summary: tyler comes home with a wound from a match
a/n: i wrote this before he was released no I will not be changing his name
Tyler laid with his head across your lap. His eyes were focused on the television but you could tell he was barely clinging to consciousness. His golden hair was sprawled out behind him, creating delicate waves against your body. As you ran your fingers through the tawny locks he leaned into your touch like a contented cat.
There was a deep, burgundy and violet wound just below his eye, running down the length of his cheekbone. Black stitches were roughly sewn along the injury. You hadn’t expected him to come home like that.
You understood his job and the career path he had chosen. You understood it meant sometimes he got injured and sometimes he would bleed. He had come home with broken legs and ankles. Not very often but often enough that it wasn’t really anything more than a nuisance for you. But occasionally it would take you by surprise. He always tried to call you after the matches, to let you know how it went, to let you know if something had happened but sometimes he forgot. Sometimes he’d come home with a black eye or a laceration or a brace attached to a joint and it would catch you off guard.
That’s what happened yesterday.
The evening had crept along as you waited for him to return home. You tried to forget the nightmare of a day you had endured by losing yourself in the pasta sauce bubbling on the stove. You knew Tyler would be home soon and the tension would truly melt away the moment he had his arms wrapped around you.
The door opened and closed. A bag hit the floor.
“Hey, darling. I’m home.” He called out into the house.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
You could hear his footfalls approaching, his arms wrapping around your waist. He buried his head in the crook of your neck and took a deep breath before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You smiled. He was home. Home and safe. Sharing the same space, breathing the same air as you.
“I’m gonna need you to sew my trunks. They got a little torn on the side last night.”
You nodded. You hadn’t gotten to see the match but mending his gear was commonplace for you. You could feel him relax against you and it gave you a sense of peace. Gently, you brought a hand behind you and ruffled his hair. You ran that hand down his cheek and felt him wince. The rough texture was strange and not at all what you had expected to encounter.
This caused you to turn. And there it was. The stitches. The bruising.
“What happened?” You had asked, a hand falling to your hip.
“Nothing. Just took a kick wrong.”
It wasn’t nothing. It was a massive wound that had clearly required the help of doctors to ensure its proper healing. A massive wound that had probably bled a lot. A massive wound that you weren’t there to worry about in the moment. And there was something about that that hurt you.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“It was late. I didn’t want to wake you up when I figured I could tell you about it now.” His voice was gentle but it still upset you. He took your hand in his and he held it with the utmost care. “It’s fine though. Just a little cut, that’s all.”
It sat with you though. It was difficult to spend so much time apart and it was even more difficult to know there might be times where he got hurt and you wouldn’t know.
You weren’t able to enjoy dinner with the stitches staring back at you and you felt horrible that you couldn’t look past them to enjoy the night. You became withdrawn and decided against laying on the couch with him, opting to go to bed early instead. He found you curled up on your side, your eyes open and scrolling through social media. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. You were acting like a child but he still had a patient smile curling the corners of his mouth.
“Not gonna talk to me?” He asked.
“I’m just tired.” It was a lie and you knew it was and he knew it was but he tolerated it.
“I guess I’m tired too, then.” He shrugged, crawling in beside you.
You didn’t make a move, disinterested in breaking down the frustrated and begrudging wall you had built. But it meant nothing to him, his arms reaching around your side, pulling you closer. He peppered your shoulder with kisses, running them up your neck, to your cheek and back down again. You had to force yourself not to smile.
“Why’re you upset with me?” His voice was calm and kind.
“Why didn’t you tell me you got hit like that?”
“I told you. I figured I’d tell you when I got back here. No reason to make you worry when it was just a silly bump.”
“The guy could’ve taken your eye out.” You muttered into the pillow, your phone now down by your side.
Tyler brought the arm that originally lay against your waist, up and across your chest, as if it were a seatbelt holding you safely for the ride.
“But he didn’t.”
You didn’t say anything. He was also silent, the only sound between the two of you being rhythmic breathing. Finally, he let out a small sigh and relented in a way that was almost unnoticeable. You couldn’t feel it in his body or his arms but in his presence itself.
“Listen.” He turned you towards him and you unhappily felt your body roll accordingly to face the man you loved. “Sometimes this stuff happens. But it's okay. I’m safe. Nothing bad will happen to me.”
“It might one day.” You blurted out, your true feelings suddenly on display.
“It won’t.” His voice was firm and resolute. “As long as I’ve got you waiting for me at home I’ll always be coming back to you in one piece.”
He found your hands mixed in with the sheets and the duvet and laced his fingers through yours. He didn’t look you in the eyes right away, more focused on this moment of touch than anything else. When he did bring his gaze to meet yours it was clear, in spite of the darkness. His eyes were a gentle plea with you, asking you to understand he meant everything he said.
“I won’t let anything hurt me.” He murmured. “Only I can control that and I will for you.”
You waited a moment before allowing a small nod. A small acceptance of him, stitches and all.
So, there you sat. An evening removed from his return to the home you shared, his head on your lap, your hand in his hair. Occasionally, you took breaks from combing your hand through his locks to focus on finishing sewing the tear in his trunks.
With each movement of your needle, you brought them back together, into one whole piece. Back into one contiguous cloth, one unbroken garment.
Tyler looked up at you and sleepily smiled. You smiled back.
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Eddie Kingston talks about mental health, Tyler Rust talks about his WWE release, Bianca Belair says she learned she'd lose to Becky Lynch at the "very, very, very last minute."
Tyler Rust x Reader
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,600
Summary: It’s like he never left
“You didn’t pick up,” you said, walking into his apartment.
He only stepped aside to let you in, staring at you. His arm was out of the sling but still wrapped up. His apartment was still pristine, somehow, and you had to take a moment to admire that.
“I was asleep,” he mumbled.
“Been sleeping a lot more lately,” you said. He made a noise, but said nothing else. You set the bags down on his counter, careful to keep the food from spilling out, turning to face him.
He didn’t look at you, instead walking back to the couch where the TV was still on, sitting down slowly, wincing in pain.
“How’s the arm?” you asked.
“Fine,” he said, shrugging, but even that seemed to be painful from the way his face scrunched.
“I brought dinner. I figured you probably hadn’t eaten yet. I haven’t, either.”
He nodded,
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“And some other stuff. Those cookies you like, the ones from that weird health store all the way across town. Some juice since I know you’re out, and these plums that I got from the farmer’s market this morning.”
He said nothing, and only nodded.
You sighed loudly, hoping to get some sort of reaction out of him, but you were pretty sure he was half asleep at this point.
So you put the stuff away, following the organized pattern he had throughout his cupboards.
You took the food out into plates, hoping that maybe this would force him into some interaction. All you were looking for was him sitting at the table with you.
You weren’t asking for much.
Not even a conversation.
Just…
Proximity.
The kitchen was neat, hardly touched, you realized. The trash was piling up, but everything else was clean.
You looked around at the rest of the apartment, everything else just as untouched. His bedroom door was ajar, and you could see the corner of his bed, covers thrown to the floor, sheets wrinkled.
In the corner of his living room sat his guitar, and in the last rays of afternoon sun, you could see the dust gathering over it, untouched for longer than you would’ve thought.
“You’re not playing anymore?” you asked, nodding to it.
He turned his head slowly to look at it, eyes lingering on it for longer than he should have, before turning back to you and raising the bandaged arm.
“Can’t really do that right now,” he mumbled.
You sighed,
“It’s been longer than that,” you said, making your way to him. Still, you waited at the edge of the couch, watching him, his head dropped back against the seat, eyes closed, arms loosely crossed over his chest.
He hadn’t been sleeping, not regularly, and you knew he was dozing off during the day to make up for it.
“Lemme see your hand,” you said, softly, holding out your hands to him.
He lifted the bandaged arm, without looking,
“No,” you said, sitting down beside, pushing that hand away. “This one.”
You picked up his right hand, and turned it over in yours. Rough and calloused palms, skin peeling at his knuckles, old cuts long since healed lighter in color over his hands, slightly raised.
You’d finally gotten his attention, lifting his head slightly just to look at you, watching as you examined his hand.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you said, softly, “that everything’s blocked right now. That you’re not getting anywhere.”
“It’s been three months,” he mumbled. He sat back, but left his hand in yours,
“And I know these things take time,” you continued, a new edge to your voice, “but how much longer are you going to hide?”
“I’m not hiding,” he mumbled.
You pulled his face towards you, but still his eyes averted, choosing to stare at the ground instead.
“You will have your moment,” you said, softly, “but not like this. Not when you’ve neglected everything around you.”
You felt his jaw clench.
Finally, he looked at you, eyes glossy, the bags under them deeper and darker,
“I’m so tired of this,” he whispered.
You smiled, as best you could, and nodded,
“You have done so much in so little time,” you said, “let yourself breathe.”
“Diamonds are made under pressure, right?” he mumbled.
“And dough rises when it rests! And flowers grow in the spot you leave them in!” you said. “It’s not going to be the same every time.”
“If I’m not there? If they’re not seeing me every week, then I may as well not do this at all. It’s already like I don’t exist to them!”
His voice cracked over the words,
“No one’s forgotten you,” you whispered.
“That’s exactly what’s happening,” he said.
You gripped his chin tighter, holding him in place and forcing him to look at you,
“So leave,” you said.
He looked at you, confused, opening his mouth to respond but shutting it almost immediately.
“What?”
You shrugged,
“Leave. Like you said, you don’t exist to them anymore, so why stay on?”
His brows furrowed, confusion turning into insult, into unreadable anger,
“Why would I do that?” he asked.
“You just gave some pretty good reasons,” you said.
“You think I should leave? My-my dream job? The one thing I’ve done all my life, the one thing I’m good at? I should just leave that because, why? I’m sad?”
You sat back, watching him as he spoke, bandaged hand flailing around as he spoke, a smile growing on your face the longer he went on.
“If you think I’m just gonna quit then you’re wrong and you don’t know me at all,” he finished, standing up in front of you.
“But I didn’t say all that,” you finally said, “you did.”
He stopped, his back turned to you. You could see his shoulders tense, one hand curled into a ball, just before he relaxed and turned back to you, an exhausted smile on his face,
“I hate it when you do that,” he mumbled.
You took him by the hands and pulled him down beside you, lacing your fingers together, and pressing a kiss to his bandaged hand,
“See how ridiculous all of that sounds?” you asked.
He nodded, pulling your hands up to his chest, keeping them there.
“It’s not going to last forever. Not this break, not this feeling, none of it. You have worked so hard to get here, why would you ruin it for yourself like this?”
He sighed, leaning in to kiss you,
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling back,
“Don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re tired and I understand, but you can’t do that to yourself. You deserve better.”
“I just…” he started before sighing and falling back into the couch, “I feel blocked. Like, there’s nothing in front of me and the harder I try to be positive about it the more it feels like I’m just...stuck.”
You nodded,
“It will pass,” you said, resting your head on his chest, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders, “sooner than you think, too.”
He looked down at you,
“You know something I don’t, sunshine?” he asked.
You smiled up at him,
“Only that the dinner I spent all day making is getting cold, and I’m trying to cheer you up as quickly as possible so we can eat.”
He smiled wide, eyes crinkling with it as he kissed you again,
“Thank you,” he said, this time, still not moving, “for putting up with me.”
You watched him for a moment, rubbing your thumb over his chin, the prickle of his stubble more satisfying than you’d remembered,
“We make it work, don’t we? No matter what.”
He sighed.
“Your time will come,” you said again, “and when you get back out there, I promise you it’ll be like you never left at all.”
He shook his head, but smiled, still,
“When you say it I believe it,” he said.
“You should. And not because I’m saying it, but because it’s how the world works. From now on, you let the world work its magic and let yourself be moved with it.”
He nodded,
“I promise,” he said.
“That’s my guy,” you said, softly, “let’s have dinner.”
His appetite came back, the two of you eating on the balcony instead of the dining table, as the muggy air slowly tapered off, watching the sunset together. Occasionally, you glanced up at him, pressed up against his chest, your legs stretched out in front of you, resting on the ledge. He hadn’t dozed off, yet, but looking at him you knew that for the first time in months, his mind wasn’t off wandering on paths of Maybe’s and What-If’s.
It wasn’t going to be forever, you’d told him. He would find his way out of the slump, back to his real self.
And this was the start.
It wasn’t long after that his smile returned.
Slowly, at first, but it returned all the same.
The bandages came off his hand, the movement returned, and before long he was moving as though he’d never missed a beat.
And from the comfort of the backstage monitor, you watched as he entered the ring once more, with a smile that shone brighter than all the lights in the building.
You watched as he made his way back, hugging friends, old and new, with a new kick in his step, a new energy flowing through him, as he ran to you and picked you up, hugging you tight.
“Sounds like they remember you,” you whispered against his lips,
