Work Text:
It was a week after when you got the first letter. You had done the live match with Beowulf and Wulfsbane, and the crowd had eaten it up faster than an order of onion rings. The ratings soared, Beowulf got a major pop, and NMO was the talk of the town. Wulfsbane disappeared not long after the match had ended – his job was done. Beowulf was back on top and hotter than ever.
Melodrama was reliable. When people came to see a show, what they really wanted was a soap opera. With double the violence and half the violins. You make a face – that was awful. Deciding to open the envelope already, you scan over the contents and let out a groan.
In jagged cut-out letters, glued to the paper like something out of a crummy movie: YOu doN’t DeseRve HIM. go BacK To burGeRs.
“Creepy,” Beowulf says over a cup of tea. He’s stripped down to his boxers, reading Now I Sit Me Down. He sticks a fuzzy bookmark into the pages and squints at the letter. “Huh. Feel like I got some like that before.” He gestures at his enormous stack of fan mail.
“You don’t seriously read all those, right?”
“You kiddin’ me?” His face glows with pride. “Every single one. Everything I do, I do for the fans. Hell, I respond to most of ‘em.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Uh… except for the, uh, spicy ones. Some people got a lot of time on their hands.” You snicker and he flushes. “Wait, should I stop readin’ those? I don’t get turned on, I swear!” Now you’re really laughing, belly laughing. Once he figures out that you’re not mad at him, he starts in too.
“Anyway.” He wipes away a tear. “Try not to let ‘em bug you. Folks get wound up about famous people, and hey. You’re gettin’ pret-ty famous.”
You turn the envelope over – no return address. Hell, no sending address either. The sight would probably unsettle you a little more, but this is really Beowulf’s problem. After all, it’s his place. You were still living out of suitcases until the moving truck came next weekend. And you sure weren’t planning on being here by your lonesome any time soon.
The thought sends a little smile to your lips. Beowulf’s back to being buried in his book, and you watch him for a while. Just looking at him lowers your blood pressure. You’re together, together together, and there’s nothing that scares you as long as that’s true.
On Monday, you shower and dress and walk to the arena together. You’d bandied about the idea of quitting, but management shot it down. The publicity was too good – and you were selling a hell of a lot more concessions. In fact, they booked you for a double shift today.
You had a very specific set of marching orders. Sometimes an in-ring relationship was the same on the outside, but most of the time it was carefully crafted by the writers’ room. Corporate didn’t care how you actually felt about Beowulf: your job was to make him look good and fit in with the storyline. When asked (and oh, you were asked), you were to act the part of the starstruck fan blessed by the attention of your favorite wrestler. A fairy-tale romance between a prince and a pauper. You should be honored. Grateful.
It bothered you a little, how little that bothered you. You were grateful when it came down to it. Beowulf wasn’t a perfect boyfriend, but he was pretty damn close. Sure, he was a little self-absorbed and not the brightest bulb, but he checked every other box you could think of. He respected your opinions and clearly thought of you as an equal. He was affectionate to the point of being a little corny. And he could rearrange your guts like nobody’s business.
If you had any doubts about how sincere he was, and where you sat in the balance of “work” and “relationship,” they were erased the day a customer threw a whole soda at you. Beowulf was posing for a PR couple photo between orders. The second the flash went off, you felt an explosion of cold and wet against your chest.
“Gold digger,” the man said with a smug smile. Beowulf’s own smile disappeared. He grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and pulled him in close.
“Listen, pal. You ever do that again, and I chuck you in the dumpster with the rest of the trash.” The man blinked, totally stunned. Talent wasn’t supposed to threaten the customers, and they definitely weren’t supposed to put hands on a fan. Beowulf’s voice was low and serious – this was only for you and the soda-thrower, not for the crowd. “You don’t do that to anybody workin’ at this arena. Doesn’t matter who they are. Now get the hell outta here before I make you.”
The man tripped over himself getting to the doors, and Beowulf mouthed a small “sorry” before heading to find Domano and clean up the spill. That night, he insisted on making it up to you in a… variety of ways. And hey, nobody’s thrown a drink at you since.
You don your uniform and square your shoulders. Beowulf gives you a peck on the cheek before heading backstage. The Aerial Annihilation pay-per-view is tonight, the line is to the next block, and you are ready for one hell of a double shift. You sink into the rhythm of the daily grind, fielding the occasional teasing from your fellow shiftmates. Everybody’s given you a little good-natured ribbing, but at least nobody’s shunned you as a suck-up.
You don’t even notice the envelope tucked halfway under the plastic tray until the end of your shift. Your stomach shivers. There it is, in neat red script: your name. And inside…
LeavE Him OR yoU’Re dEaD.
“Oh, I do not like this,” you say to yourself. Even Beowulf rarely got death threats, and he got about a thousand more letters than you did in a given month. And this person had been close to you. A lot closer than the other side of a locked door.
Rob reads it over your shoulder. “You should give this to – somebody,” he says. “Like maybe the police.”
“Who are they gonna arrest, Ringside Magazine? This isn’t – anything. Total nothingburger.” You crumple up the letter into a little ball and toss it towards the garbage can. Rob intercepts it – just as Beowulf strolls into the lobby.
“Hey, B-Dog!” You roll your eyes – Rob has been milking his position as your coworker for all he can get. “You gotta see this!”
“Rob, you fucker,” you hiss, but it’s too late. Beowulf uncrumples the paper and frowns.
“This again? Yeesh, wish this freak would give it a rest already.” He shoots you a look of concern. “You good, babe?”
“I’m fine!” You hold up your hands. “No papercuts!”
It’s a dumb joke, so stupid that even Beowulf doesn’t laugh. “Sure, sure. But you’d tell me if it was scarin’ you, right?”
“Of course I would! But it’s not.”
“You should take it to the police,” Rob adds.
“We’re not taking it to the police. I’m taking it to the trash.” And you do, snatching it right out of Beowulf’s hands. He raises his eyebrows. When the two of you get home, he wraps you in a tight hug.
“There’s no shame in a gettin’ spooked,” he says. “I did too, when I was a little lightweight punk. Someone’s just bein’ a dick, that’s all.”
“I know that,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Besides. I don’t have a reason to be scared, not with the big bad ‘Wulf around.”
He smiles with all his teeth. “Damn straight. Let’s hit the sack.”
When you’ve changed into your pajamas and sit down on the bed, Beowulf leans over to whisper in your ear. “You wanna see just how big and bad I can be?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
He’s looming over you, hands planted on the duvet, and something about the dim light makes him look even more massive than usual. His stubble rubs against your lips before he puts his own to your ear again.
“I’m never, ever gonna let anythin’ happen to you,” he says. “Somebody wants to get to you, they go through me first.”
Your stomach turns to water. He’s threatening the mystery messenger, not you, but his tone sends a little thrill through you all the same. “I protect what’s mine,” he says, “and you’re mine all right. All mine.”
Beowulf thunks down onto his knees. He leans forward, bare chest pinning your legs to the side of the bed, and rummages underneath. You gulp as you see what he’s found – two bundles of coiled rope, softened and smoothed to a glossy sheen. “And nobody touches you but me.” He pauses and looks up into your eyes. Uncertainty flashes in his eyes. “If that’s, uh, what you want.”
You can’t do anything but nod with an intensity that shocks even you. A big goofy grin spreads over his face. “You don’t gotta go anywhere you don’t want,” he continues and loops the end of one rope around your ankles. He cinches them with a skilled knot – Wulfsbane must have had some time to teach him.
Thank you, you think, hoping he can hear you wherever he’s gone.
“You don’t gotta do anythin’ you don’t want.” You yield your wrists to him and they’re soon bound behind you. He tilts you gently and lays you on your side. Your breath comes short and sharp.
“Don’t have to say anythin’ you don’t want…” He pauses after retrieving a long scarf from the nightstand drawer, holding it out before you and glancing at you for confirmation. Your mouth twists and you nod again. He pulls it between your lips, thick fabric against your tongue, and ties it tight behind your head. Your teeth sink into the gag and you moan, long and low. Your body is hot and cold and trembling. “Or see anything you don’t wanna-”
At that, you shake your head, hard. You want to see him, the whole time. He drops the ends of the scarf immediately. Beowulf pushes your legs up until they’re folded against you and turns you aside again. He tilts your legs open and ducks between them, the bulk of him pressed into your thighs and crotch.
Man, you are glad you don’t have any underwear on. The friction of linen on your skin is so good, dizzyingly so. His thumbs rubs back and forth across your shirt, rough and delicious against your nipples. His eyes are locked on yours and they are filled with what could only be called adoration.
“I’m gonna keep you right here, safe with me, no matter what.” He doesn’t bother to unbutton your shirt and just tears it open. It’s not your favorite shirt, so you don’t complain. Not that you could.
You wriggle in your bonds, not to escape but to give yourself over more fully, to somehow press your body to him so that you two never come apart. He nips at your nipple as he yanks at your pants. Beowulf awkwardly crouches and moves them out of his way – you can practically see his thought that he should have done this before tying you up. You laugh through the gag and he gives you a sheepish grin.
Nevertheless, he’s soon back at your nipples. His fingertips trail down your stomach, down your thighs, velvet and calloused. His canine worries at you until a streak of actual pain cuts through the haze. When you yelp he lets go and sits back for a second. You gesture with your chin at your open legs, then at him. It makes you shudder when he licks his lips. Beowulf surges forward and puts that mouth to good use.
You squirm and let out a garbled string of expletives. “Mine,” he murmurs against you. “And I’m yours.” You’re giddy with anticipation, head thrown back against the quilt. He lubes up for a second, stands so that your legs are locked around his waist, and unbuttons his pants. Before you can prepare yourself, he slides you onto him and bucks his hips up and very nearly through you.
You’re loose enough to take him at least, save for a small pinch, but that eases when he pulls back at a luxurious pace. He bites his lip so hard that a bead of blood bubbles up. His eyes flutter closed. If he’s trying not to make any noise, you’ll make some for him. You howl from behind the scarf as he presses to you once more. A second later, he lets out a howl of his own.
It should be silly, but it’s so throaty and full and you’re so full and crazy horny that it sends you spinning. Beowulf clamps a hand over your mouth and shoves the scarf in further, muffling your already muffled cries. The other steadies your hips as he crashes into you.
“F-Fuck,” he says haltingly. The squeeze of you has him gasping and bracing himself on the bed. You whine when he pulls out, but he flips you over onto your stomach. You squeak when you feel his cock jut up against your ass. He presses your cheeks together and ruts between them, huffing like an animal. Only a few more thrusts and he’s howling again. Heat spatters up your back, all the way to your shoulderblades. Your damp face presses into the bedcovers.
Beowulf’s undoing the ropes before he even takes a moment to rest. He frees you a little clumsily, then wraps you up in a crushing kiss. “You good?” he asks, breathless, when you pull apart.
“Even better,” you answer before pulling him into another kiss. “Tell me again.”
“Tell you-”
“That – that I’m yours. Do you really mean that?”
“’Course I do.” You breathe in his scent as fully as you can. He smells like chamomile and sex and you treasure every inch of him. “I’m here for good. Can’t get rid of me.”
You bury your face into his collar and he hugs you close. “I love you,” you whisper.
“Hey, me too.” It’s so like him that you laugh harder, echoing off the walls and back at you. He kisses you everywhere he can reach, and then some. “Oh, and, uh, I love you. Also.”
“Glad you figured that one out.”
“Hey, be nice. Didn’t get to rehearse this one much.” He glances nervously at the ropes, then at you. “I nailed the spot?”
“Yup. And you nailed me pretty good, too.” You wink and kiss him on the cheek.
“Phew! I ain’t had stage fright since… ever. Glad I put on a good show.” He lays back and pulls you up on top of him with another soft kiss. He runs his fingertips over your cheek, your throat. “Not to talk shop after all the fun, but Teddie and me are headin’ out early tomorrow. I know you got the day off, so-”
“I’ll come with you,” you cut in. “If that’s okay.” You don’t want to stay in the apartment by yourself, not after the second letter.
“Sure, workout room says ‘Employees Only.’ Doesn’t say which employees.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Maybe we can figure out some way to get you in the ring again! How d’you feel about Frog Splashes?”
“I think I’m more likely to be the puddle in that situation… But maybe getting some exercise that doesn’t involve deep fryers will be good for me.” You fiddle with a lock of his hair. “I’m in.”
The next day you don an outfit that balances “I don’t care if I get sweaty” and “I’m willing to wear this outside.” The NMO gymnasium is huge, looking even bigger for only being half-full. A regulation-size ring sits at the far end, while the other side is mostly weights and treadmills.
Teddie Fosse’s a lanky guy, late forties, with a blonde beard and a shaved head. He’s not as tall as Beowulf, but he’s close. You perch on a recumbent bike and watch the two wrestlers race to see who can finish a 64 ounce protein shake first.
You’ve seen Beowulf drink an entire gallon of milk in one go, so it’s obvious who wins. Teddie bends double and wheezes. “Dude,” he says. “Your goddamn throat.” He locks eyes with you for a second on the last word.
Charming, you think sourly. But Teddie makes up for his faux paus an hour or so later.
“You got your cardio in, that’s good. Want to learn some moves?”
“I don’t think I-”
“Aw hell yeah!” Beowulf whoops. “Teddie’s the best teacher I ever had. He’s a pro – you’ll be flyin’ in no time.” Your stomach sinks at the word. You are not a frog, and you are not a bird. You are a breakable human being.
You are also committed to being a good tag team partner, so you let Beowulf lift you over the ropes and plunk you down on the slightly-bouncy surface. “The trick is in how you land,” Teddie explains. “Wulfman, do something basic.”
“Got it. Ready, babe?” You nod tightly. Your hands ball into fists as he picks you up and bodyslams you into the mat – or, at least, that’s what you think he’s doing. Instead Beowulf takes most of the impact with his forearms, shielding you. It feels like falling over in a bounce house. “All right, you got it! Took it like a champ.”
“Looks good,” Teddie comments, “but you need to loosen up a little. It’s harder to keep you from banging your head if you’re all tense. Plus, the crowd can tell.” Beowulf hoists you up again, and this time you fight every instinct and manage to relax. The fall’s even easier on you this time – it’s actually kind of fun.
“There you go! You’re a natural.”
“Didn’t I tell ya, man? I got the best partner in the business.” He hooks an arm around your waist and kisses you right on the lips. You all but melt in his arms – at the kiss and the clear pride in his voice.
“You and me kicked ass back in our tag team days, dude.” Teddie slaps Beowulf on the back. “That was fun, us flinging guys over the ropes left and right. Are you up for trying for the NMO Tag Champs next month?”
Beowulf rubs his chin thoughtfully. “They got me goin’ on this couple angle right now,” he says, “but once that’s done, I’m all in! Sounds like a blast.” He rubs his stomach. “But right now all I wanna blast is some carbs. Wanna grab lunch at Mad Man’s?”
You are starving and quickly agree, but Teddie shakes his head. “I got some more training to do. I’ll see you on the flip side, Wulfman.” The two high-five, and Teddie shrugs off his jacket. He reaches to hang it on the corner of the weight rack next to the door.
“Hey, hey, hold it!” Beowulf grabs his hand. “You can’t hang stuff on that thing. It’s real unstable since Krishna took a header into it like a week ago. Domano’s talkin’ with facilities, tryin’ to get the shelves replaced.”
Teddie eases back from the weight rack with a whistle. “Phew, thanks. Can’t afford to get buried in a bunch of iron, not right before Sacrifice.” He turns to you and sticks out one huge hand. “Good to meet you, by the way. Turns out you’re pretty chill.”
“Told ya.” Beowulf beams. “Let’s go, I wanna get there before they run outta brats again.”
The two of you get the best seat in the house, right next to the big iron-wrought window. “Teddie seems nice,” you say between bites.
“Yeah, he’s the man. Been in the biz for ages now. Everything I know about moonsaults, I know from him.” Beowulf spreads his hands in an arc above his head. “Used to call him the ‘expert of the sky.’ Boy did he earn it. I’m real glad you two are gettin’ along, actually. Some of the guys ain’t…” His face darkens. “They’re not bein’ cool about it.”
You feel a little sick. “I – I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make any trouble-”
“Hey.” He takes your hand and squeezes it. “Not your fault. I’m with you, I’m over the moon ‘bout it, and they’re just gonna have to deal.” You look up into those deep brown eyes and all your anxiety fades away.
And when you leave the café, you try not to think about the figure in the black hooded parka loitering across the street.
~
You only see them a couple more times before you finally get up the courage to confront them. You’ve decided to go out on your own, for pretty good reason: Beowulf’s birthday is coming up, and you have the perfect gift idea. The Canopy Kingdom Wolf Sanctuary just reopened after the “incident” – the Crown was cagey on what exactly happened – and the grand opening was only a few days before Beowulf’s birthday bash.
There would be puppies. Who didn’t like big, sharp puppies?
You walk down to the post office to pick up tickets, and sure enough, the figure in black is a few blocks behind you. Whoever it is, you think to yourself, is a coward. Just a chickenshit loser who sends spooky threats and likes parkas. You try not to think about the word “dead” featuring so heavily in the last few letters.
You’ve been manhandled, drugged, kidnapped – and you came out fine. You were tough. You could handle this.
After buying the tickets, you linger inside the post office until you see the telltale black hood. “I’m so sorry,” you say to the woman working the counter, “but this guy has been following me all day. Is it okay if I go out the back door?”
The woman cranes her neck to get a look at your stalker. “Do you want me to call the police?”
It’s a tempting prospect – most NMPD officers probably watch NMO and would come to your rescue just for the story. But most of them are also a bit too crooked for you to trust them.
“No thank you,” you say, “I’m almost home, and I have a bat.” You show her the slugger you’d brought in your backpack.
“Suit yourself. But be safe, dear.” She shrugs and props open the back door for you. You move as stealthily as you can, crossing the street a few blocks down and looping back around. The person in the parka is still intently watching the post office when you tap them on the shoulder with the end of the baseball bat.
“Shit-” The person spins on their heel and holds their hands up. “Hey, it’s me! Don’t shoot – uh, smash!”
You stare as he takes off his hood. “Rob? What in the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m keeping an eye on you! You’re in danger, remember?”
“Sure, I’m in danger. From you, asshole! Threats are bad enough, but stalking me?”
“Are you crazy?” He shakes his head. “I didn’t send the letters!”
“Oh yeah?” You get into a batter’s stance. “Then who else keeps leaving them at the stand, huh? The Skullgirl?” It all makes perfect sense – most of the time, you found the letters at work. A lot of them had a little grease on the corners. And Rob would easily be able to find Beowulf’s address in the employee directory.
“I swear, I’m just trying to make sure nothing happens to you and Beowulf! You’re my favorite celebrity couple!”
Good fucking gods, this guy is pitiful. You can’t believe you went to his stupid board game nights so many times. But, as you suspected, Rob is harmless. He couldn’t even squish the cockroaches in the walk-in. “Just – fuck. Don’t follow us around anymore, okay? We’re fine. Who I date is my business, and you can stop ogling us out in public. Do it again and I tell Tansy.”
The mention of the dreaded Tansy, assistant manager at the NMO concession stand who schedules shifts with an iron fist, has Rob going pale.
“Okay!” he finally says. “Fine.” He puts his hands on his hips. “But if you’re not gonna call the cops or get any help from your concerned coworker – what are you going to do?”
“I’m going home, to my boyfriend. My boyfriend, who is – reminder – built like a fucking tank. And we are going to have a nice evening, uninterrupted. Understood?”
“Suit yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Rob rolls his eyes and lets out an exaggerated sigh, but he leaves without further argument. Hm, you think with a smile. Situation handled.
You walk back to Beowulf’s place with an extra spring in your step. You are a badass stalker-stopping motherfucker, and you will not be fucked with. “Babe?” you call into the darkness of the apartment. You flick on the front lights and spot a note on the table. Your stomach clenches at the thought of it somehow being another threat – but it’s just a handwritten note.
Headed to the gym, be back at – here, a five was crossed out and replaced – six. Love ya lots.
He was really getting those workouts in lately, you thought. You hoped he wasn’t overdoing it. You stuff the note in your pocket, settle in on the couch with the latest issue of the Canopy Times, and start lazily flipping through the news. The next time you look up, it’s already six-thirty. The stars are starting to come out.
Beowulf could be an airhead, but he was punctual. “Professionals don’t make other guys wait,” as he always says. You dither for another ten minutes or so, thinking it over. Worst case scenario, something’s wrong and somebody’s dead (this is usually the worst case scenario). Best case scenario? Beo just got caught up sparring with Bella and you could practice some more together. You feel fluttering in your chest thinking about the way he cradled you in his arms, keeping you safe. You could really use a little of that right now, badass or not.
You put on a coat over your workout clothes and head out into the gathering dusk. The wind has really picked up, so it takes you a long few minutes down Carson to reach the arena. There’s no show tonight, but there are still a few cars in the lot.
You meander past the concession stand and down the hall, listening for Beowulf. The guy is practically incapable of working out without hollering. But you don’t hear anyone at all. Your skin prickles – this sure feels familiar. Still, the workout room door is propped open and the lights are on. You poke your head inside.
“Oh!” You give a little wave. “Hey, Teddie. Have you seen Beowulf?” Teddie is tilted back on the leg press machine, but he locks the weights in place and slides out when he sees you.
“He went to grab dinner, should be back any minute.” Teddie frowns. “Didn’t he call you?”
“Nope.” You let out a little snort. “Classic scatterbrained Beo.”
“Aww, you must’ve been worried about him to come all the way out here.” Teddie gives you a smile. “Sweet of you.”
“I was actually hoping… are you almost done?”
“Nah, ‘bout halfway through. That’s why I told him to call.” He wipes a towel over his shining face. “Why do you ask? Looking to learn another spot?”
You nod, suddenly embarrassed. “I just – want to do a good job. I don’t want to make him look bad the next time we end up on TV.”
Teddie climbs into the ring and extends a hand to help you up after him. “Sure thing. We’ll start with something easy, wait for Beowulf before we do anything more complicated.”
“O-Okay.” Your hands shake a little as he walks around you in a circle. He’s sizing me up, you think. But for what?
“Let’s try a backbreaker.” Teddie lines up behind you.
“A what now?”
“It’s a lot scarier than it sounds. Just get ready to hit the mat, okay?” He lifts you up with one arm around your chest and the other up under your knees. In a smooth motion, he brings your back down on his own knee – but not hard enough to hurt. He holds onto you until the very last second, leaving you rolling harmlessly off his knee and onto the mat as promised. The fall is only about a foot, but it still knocks the wind out of you.
“Great sell,” Teddie says teasingly. “You look like someone did that to your for real.”
“Fuck – off –” you puff. “You’re right, that’s not too bad.”
“One of the most important things in wrestling: you have to know how not to hurt people. Unless you’re working snug, but that’s another story. All right, next – suplex.”
“Are we talking a fisherman suplex, or a hammerlock suplex? Maybe a crossface chickenwing?”
“So you do know your stuff. This one, sadly, will be a regular old German.” He does the maneuver without you first, showing you how to keep your head tucked in to take the blow on your shoulders. “This one might hurt a bit, just a heads up.”
“I can take it.” You’re feeling good – you can’t wait to show off when Beowulf comes back with dinner. When Teddie backbends and slams you into the ground, you only let out a tiny shout.
“You okay?”
“Golden,” you grunt. Your shoulders feel like they’re on fire. Your lungs ache when you draw breath. “Let’s go again.”
Teddie laughs. “No, you need to give your back a rest. We’re doing a submission next – know about sleeper holds?”
You do. “Good. We’re going to try one in the corner, go into a hangman. That all right by you?”
“Does it look cool?”
“Sure does.”
“Then I’m in.” You back up to the far corner ropes and rest against the turnbuckle. Teddie gently places an arm around your neck. In a second, though, he starts putting pressure on you. Pressure that definitely hurts – but you’re determined to “take it like a champ.”
“Ow,” you say with a tight smile. “How am I looking?”
“Shit,” says Teddie. “You look like absolute shit.”
Cold fear spikes in your veins. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me, you pathetic – piece – of garbage.” He punctuates each word by squeezing your throat with his bicep. You can breathe, but only barely. He leans down to whisper in your ear. “You think I don’t know what you are, you fame-grubbing little smart mark?”
The man with the soda flashes in your mind. Beowulf’s words - “they’re not bein’ cool about it.” You should have known, you were so stupid. Rob made sense, but he was telling the truth – you were getting death threats from talent the whole time. Someone who loved Beowulf just as much as you did. You start to protest, to remind Teddie that when Beowulf got back he’d be pissed, but your words die in your throat. Beowulf isn’t getting dinner. In fact, he’s probably at home, wondering where you are. And the only clue, the one that lured you here? It’s in your pocket.
You can’t see Teddie’s face, but you can hear the vicious grin in his voice. “You may have Beowulf wrapped around your finger, but I see you for who you are. And soon he will too.”
You suck in a rush of air as Teddie lets you loose, only to flip you ass over teakettle into the corner. He tangles you up in the first and second ropes, leaving you dangling as helplessly as a fly in a web. Teddie hops down from the ring and crosses to the lockers. You focus on not making the eight foot drop onto carpet-covered concrete until you hear him slam one of the doors open.
Beowulf is stuffed inside one of the lockers, his hands bound to the coat rod. He looks profoundly uncomfortable – he barely fits in the small space. He tries to call out but only manages a grunt through the handkerchief in his mouth.
“You wanted to take this poser in the ring,” Teddie says with a shake of his head. “But I’m always looking out for you, Wulfman. Let’s try some real spots, shall we? See how you hold up.”
Eight foot fall be damned, you’re not waiting for Teddie to do any of his high-flying takedowns on you. But you’re not fast enough – he yanks the ropes apart on the way up and shoves you back into the ring. You skid on your butt to the center and fall supine against the mat. Teddie drops to his knees and pins your hands above your head with one of his own. His knees lock against your waist.
“Do you even pretend to understand him?” he asks, voice jagged. “If you even thought for one second about anybody but yourself, you’d know that this is his life! Beowulf’s the greatest there is, and he’s going to stay that way. I won’t let you ruin him!”
“I’m not-”
“Shut up.” He presses his other hand over your mouth. “The ‘Wulf used to come in here every day, rain or shine, and put in the work. Now, most nights? I don’t even see him unless there’s a show.” You squirm against his crushing hands, your body bucking under him, but he won’t budge. “Beowulf’s one true love is wrestling. Anything else is just a distraction. I’m not going to sit here and watch while he goes bad because of you.”
Teddie sits up and takes his hands off of you. There’s no time to get free, though – he hooks his arms under your armpits and hauls you to your feet. He spins you around and starts dragging you towards the corner again. Beowulf’s muffled shouts rise above the ringing in your ears.
“You should have listened to me,” Teddie hisses. “I sent you all those letters, but I guess you thought you were untouchable, huh? Too good to listen to an old pro. That’s a shame. If you’d just done the right thing and let him go, I wouldn’t have to do this.”
He hangs your arms on the ropes – your whole body hurts and you’re dazed enough that you let him. It always looked dumb to you on TV, seeing a guy just lay there instead of moving out of the way of a moonsault. But this is what ordinary people do when you squeeze them too hard, apparently. You stare up at his face, full of fury and indignation.
He’s saying something, probably describing just what it is he’s about to do to you, but your mind is racing for an escape. You center yourself. You gather your strength.
And you kick Teddie Fosse in the balls as hard as you possibly can. He keels over with a strangled scream, giving you the time you need to duck under the ropes. You hit the floor hard, but you don’t let it slow you down as you make for the door. You could help Beowulf after you found some backup.
The knob doesn’t budge when you grab it and a memory flashes in your mind – Teddie, out of the corner of your eye, next to the closed door. You scream as two hands plant against the wall, right on either side of your head.
“I’ve been through – a lot more pain – than this,” he says through gritted teeth. “You can’t – stop me.”
Your eyes go upward, maybe looking out for heaven, and you see it. An unstable bracket on an unstable shelf, still untouched by Facilities. You reach up, yank down, and get the fuck out of the way.
Weight after weight tumbles down in an avalanche right on top of Teddie. It makes several awful thuds, and you’re sure you’ll be looking at a corpse when it’s all over, but a groan warbles out from under the iron.
Now that you know your would-be murderer hasn’t been murdered himself, you run back for Beowulf. You get within two feet of him and he snaps the rope around his wrists. You gape at him as he wiggles his way out of the locker.
“You could have gotten loose,” you say, “at any time?”
“Nah, not until he opened the door.” Beowulf rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms. He opens the locker next to his and the Hurting’s in there. It is also tied to the coat rod, which drags a hysterical giggle out of you.
“But – but weren’t you like, yelling in fear, terrified for my well-being?”
“No,” Beowulf says with a laugh, “I was yellin’ atcha to do just what you did. Kick ‘im in the balls.”
“Oh. You dick.”
“Hey, you looked like you had it under control.” He’s grinning at you like an idiot, and maybe you are one. But you were an idiot that could at least save your own skin. All in all, it felt pretty damn good.
Your bout of introspection is interrupted by another groan. Beowulf gets to work, unburying Teddie forty pounds at a time. He’s bruised to hell, and he’s probably broken at least something, but he’s alive.
Beowulf yanks him up by his shirtsleeves, ignoring his grunt of pain. “Looks like you’re the one gettin’ the lesson today. You go underestimatin’ my partner, you get your ass kicked. I’m not gonna risk your job, so I’m not tellin’ anybody what went down here tonight. You did me a solid by bein’ my mentor, now I’m returnin’ the favor. But you and me? We’re through. I’m not your tag-team partner, and I sure as hell ain’t your friend anymore.” Beowulf leans in close. “And pal? I’m not gettin’ sloppy. I’m the wildest there is, was, and will be – and that’s not changin’ for anything.”
His eyes flick over Teddie’s battered body. “I’m callin’ you an ambulance, so sit your ass down and stay there.”
Beowulf sweeps you out of the room with him, and the second you’re out of eyeline he kisses you deeply. He hugs you close, gentle as he can, and buries his face in your hair. “You okay?” he asks, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Ain’t banged up too bad?”
“Not too bad.” You nuzzle into him. “I could use a couple ice packs.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Got a million of ‘em.” He hesitates. “You – you did good in there. You handled it. But… if you wanna take this outta the ring, make it just for us, I get it. Me and corporate’ll work somethin’ out.” He gives you a nervous smile. “I don’t care either way. You’re the one for me no matter who knows it.”
“You are a total sap,” you say, astonished. “But… hell, that’s why I love you so much. I want to stick it out, I think. I want to train until I can be your tag-team partner for real.”
His face lights up. “Hell yeah! I’m gonna whip you into shape, babe! We’re gonna be the best in history!” He grabs you a little less gently and draws you into another hug. “C’mon. We call an ambulance, and then I owe you dinner.”
“That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” you say. “You owe me dinner and a movie.”
And when you’re halfway through Blood Brothers: The Return, you finally get what Beowulf was saying. Horror movies aren’t really that scary after all.