn’t frame things that way), but questions, what-ifs, the weight of being relied on.
- he talks while you listen, and sometimes you answer, and sometimes you don’t. you learn the cadence of his honesty by the way he avoids eye contact until the hard part passes. you learn when to joke and when to let the hum of the dryer do the work for you.
- aj: “these go in the…??”
- you: “that drawer.”, you say, pointing to your sock drawer.
- aj: “they all look the same.”
- you: “they absolutely do not!”
- aj: “agree to disagree.”
- you: “you’re weaponizing incompetence.”
- aj: with a dramatic gasp, “i’m wounded.”
- later, when everything’s folded wrong but done, he bumps his shoulder into yours and thanks you like the night required effort beyond being together. you kiss his cheek anyway.
- after particularly brutal matches, there’s a hush that settles over him like dust. not sulking; processing. you recognize it instantly. you sit with him on the edge of the hotel bed, unlacing boots, fingers careful where his ribs ache. adrenaline drains slow, and he lets you be the one thing that doesn’t ask for anything. this is when he’s most gentle, like he’s afraid to spill whatever’s left if he moves too fast.
- you don’t talk about the matches unless he does. you talk about dinner plans for the days following, the weather back home in georgia, that dumb show you both pretend not to like. it anchors him. he leans his forehead to yours, breath evened out, and you feel the shift when the world clicks back into place.
- aj: “did i scare you?”
- you: “only when you didn’t text after.”
- aj: “sorry.”
- you: “don’t be. just… come back to me after.”
- aj: “always.”
- when he finally stands, steadier now, he kisses your knuckles like a promise made without witnesses.
- on rare off days, you drive until the road gets quiet enough to forget who he is to everyone else. baseball caps, sunglasses, diner booths that don’t care. aj relaxes in places where nobody expects him to perform. he orders breakfast like it’s a ritual, tips too much, smiles at kids who recognize him, but doesn’t make a thing of it. you watch the way his shoulders drop when anonymity wraps around him.
- you hold hands under the table, legs tangled, talking about nothing important. it’s a vacation without a plane ticket. he steals fries, you steal his jacket, and for a few hours, the world doesn’t need him.
- you: “they know it’s you.”
- aj: “do they?”
- you: “they’re whispering.”
- aj: “let ‘em.”
- you: “you sure?”
- aj: “yeah. i’m with you.”
- some nights, sleep won’t take him. he paces softly, careful not to wake you, thoughts as loud as your usual tna crowd. you always wake anyway, even if he’s making the least amount of noise possible. you sit up, open your arms, and he comes to you like it’s a habit. no explanations needed. you press your ear to his chest and count his breaths until the noise of the room fades.
- you talk in murmurs. plans for nothing days, the dog you’ll get someday, the color you’ll paint the spare room. he traces idle patterns on your arm, grounding himself in the real.
- you: “you okay??”
- aj: “gettin’ there.”
- you: “want me to stay up?”
- aj: “just stay.”
- …sometimes… the car breaks down. not in a metaphorical sense, like an actual vehicle you two own stops working. smoke, the hazard lights are on, the whole cliché. it happens somewhere forgettable, off an exit with one gas station. aj pops the hood like he can fight the engine into submission, jaw set, sleeves rolled. you lean against the door with crossed arms, not worried, just watching him work through it the same way he works through everything else: stubborn first, methodical second.
- he doesn’t get embarrassed when strangers recognize him stranded on the side of the road. he just nods, polite, a little distracted. when it’s clear the car isn’t moving anytime soon, he sighs and leans his forehead against yours like he’s conceding a round.
- aj: “it’s not lookin’ great.”
- you: “we stranded?”
- aj: “temporarily.”
- you: “wow, so romantic.”
- aj: “don’t push it.”
- you end up laughing in the waiting room of a tiny mechanic shop, sharing a vending machine soda, knees touching. later on, the car eventually starts again, and he squeezes your hand like the universe did you two a favor by slowing you both down.
- you notice it during shows: he forgets his surroundings when he’s locked in. names blur and time compresses. it’s not some form of “better than you” arrogance, but focus. you stand at ringside sometimes near the timekeeper’s area, out of the camera’s eye, watching the switch flip in him. afterward, when he comes back through the curtain, still half somewhere else, you’re the first familiar thing he sees.
- he blinks, breathes, and the world clicks back into place.
- aj: “did i win?”
- you: “you did!”
- aj: “hah. figured.”
- you: “realll humble.”
- aj: “i married you. more so balance.”
- he admits that hearing your voice cuts through everything. not the crowd. not the music. you. it’s grounding, in the way a lighthouse doesn’t chase ships, but exists to guide them. but, you never tease him about it. you just keep showing up where you know he’ll find you.
- your phone is a museum of missed calls and then voicemails saved on purpose. aj leaves them without thinking. half-asleep, post-gym, mid-drive. they’re not poetic, but they’re sincere, which matters more to you. you play them back when he’s gone too long, when the house is quiet in a way that feels personal.
- one night, you let him hear one he forgot he left. his ears go pink. he laughs, half-mortified, half-soft.
- aj: “i sound ridiculous.”
- you: “you sound in love.”
- aj: “delete it!”
- you: “never!”
- aj: “ughhh, you’re evil.”
- you: “married you. warned ya!”
- once in a while, there’s a formal event. suits. ties. expectations. the whole shebang. aj cleans up well, but he hates how stiff it feels. you help him with the tie, fingers careful, standing close enough that his hands settle on your hips without permission. he watches you in the mirror, expression softer than his outfit suggests.
- you smooth his lapels. he exhales like he’s bracing for impact.
- aj: “i don’t belong here.”
- you: “you belong with me.”
- aj: “that’s different.”
- you: “same thing.”
- aj: “…yeah.”