THE ARCHITECT'S KEEPER ⇾ s. rollins

002. talks of a funeral

F O U R Y E A R S A G O

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There weren't any words that stood a chance of describing how Maverick Hale felt that night. Maybe trapped, defeated, crushed, heartbroken, and disappointed danced that line, but out of all 171,476 words in the English language, not one of them skirted her mind. That's probably why she was perched so quietly in the passenger's seat of her beat-up hatchback.

The man in the driver's seat was normally not one to lack words - usually colorful words, for the matter - but even he had no clue what to say. He just fixed her with attentive, apologetic eyes and waited for her to say something, anything to let him know what was going on inside her head.

Finally, out of those 171,476 words, the dark haired spitfire whispered a phrase that seemed fitting for her situation.

"Fuck."

She fingered the edges of the manila folder in her lap absently. Her fingertips were growing tender from her fidgeting, but her mind was numb to it. She would know almost every medical term and prognosis in that file by the end of the night, that's how many times she would re-read the papers once she was alone. But for now, all she could do was stare at the dusty dashboard in front of her and shake her head solemnly.

The man furrowed his brow and sighed with restraint. He reached over and grabbed one of her dancing pale hands in his and gave it a light squeeze. His hands were rough and calloused from work, but he treated her like a wounded bird. He normally wasn't this gentle, but after the past couple hours he wasn't taking any chances.

She hated how his touch felt like a physical embodiment of pity and jerked her hand away. "Don't treat me like I'm a china doll, Ambrose," Maverick muttered, recoiling her hand to rest near her stomach. Almost to prove to herself, she gripped her own hand and squeezed tightly. She didn't snap in half, contrary to what her friend believed.

Dean snorted at her. "Mav, we both know damn well that you're waaay too ugly to be a china doll."

The woman shot him a warning glance, but the smirk that danced upon her lips showed her humor wasn't as broken as her body. Dean reached over and picked her hand up again, giving it a tighter squeeze this time to satisfy her need to be right. He set his blue eyes upon her and clenched his jaw.

"Look," his voice came out slightly strangled. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but it's what that doctor didn't have the heart to tell you," Dean began, his eyes skirting the freshly born bruise on her collarbone. It was dark and deep and hideous. He hated it.

Maverick's eyes shot daggers. "Don't," she warned him lowly. She pulled her hand away from him again, resembling a cornered cat with fangs bared and claws ready. 

He brashly continued, knowing he could never start back up if he allowed himself to stop. "You're done with wrestling, Mav, your body just can't keep up anymore. Every time you step in that ring, you're not sure you're coming out-"

"That doesn't scare me," she cut him off coolly, looking out the window in an attempt to shut him out.

To her dismay, he carried on.

"Well it sure as hell scares me, and if you had any damn sense in that thick skull of yours," he lightly tapped a finger to her temple to emphasize his point, contrasting the harsh tone in his voice, "then it would scare the hell out of you, too."

Maverick slapped his hand away with a sharp, audible smack. Silence filled the car again for a moment as she glared out the car window, brooding. She knew he was right, but she was too stubborn to concede.

She was so close. The title that was evading her for years was finally within her grasp, just fingertips away, and here Dean was, yanking it away from her like that commercial of the old man and the dollar on a fishing pole.

You gotta be quicker than that!

Except at the end of the day, she knew it wasn't Dean holding her back. It was time and health. And her ego. Maverick had never felt gold around her waist, and that chip on her shoulder was eating her alive.

"I'm close, Dean, I can feel it," Maverick attempted to justify, but the look in her companion's eyes showed he wasn't buying it. God, she just knew if she could get that blonde bimbo in the ring alone, she would win that title and prove to Dean it was worth it.

The lunatic just shook his head. She wasn't understanding it, and he was getting anxious. Unfortunately for the both of them, his anxiety often came across as anger. "You're close to the title, sure, but you know what else you're close to? A dislocated shoulder. A broken fucking neck. A fractured spine. Another concussion that will put you out for good, maybe even kill you," he flicked her in the ear out of frustration, hoping his point would get across loud and clear if he woke up her brain.

"God, just shut up," she barked, shoving him hard in the shoulder as she curled up against the car door. She held her ear superficially, tears welling up in her eyes. The tears weren't because of her ear, but because she knew he was right. She hated when he was right.

Thunder rolled outside as the tension in the car mellowed. A sigh escaped Dean's lips, sounding like air being let out of a tire. He shouldn't have been so harsh with her. He searched for something to say, an apology, but she wasn't done - she had a final hail Mary.

"If the roles were reversed and I was telling you that you had to quit, would you?"

Dean bit his bottom lip and let his eyes drop to the dirty floor mat. He couldn't lie to her, mostly because she knew when he was lying, but because he wouldn't believe it himself he said no. They both knew the answer to that question. "It's different for me-" He tried, but she cut his bullshit off quickly.

"No, it isn't, and you know that," Maverick grumbled, unbuckling her seatbelt now that she had her answer. She just needed to get out of this hot car and take a walk. The stormfront was bringing in cool autumn air that would soothe her temper nicely.

However, Dean wasn't about to let her get the last word. He wasn't convinced she knew the severity of the situation. "I don't have a family to go back to," he defended himself, but the way she whipped around let him know he had stepped on a verbal and emotional landmine.

"Suddenly, I'm not family because it suits your narrative?" The woman glowered, holding up her hand when he attempted to stammer out an explanation. "You're not the only one allowed to give a shit, okay? You're like a brother to me; I am your family."

She expected that to shut him out, but it set him up for the line drive. "Then listen to me and give this shit up, because if you don't, you'll be dead in a week and I can't go to another fucking funeral for someone I love!" He drove the heel of his hand into the steering wheel and sank back into his seat. It was time for him to do his fair share of brooding.

Stunned silence filled the car. Silent tears slid down her cheek as the puzzle pieces connected and fell into place. She really was done with it. Her title chase was over. Her last match had been a loss. The odds were insurmountable. The price was too rich to pay.

Dean begrudgingly glared over at her and gaged her reaction. He instantly sensed it was genuine and guilt and relief slammed into him like a ton of bricks. He didn't want to break her heart, but he was only looking out for her. He carefully and awkwardly pulled her into his chest to hug her. The middle console poked them both at uncomfortable angles, but neither said anything for a while.

Maverick Hale had her calamity.