Okay, maybe it's asinine to call a bunch of rednecks sinister.  Especially since I'm pretty sure I'd have to define it for them.  They're just…..rednecks.  Rednecks who happen to be gathering at their local arena to watch them some wrasslin.

 Afterwards, they can make them some moonshine and go fuck their first cousins.

 Why the fuck did I agree to this?  I'm going to be stuck backstage with a bunch of brainless, overdeveloped bodybuilders, who probably will try to rip my head off if I so much as admire the view.

   I flipped past it the other night, just in time to see some plastic-looking chick being ordered to bark like a dog, then to strip.

 Yet I still climbed on the plane this morning.  Why?

 Oh yes, money.  Homophobic sleaze sells well apparently.  And exposure.  Richard's got another film almost in the can.  Vince McMahon is willing to put the impressive backing of the juggernaut known as the WWF behind him.  All I have to do is one song.  How hard can it be?

 The door opens, and I glance into a familiar chaos.  Backstage is apparently backstage, no matter what the spectacle.

 An ungodly tall man walks past wearing a full face mask, talking animatedly to a smaller green-haired man.  I blink.  Or not.

 "Mr. Elfman?"

 I glance up at the unfamiliar name.  Who the fuck would call me Mr. Elfman?

 Oh, God.  It's another fucking member of the Barbie family.  Apparently, this is the "Vaguely Ethnic Ken Doll."  Are there any normal people around here?

 Danny, you idiot, you're at wrasslin.  If they were normal, they wouldn't be here.  Oh, wait.  He's expecting me to respond.  "Yeah.  I'm Danny."

 "Duane Johnson.  Or, if you prefer, the Rock."  He says the last like I should be impressed.  Like I give a good goddamn?

 "I'll stick with Duane.  I don't really pay any attention to pop culture."  Oooh, the Ken doll almost looks like he's gonna get an attitude.  It would be a welcome change from that blandly vapid look he's got now.

 It fades after a nanosecond.  "Vince and Shane's plane got delayed, they're on their way now.  They asked me to show your around, get you settled in until they get here."  Something flashes behind his eyes.  He's not thrilled about showing the quasi-celeb around, apparently.

 "That's very kind of them.  If I could put my bags somewhere, it would be nice."  Since they're damn near breaking my shoulder, that is.

 He nods, turning.  "Right this way."

 Apparently, someone forgot to tell him that those of us who aren't six foot plus a shitload have much shorter strides.  Instead, I get to half jog to keep up with him, my bags bouncing at my side, threatening to knock me on my ass with every step.

 Of course, the Ken doll doesn't offer to help, even though he could bench press Rhode Island without much effort.  It wouldn't do to carry the bags of some peon, now would it?

 He opens the door, ushering me into a nicely appointed office, complete with overstuffed sofa, fruit plate, sodas, coffee.

 "Thank-" I trail off.  Damn, he lit out of here fast.  I grab a soda, sitting on the couch with a sigh.  I gave up a night sitting at home, listening to the monsters in the closet howl for this?

 The room is nice and all, but four walls get boring fast.  I've got the official little pass.  Maybe they wouldn't mind if I wandered?  Fuck it.  Do I care if they mind?  It's not like the Ken doll told me to stay put.

 I slip out into the backstage, skirting the mounds of cables that snake along the edges.  The bustle, the sound of technobabble, is comforting.  I wander along aimlessly until I hear a sharp gasp.

 "Oh ma Gawd, you're Danny Eflman!" a barely-male voice squeals.

 I turn, preparing to plaster on the usual polite smile.  It freezes a little bit as I stare at the sight before me.  It's the green-haired man I saw earlier.  Man might be too strong a word.  Boy is closer.  He's almost elfin in features, the wide eyes brimming with excitement.  "That's me.  And you are?"

 "J-Jeff Hardy.  I just love y'all's music."

 "Thank you."  It's always nice to find a fan, even one this odd.

 "I think mah favorite of yours is Little Girls.  Ah've just tried to live my life by that."

 I blink, murmuring another thank you.  Little Girls?  Am I thinking of the right song?  Yeah, that's the one that still gets me labeled as a pedophile?  Oookay.  "Which…part of it are we talking about?"

 " And I don't care what people say, and I don't care what people think, and I don't care how we look walking down the street," he quotes.  "Ah tell that to mah boyfriend all the time.  Ah just don't care."

 Phew.  Was worried for a moment.  "I'm glad you were able to find something…..uh…..useful-" I manage.

 "Well, that and Weird Science," he says happily.  "Would you sign mah CD?"

 Fuck.  Will I never be free of that piece of shit song?  I smile and sign the damned CD, wondering how upset Sprout over there would be if I threw it in the trash compactor.  I hate that song.  Loathe that song.  Wrote that song.  I need a shower now.  I feel…..violated.

 I pull away from him as soon as politeness allows, hurrying along the corridor, until I have no fucking clue where I am.  I look around, trying to remember which way I got here from.  All the corridors look alike.

 I have a momentary bizarre image of my obituary.  "Composer gets lost in arena labyrinth-starves to death while wrestlers pose."  If nothing else it makes me smirk for a moment.  Then, the alpha male gene kicks in, and I stride purposefully towards one of the hallways.

 Not clue one where I'm going.  But fuck, if I go this way long enough, I'll either end up outside, or in the ring.

 "Mmmm…missed you, baby," a gravel roughened voice murmurs.  "It's been too long."

 "Yeah, sure, Shawn.  What do you want?"  The other voice is equally low, masculine.  Well, maybe they're not all homophobic afterall.

 "I'm not allowed to miss you?"

 "Shawn, if you missed me, you know my number.  Amazingly, it hasn't rung.  So, it's one of two things.  Either you think I can get you out of jobbing, or you've got an itch you need scratched.  Business or a fuck, which is it?"

 And I thought I knew how to do bitter.  Damn.

 "Hunter," the first voice, Shawn I guess, whispers.  "I-"

 "Vince isn't here yet, so I guess it's what's behind door number two.  Is that it?  Do you miss having me on my knees for you?"  I hear a soft rustle of cloth, and chance a peek around the doorframe.

 My God.  When did wrestlers start looking like this?  Two blondes, one taller, broader, but both beautiful, face each other.

 The taller one, Hunter, I think, goes carefully onto his knees with a wince.

 "Hunter, no-" Shawn murmurs, trying to step back.  Strong hands stop him, fumbling with the fastenings of his jeans.

 "Do you miss having me as your bitch, Shawn?  Is that it?"  He yanks the jeans down.  "Tell me that I'm better than the whore you married," he growls, stroking over the hardening length.

 "Hunter, I don't-oh God….." he trails off, head falling back as Hunter takes him in his mouth.  I'd swear, for just a second, I see a smirk of triumph cross his lips.

 I step back with a shudder.

 Motherfuck.  And I thought Oingo was dysfunctional.

 Time to keep walking.  I wander for what feels like forever, just trying to forget that smile on Shawn's face.

 "By the pricking of my thumbs….."

 Shakespeare?

 "…..Something  wicked this way comes."  A slim man, nearly my size, glances up from his book.  "Lost?"

 I nod.  He's got bleached hair, pulled back in a pony tail, and wire-rimmed glasses.  "Yeah, I got sent out to look for you.  Rocky was deeply distressed.  Here, he was told to keep an eye on you, and you disappeared."  He smiles.  "Nice job."

 I blink, a little dazed.

 "Oh, sorry.  Matt Hyson.  I play Spike Dudley."  He offers a quick handshake.

 "Danny Elfman," I say absently.  "You're a wrestler?  You're so….."

 "Small?" he half growls.

 "Bright," I blurt, blushing as I realize just how tactless that was.  "I mean, you don't come across like I'd expected."

 To my relief, he just chuckles.  "We're not all musclebound idiots.  Some, yes.  Most of us, however, are capable of utilizing more than two syllable words in complete sentences."

 "Utilizing?  English major?"

 He laughs again.  "Masters.  I taught high school English.  Spent some time working on Wall Street, too."

 I stare, and he shakes his head.  "What?"

 "You gave up teaching for getting bashed over the head with a chair?  I know teaching doesn't pay well, but c'mon!"

 He grins.  "Oh, it's not the money.  It's…..when you write music, it tells a story.  When I'm in the ring, it tells a story, too.  Good versus evil, right versus wrong.  It's the oldest, best story in the world."

 "So you're not going to try to tell me that it's a legitimate sport?"

 He shakes his head, smiling in that gentle, 'you're an idiot' way.  I suddenly realize that I could see him as a teacher easily.

 "It's not a sport.  Outcomes are predetermined, matches are somewhat scripted, and the moves are done to look good, without causing permanent injury.  However," his voice hardens.  "We are athletes, probably some of the most talented and resilient in the world."

  "To land on a padded mat takes athleticism?"

 To my surprise, he nods.  "You'd be surprised.  Come on, it's early.  I think Mark and Devon are still running through their match with Adam and Jason.  I'll show you what I mean."

   To my surprise, I find myself following him.  Hell, if nothing else, it'll get me back to the main area.  Matt's strides are a hell of a lot closer to my size, I trot comfortably next to him.

 Finally, he leads me into the empty arena, slipping out under the stage.  There's four people in the ring.  Two of them make me cringe.  Plastic abounds, apparently.  Long blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty faces.  Joy.

 The other two..…much more interesting.  One is a black guy, and not like the Ken doll was.  He's truly ethnic.  Smaller than I'd expect for a wrestler, compact.  Attractive, but not in a plastic way.  The other is white, and not exactly a featherweight.  Kinda round, actually.  Not your stereotypical roided monster.

 "Hey, Matt," one of the blondes calls.  "Terry just went looking for you so we can work on the end of the match."

 The other, the smaller one, hops out of the ring, coming over.  "Hey, you must be Danny Elfman.  Pleasure to meet you."  The smile never slips.  "Now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you."

 I freeze mid polite smile.  "Why would that be?"

 "Jason's still bitching about having to room with Jeff while I was out hurt," the taller blonde explains.  "Jeff loves your music."

 Jason tilts his head.  "It wouldn't be a problem if he didn't insist on singing along!  Not to mention playing the same damn song, over and over.  'I love little girls they make me feel so good,'" he warbles.

 I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of me.  "You have my sincere apologies."

 "Hey," comes a low growl.  "There you are, squirt."

 I turn, and there is every one of the stereotypical visions I had of wrestlers.

 Matt grins.  "Yeah, miss me, lardass?"

 The man takes a menacing step forward, then shrugs.  "You tell Sean that you found the wayward celeb?"

 "Not yet.  I just found him.  Danny Elfman, meet Terry Richards, aka Rhyno.  You met Jason Reso, his taller twin is Adam Copeland."

 I nod to each, finding myself utterly dwarfed.

 "Up in the ring, you've got Mark Lamonica, and Devon Hughes.  They play my onscreen brothers."  He laughs at the confused look on my face.  "Different mothers."

 Devon chuckles.  "Don't worry.  You'll get used to it.  But, right now, we'd better get this done.  Amy and Nora need to hammer out their streetfight."

 Matt nods.  "Right.  What are we planning?"

 "The usual.  We need to make it look like Terry's killed you, so that you can have revenge at Mania."  Jason muses.  "How do you feel about being piledriven on a couple of tables?"

 I stare, horrified.  That would kill someone.

 Matt smirks.  "Don't worry, Danny.  It's dangerous, but I trust Terry.  We've done it before, actually.  That was what I was telling you.  We're athletes in the same way that gymnasts are.  We learn to fall, learn to land."

 "It doesn't hurt?"

 This time, I get laughter.  "Of course it hurts," Jason says.  "You land in the way that'll best minimize it, but when you fall from ten feet up, it's gonna hurt."

 "Where do you two want the tables?" Mark asks.

 "By the ringpost, I think.  That way I won't have to jump that far out," Terry says.  "Ready?"

 Matt nods hopping up onto the ring side.  "Edge and Chris have just hit me with that incredibly weak chairshot, and I'm reeling."  He staggers around, and Terry hoists him up.  "Hang on a sec!"

 Terry puts him down.  "What?"

 "Gotta take off my glasses."  He hands them to Mark.  "Okay, go ahead."

 A moment later, Terry jumps off the second rope, appearing to drive Matt's head through two tables.  I hold my breath, sure he's dead.

 A moment later, the two help each other up to the applause of their coworkers.  I know I'm gaping.  "How did you do that?"

 "Training," Matt grins.  "And the fact that Terry's ass took all the impact."

 I make a few more protestations, that I don't know how it couldn't kill you, and Mark offers to show me.  Which explains why I'm being hoisted onto Mark's shoulders in a very intimate position, allowing him to put me through a table.

 "I did this to a seventy year old woman once," Mark informs me.  "Imagine my delight at being told that I got to shove my face into a woman old enough to be my grandmother's crotch."

 I'm still torn between laughing and cringing at that image when my world dips around me, and I flying.  Then, I'm landing.  The table gives way under us with what sounds like a thunderous crack, and I feel the slight bounce as we land on the mat.

 Then, Matt is smiling down.  "You all right?"

 I nod.  I felt the impact, but it was all blunted by Mark.  I get up, adrenaline pumping.  "Whoa."

 "It's a rush, isn't it?" Jason grins.

 "Yeah.  I think I'm beginning to understand a little more of why you do it," I say slowly.

 "Now, combine that rush with what you get from playing a concert," Matt says.  "And you've got what we get every night, when the crowd is roaring, you've got testosterone and adrenaline thrumming through you.  It's better than anything on this planet."

 I nod slowly.  "I understand."

 "Oh, please tell me that you didn't send him through a table?" a horrified voice asks.

 I turn to find a tall, barrel-chested man there, with wide, earnest blue eyes.

 "Uh….." Jason hesitates.

 "You know Vince is gonna kill you!  Or worse, Sean will."  I note absently that they flinch more over the second name.  "Jeez, are you all right?"

 "Yeah, I'm great.  I asked Mark to show me what it was like, so I could get more of a feel for things," I say seriously.  "I need to know how things *feel* when I compose."

 "This is Kurt Angle," Jason says.  "Kurt, Danny."

 "Nice to meet you.  They sent me out to tell you that Vince is here.  He's looking forward to talking to you."

 I nod, thanking the odd crew in the ring for their kindness before following the tree trunk shaped Boy Scout to the back.

 As we duck through the curtain, I hear a voice raised in annoyance.  "Goddamn you two!  Can't you fucking keep out of trouble for five minutes?  You're fucking lucky that Blackman walked in on you instead of Vince.  Or Linda!  She'd have ripped you both new assholes.  No one is indispensable, and that includes the Game or the Heartbreak Kid.  Got it?  One more fuck up, and I'm not covering for you."

 I cringe as it goes into an unpleasantly shrill tone.  A moment later, the two blondes from earlier, Hunter and Shawn, trudge out of the room, looking like chastened schoolboys.  Then, I'm back at my room.

 Vince McMahon is much more physically imposing than I'd expected.  He's tall, and impossibly broad shouldered, like many of his overblown stars.  I'm not going to let that fool me.  This is the man who many sportswriters, and some of his former employees have characterized as the devil incarnate.

 He didn't become a billionaire by being a pushover.

 His greeting is pleasant, polite.  Then, it's time to get down to business.

   Motherfuck, that is one tough sonofabitch.  I get what I want, a little cash, and a promise to push Richard's new movie like it's the filming of the Second Coming.  In return, he gets an Elfman song for one of his characters.  Some guy called Raven.  He also gets the option to call me for two more, with rates to be negotiated at that time.

 Then, I settle in to watch the show from my monitor.  Raven's on first.  I like the character.  Whiny, odd, a little dark, a loner.  I can work with this.  After his segment, the guy behind him stops by for a chat.

 Scott Levy turn out to be incredibly bright, arrogant, bitingly cynical, and utterly unconcerned with what anyone thinks of him.  He's also funny as hell.  We get along wonderfully, laughing as he verbally dissects some of the other members of the staff.

 He falls silent after ripping apart some blonde named Jericho, who seriously needs to touch up all five inches of his roots.  His opponent is coming to the ring, well, more like bopping to the ring with absolutely no sense of rhythm.  He's a smallish man, hiding behind a full beard and mustache, and a mane of shoulder length black hair.

 The announcers inform me that this is "X-Pac."  All righty then.

 X-Pac seems to be uniformly hated, and is playing the bad guy, cheating outrageously.  He's fast, moving with a light, fluid step.

 The crowd is behind Jericho, and they're furious, chanting "X-Pac sucks!"  As Matt explained to me, this means that he's "over," doing his job as a heel well.

 Finally, the camera focuses on him as he turns to taunt the crowd, a genuine smile lighting his face.  I barely hold back a gasp as I get my first good look.  He's fucking beautiful.  I can feel my body responding, and curse mentally.  It hasn't been that long since I got laid, has it?  Oh, wait…..yeah, it has.

 "Yeah, sick, isn't it?" Scott murmurs.  "All that, and brains, too."

 I glance at him, startled, and he shrugs.  "Hey, I'd have to be dead not to notice."  He sucks in a breath, and I turn, staring at the screen.

 The brunette is on the mat, clutching his shoulder in pain.  "What happened?"

 "The idiot nearly dropped him on his head.  He's lucky that Sean managed to twist and take the brunt on his shoulder."  Scott shakes his head.  "Jericho's such a fucking ass sometimes."

 "You think he did it on purpose?"

 He shrugs.  "I don't know.  CJ is very religious, and the gays tend to freak him out a touch.  Yet, he's always been really cool to me.  But, he and Sean…..they've never gotten along.  And the fact that Sean is Vince's pet, writes half the scripts these days, I think it really bothers CJ.  What he never takes into account is that Sean's given up half his career for the behind the scenes stuff.  Vince doesn't dare give him a title, because half the fed will shriek favoritism."

 I nod.  I've heard enough now to understand that this place has more backstage politics than the Oscars.  Everyone is looking for their break into the stratosphere, their ticket to the big merchandising bucks.  Most won't get it.

 It reminds me of the up and coming music scene in that way.  It's not always the most talented.  It's the ones with the balls to push for what they want, and the ones who are in the right place at the right time.

 I glance at the monitor and notice that we're on commercial.  "Will they take him to the hospital now?" I ask.

 Scott simply chuckles, and stands.  "Come here," he murmurs.

 He opens the door and I look out, seeing Jericho deep in discussion with a sweet faced man in a suit.  "That's Shane McMahon.  He's probably giving CJ a good ream out for hurting Sean again."

 "Monsieur!  Monsieur Waltman!  If you please!"  I turn towards the sound, finding a skinny balding man jogging around the room.

 "That's Francois, our doctor."

 I glance past him, and there's the brunette, arm hanging at an odd angle, bouncing around the hallway, seemingly in discussion with several people at once.  The only sign that he's in pain is the fine white line around his lips, barely visible with the mustache.

 The game of tag continues for a few minutes, with Sean refusing to slow down long enough to have his shoulder looked at.  Finally, a tall, raven haired Amazon grabs his hair, forcing him to halt.  "Sean.  Let him take care of your shoulder."

 "I'm fine, Jo.  I'll just slam it back in after I finish briefing Benoit."  With a shake of his head, he untangles her hand from his hair, and heads back over to a compactly muscled man with a dearth of teeth.

 "Waltman!" Vince's voice thunders through the backstage like the voice of God.  "Shoulder.  *Now*."

 He stops bouncing, a martyred look on his face, and Francois begins to probe at his shoulder.  He barely flinches, though I'm doing enough for both of us.

 "He's tougher than he looks," Scott murmurs.  "Two broken necks, and he's still going."

 "Two?"

 He nods.  "The first time, he got hooked on painkillers, nearly killed himself."

 I wince.  I've seen friends who have gotten addicted.  Any injury is a problem for them.  A lot of them have ended up hooked again.  "That's hard, when you've been addicted."

 Scott snorts.  "Not for him.  He just didn't take any painkillers.  Nothing stronger than Advil when he had the surgery."

 I stare.  "For spinal surgery?"

 He nods, and I look back, reassessing the brunette.  Francois is gently positioning the shoulder to be popped back in.  Sean looks like he might doze off.

 "Are you ready?" Francois asks.

 "Yeah, do it," Sean says, voice bored.  He takes a deep breath, letting it out in an explosive curse as the bones pop audibly into place.

 I think I'm going to hurl.

 "Move it around, please?"

 Sean moves it a few times, and Francois wanders off, mumbling something about thick-headed Americans.  Sean calmly goes back to talking to Benoit, who's looking kind of green.  Nice to know it's not just me.

 "Come on, I'll introduce you to him," Scott says, dragging me over.

 Sean smiles as I approach.  "Hey, I finally get to meet the invisible celebrity."

 Jesus.  That smile could blind you.  "If you say so."

 He grins.  "Well, you made an impression on the Dudleys.  They couldn't stop talking about you letting Mark put you through a table."

 I shrug.  "I wanted to know how it would feel."

 He shakes his head.  "And they call me crazy.  Oh, sorry.  Sean Waltman."

 I take the hand he offers, feeling the warmth, the strength.  I'm trying to pretend that I don't feel my libido doing backflips.  "Danny Elfman."

 "So I've heard.  Enjoying your time with this crew?"

 "Actually, yes.  I've had a lot of fun."

 "Hollywood'll probably look sane when you go back."  He looks through lowered eyelashes.  Oh, that shouldn't look as attractive as it does.  "Vince flying you back tonight, or tomorrow morning?"

 "Tomorrow," I say.

 "Cool.  I'm probably gonna head out for something incredibly bad for me, and artery clogging after the show.  You're welcome to come along, if you'd like?  Unless the fruit plate was that filling, that is."  He smiles wider, and a curious warmth blossoms low in my stomach, spreading through my body.

 I smirk back.  "Sounds like a plan."

 The smile that gets me is nearly blinding, brilliant and beautiful.  I stare, knowing full well that all the spit in my mouth has completely dried up, and I'm smirking like an ass.

 After a moment, Sean's name is called, and he excuses himself, bounding over to the next crisis.  I settle in next to Matt, chatting and trying to pretend that I'm not watching his ass.

 Eventually, I get sucked into a discussion, and I do stop watching.  I get to meet Glenn, the giant who was lumbering around in a mask.  His character is Kane, the unstoppable monster.  His story is that his brother set their home on fire when they were young, scarring him, thus the mask.

 It's actually an amazingly compelling storyline.  I find myself listening to it raptly, from his inception to more recent times, through an apparently neverending feud with Sean, who had betrayed him, and stolen his woman.

 The affection in his voice when he talks about Sean is palpable.  Apparently, it's something else Sean does well.  As the bad guy, he's good at elevating the stars around him.  Glenn ended up back in main events, and Sean is still working the lower matches.  I can hear the annoyance at the unfairness of it, even as the gratitude and pride shines through.

 After that, I wander a little, pausing to chat with Jericho.  He seems like a good guy, a little full of himself, but not a bad person.  Finally, I decide to broach the subject of Sean.  "Can I ask you a question?  Doesn't it ever get hard to hold your temper?"

 "You're asking if I dumped Waltman on his head on purpose," he says flatly.  Apparently, he's brighter than he looks.  "Is that what he said?"

 "No, he didn't say anything.  Did you?"

 "Of course not.  Just cause I don't like the guy doesn't mean that I'd try to kill him.  He was moving faster than I though he was, and he slipped out of my grasp."  The light blue eyes narrow.  "Who said it was on purpose?"

 "Why don't you like him?" I ask, ignoring the other question.

 "We just don't get along.  Never have.  And in every damned fed, I'm stuck with him booking my matches.  I mean, look at him!  He shouldn't even be in the sport, but-"

 A sharp voice interrupts him.  "But, he's worth five of you, and I'd watch your fucking mouth."

 Jericho gives me a dirty look, like it's my fault he got scolded.  "Sorry," he mutters, ducking past the form of the heir apparent, Shane McMahon.

 "Stirring up trouble?" he asks softly.

 "Not trying to.  I just wanted to get a feel for things before I compose."  I'm lying.  I've got Raven's new music mapped out in my mind perfectly.  I'm stirring up trouble, and I know it.

 He shakes his head.  "You've certainly gotten everyone talking about you," he says.

 I shrug.  "It's a talent."

 He laughs.  "I see why Sean likes you."

 I open my mouth to reply, but close it at the soft voice.  "Poaching, Shane?"

 Shane rolls his eyes, turning towards Sean.  "Not hardly.  Just waiting for Glenn to finish up."  He grins as strong arms slide around him, lips brushing the top of his head.  "Done, huh?"

 Glenn smiles.  "Yeah.  Ready to get outa here?"

 "We're probably gonna hit Denny's, if you're interested," Sean offers.

 Shane shakes his head.  "No thanks, I think we're gonna order in tonight."  The smile he gives the tall man makes me want to squirm.  Love, isn't it nauseating?

 When I turn back to Sean, I catch a glimpse of something in his eyes, a raw, naked pain.  Then, fast as a blink, it's gone, and he's smiling at me.  "Ready to head out?"

 "Yeah."  I bite back the urge to apologize for seeing his pain.  I get the feeling he doesn't let many people see it.  "I could go for a coffee," I mutter.

 He grins, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.  "Me too."

 Since I have no interest in hopping back in the limo, Sean drives us the thirty minutes to a Denny's.  We pass a couple of all night places near the arena, but Sean explains that if we don't want to be bugged by fans, we're better off going the extra few miles.

 We finally pull in the Denny's parking lot at midnight.  Our incredibly apathetic waitress, Claire, takes our coffee orders, then wanders away while we study the menu.  Now that we're alone, neither of us can find anything to say.  I study the laminated paper like it holds the mystery of life, staring blindly at the pictures that never resemble what comes on your plate.

 After a few long minutes, Claire comes back for our orders, brings us coffee and takes our menus.  Then, I'm left alone in the too-bright lights, the softly twangy music underscoring our silence.

 After a minute or two, Sean chuckles.  "I have friends who would swear that this is the longest I've ever kept my mouth shut."

 I nod.  "Me too.  I didn't spend twenty years as the frontman for a band without having a big mouth."

 "I remember Jason saying something about that.  You fronted the much reviled and maligned Oingo Boingo?"

 I nod slightly, and he leans closer.  "Don't tell anyone, but I actually like your music.  Well, except those two that Jeff plays all the time."

 I shake my head with a rueful smirk.  "You don't have to say that-"

 A soft snort interrupts me.  "First thing you need to know is that I don't believe in the merits of bullshit.  Jeff stopped playing "Little Girls" for five minutes once, and put in "Boingo."  I'd bought my own copy by the end of the week."

 "Really?"  I have to admit, it gives me a little thrill.

 He nods slightly.  “Really.  I had the chorus for “Insanity” locked in my head for about a week straight.  I’m surprised Hunter didn’t offer to kill you along with Jase.”  He offers me a smile, wry and touched with a darkness that I find nearly irresistible.  “To say that singing is not my forte is like saying that the Sahara is a nice beach.”

 I grin lazily back.  “Any others you liked?”  Yeah, I’m fishing.

 From the smirk he gives me, he knows that I’m fishing, but is willing to humor me.  “Most of the album, really.  Though, I’ll admit, a couple of them…..it’s not that I didn’t like them, it’s just that they hit a little too close to the bone.”

 There’s that flash of darkness again.  So incredibly appealing…..   “In what way?”

 He shrugs a little, and I have the urge to apologize for being a pushy bastard.  Instead, I let the question hang for another moment.

 “Can’t See,” he says softly.  “When I started out, I had five friends who I loved more than anything.  We ate, slept, breathed the business.  It was just a good match all around.”

 I nod, letting him know that I’m listening, without interrupting.

 “Shawn was our default leader, brash, arrogant, but so sweet sometimes.  I swear, he was every contradiction in the books.  Hunter was his little bitch back then.  He was talented as any of us, but so damned innocent, so sweet.  I would have given anything to keep him that way.”

 I try to reconcile the image of the cynical man I’d seen earlier with the description.  Not happening.

 “Then, there was Kevin.  Like Shawn’s dark mirror, really.  As snarlingly bitchy as Shawn could be, he was rarely conniving about it back then.  Kevin could be.  He taught Shawn everything he knew.  And Scott…..God, the demons he had, even then.  He gave me my first break, convinced Vince to let him put me over.”  He smiles bitterly.  “I loved him, and I understood, because some of our demons are the same.”

 I touch his arm lightly.  “You don’t have to-“

 He shrugs, going on like I hadn’t spoken.  “PJ was last of the group.  He and I started out together.  Then, I started getting the breaks, while he was stuck in gimmick hell.  He left for another league, and we fell out of touch, maybe talked once a month, when our schedules allowed.”

 I swallow hard.  “Sounds like me and the rest of Boingo.  We told each other that we’d keep in touch, that we would call, and still get together all the time.  I’m lucky if I hear from them, except John.”  And Christ, I don’t want to hear from John.  It hurts too much to see what I threw away.

 This time, it’s him touching me.  “About five years ago, Kevin and Scott left for WCW.  I wasn’t around, a little occupied with rehab, trying to kick the painkillers I’d been sucking down for over a year.”

 “I’d heard about that.”

 “Yeah, they still seem surprised, after all these years.”  He shakes his head.  “When I came back I went to WCW, with Scott and Kev.  Scott was already on his way to being out of control.  I reined him in, kept him from self destructing.  They had enough power to get me in, but not enough to get me anywhere once I was there, so I got to spend a lot of time on my knees, earning my push.”

 I flinch, remembering more than one meeting that had gone that way.  No matter what anyone says, the casting couch is alive and well in Hollywood.  I blew my way to sought-after composer, and then I met Tim.  Another memory I don’t particularly want to dwell on.

 “Scott has this great talent when he’s drunk and high.  He can get under someone’s skin, and just dig until they want him dead.  One of them knew that he’d get canned if he hurt Scott, but the cruiserweight with the fragile neck was a good substitute.”  He pauses, offering our waitress a polite smile and thank you as she sits our food on the table with an audible thump.

 I snarl faintly at her, muttering, “If I’d wanted them scrambled, I’d have ordered them like that.”

 Sean snorts with laughter, grinning as she beats a hasty retreat.  “Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to frighten the wait staff?”

 I shake my head.  “Probably, but it never really took.  I see that yours taught you nicely.”

 He snorts again, this time a little bitterly.  “I just worked too many jobs like this.  On a good night at the truck stop, I could make a hundred, not including what I’d make after my shift was over.”

 “Huh?”  I’m not following.

 “Think about it for a moment, it’ll come to you.  A bunch of tired, lonely truckers, pretty little sixteen year old.”

 I gag, cursing the fact that my imagination is nicely developed.  “Jesus…..”

 “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you lose your lunch there,” Sean says.  “It was what I had to do to pay for wrestling classes.”  He shrugs.  “I don’t regret it.”

 No, he wouldn’t.  My God.  No wonder he’s got a will of steel.   He’s been honing it for nearly half his life.

 Sean shrugs again.  “Not a big deal, really.  A lot of us from the old days whored ourselves.”

 I nod.  “I guess in any business, there’s sacrifices.”  I hesitate.  “Does that still go on-I mean, I saw Shawn and Hunter, and-“

 I break off at his laugh, bitter enough to make my eggs taste like sawdust.  “No, those two are special cases.”  He sighs softly.  “When I came back from the painkillers, I had to make a choice.  Go and protect Scott from himself, or stay, and protect Hunter’s innocence.”

 “I’m sure you did what you could-“

 “Wasn’t enough.  Should have realized that no matter what I offered Shawn, he’d forget the moment I was gone.  Apparently, I wasn’t that good of a lay.  So, I came back to the WWF after the surgery, and I find Hunter.  Nice, cynical, broken Hunter.  If Shawn hadn’t had ruptured discs in his back, I’d have killed him myself.  For a while, he was engaged to Jo, and it was great.  He was so happy, like himself.  Then, they broke up, and Shawn started making noises about coming back, and it all went downhill.  You see the results.  No matter how far he comes, Shawn just bashes him right back to bitch again.”

 The pain in his voice tears at a part of me I hadn’t realized still existed.  It’s a part I thought I’d buried, frozen over long ago.  “I’m lucky, I guess.  When the band split, my bassist was the one I was worried about.  John’s so sweet, so gentle.  I didn’t think he could survive in the real world.  I didn’t think he realized how brutal it could be.” I smirk.  “Apparently, I didn’t realize how strong he could be.  He’s a producer now, working with some of the younger bands, protecting them.  I hadn’t realized how much he’d been protecting me all along.”

 Sean smiles.  “He sounds like a good guy.”

 “I think I was his Scott,” I say.

 The gentling of his smile tells me that he understands.  “I’m glad he was better at it than I was, then.  You’re far too valuable to lose to the demons.”

 “And what about your demons?”

 He shrugs, sighing.  “They still visit, waiting for me to be too tired, too weak to fight them off.  Now, they usually bring the ghosts of failures past with them.”  He takes another sip of coffee, fine tremors running through his hand.

 For the first time, I really look, noting the deep shadows under his eyes, the sleepless gouges cut by long nights.  “When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?”

 He shrugs.  “Probably the week after the last Pay Per View.  Since then, I’ve been too busy getting ready for Wrestlemania.  Mind you, I’m not on the card, but I’ve been writing most of it, working with Shane, making sure he’s ready for his match.”  He shakes his head with a fond smile.  “That is one crazy motherfucker.  He wants to do stunts I wouldn’t even think of trying.”

 The affection there makes me grin.  “You sound like the proud papa.”

 He laughs.  “Nah, that’s Vince’s job.  Their match is against each other, so he’ll get a firsthand view of how loony his kid is.  He’s gonna bust a seam, I swear.  Vince always wanted to be a wrestler, and he’s done a few matches, but Shane…..he’s something else.  If he wanted, he could be a top performer.  It makes Vince proud as hell to know that his kid is getting to accomplish what he always wanted to.”

 “How does Vince handle his son being gay?”

 “Remarkably well.  Of course, Shane’s married, and he still does his duty, tries to produce an heir occasionally.  As long as he and Glenn keep it quiet, out of the public eye, he doesn’t care.  Then again, in this business, you get used to bisexuality quickly.  We outnumber the straights about four to three.”  He smirks.  “There’s only about three guys I can think of who get squicked by it, and two are in an angle together, so they can inflict their political views on each other.”

 “Good plan.”

 “There are benefits to being on the booking team.  Like being able to bust Jericho back to midcard after he hurt a couple people.”  The smirk takes on a faintly malicious edge.  “I don’t care if he doesn’t like me, but it pisses me off that he tries to hide it behind religion.”

 “Religion,” I snort.  “There’s a reason I went atheist, and it had more to do with the followers than the god.”

 He smiles wryly.  “I was raised Jewish, some of my family is actually orthodox.  They’re scary as fuck.  I mean, they’re not wealthy, yet they adhere to all these strict rules about having two sets of utensils for meat and dairy, and all that shit.”

 My smile is honest now, real.  “You too, huh?  I pissed off Mom more than once by referring to my Orthodox cousins as “Cultists.””

 He laughs, startling our waitress.  She drops the check and scurries away quickly.  I reach for it, only to have my hand smacked.  “I’ve got it,” he says.  “You’re a guest of the WWF, remember?”

 “It’s fucking Denny’s, I’m not going to go broke-“  I break off as he pulls out a WWF corporate card.

 “Shane slipped it to me while we were talking,” he smiles.  “I figure after this we should go to the liquor store and make a night of it, if you’re up for it?”

 I mentally curse the idiotic smile that touches my lips.  I want to spend time with him.  That’s scary in and of itself.  He’s got a way about him that makes me want to get to know him better.  I want to get behind all his walls, want to touch that part of him I can sense inside, something pure and good that nothing has been able to touch.

 I want him.  I want to feel his hands on me, feel his strength on top of me, inside me.  Want to bathe in his warmth, to bruise those full lips with mine.

 And if that isn’t the scariest thing I’ve ever thought, I don’t know what is.  I can’t afford to want.  It only leads to lifetimes of need, of looking for men with sleepy-looking dark eyes, and untamable hair in dirty bars, quick fucks in dingy rooms with men who don’t care if I’ve screamed “Tim” when I come.  Who are screaming the names of their own demons when they come.

 The most frightening thing is that I don’t want him for his sleepy brown eyes, and dark ringlets.  I want this one for all the things Tim isn’t.  For the fragile beauty, for the iron will, for the merciless honesty he looks at the world with.  I want him for the shadows I see, and for the nearly blinding light.

 “Hey,” he murmurs softly, touching my hand.  “Where’d you go in there?”

 I blink.  “Just thinking about ghosts.”

 He smiles hesitantly, uncertain.  “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  I was just offering a beer and conversation.”

 Well, so much for that fantasy.  “Of course.  I knew that.  I mean, why would you want anything else?”  Oh, that sounded bitter.

 To my shock, he laughs.  My ego is taking a serious fucking beating here.  “Oh, I want,” he murmurs, voice a low purr.  “But, I don’t want you to think that I’m gonna force myself on you.”

 “Why not?”  Shit, did I just ask that?

 This time, the laughter is dark, tinged with an edge of something unpleasant.  “Danny, you’re from the land of the beautiful people.  Of which, I am not one.  I leave the egotism up to Shawn.”  He stands, going up to the register to pay.

 My God, he actually believes that tripe.  He honestly doesn’t see how beautiful he is.  I stare after him, blinking.  He said that he wanted…..wanted me?  Why would he want me?  He’s young, attractive, virile.  I’m old, worn down…..old.  Hey, I’m not so far gone that I’ll cast aspersions on my manhood.

 He comes back, and I can see the change.  His guard is up now.  He’s not looking at me, not meeting my eyes.   I hate it.  I hate that I somehow caused it.  I hate not knowing how to fix it.  Or do I?

 “The offer for that beer still open?” I ask lightly.

 He looks at me, startled.  “Of course.  If you want to.”

 I smile, putting every ounce of sleepy sexuality I’ve got into it.  “Oh, I want,” I mimic.

 His answering smile is slow, lazy.  “Then, by all means, I’d hate to disappoint.”

 I follow him to the car, smirking as Claire waves a happy good bye.  “What the fuck did you give her for a tip?” I ask.  “Gold?”

 He just smiles that sphinx-like grin.  The ride to the liquor store is quiet, comfortable.  He’s not saying much, but it’s not an oppressive silence.

 It’s not hard to shop for booze.  According to Sean, he’s not a drinker, and I’m not really in the mood to get tanked, so we get a six pack of Corona, and head for the hotel.

 It’s not until we turn onto the road that he speaks again.  “I should warn you, the hotel’s gonna be a mob scene.  Most of the fans know where we stay, and it’s like running the gauntlet to get to the elevator.”

 “Tell them to fuck off,” I snort, knowing full well that he wouldn’t dream of it.

 He shakes his head.  “I used to go watch the matches when I was younger, and I was lucky enough that most of the stars I idolized were kind, willing to answer an eight year old’s endless questions.  I’ve never forgotten that.”  His lips twist a little.  “I won’t get it too bad.  I’m not a big draw.”

 I just give him a look.  “I heard the fans.  They hate you.”

 “And they’d want my autograph why, then?”

 I shrug, and he presses a keycard into my hand.  “You can head for the room if you want, I’ve got a spare.  That way you don’t have to deal with the crush.”

 I nod slightly, looking up.  “I’ll meet you at the elevators.”

 “You don’t have to-“

 “I’ll wait for you by the elevators,” I repeat firmly.

 The slight shake of his head tells me that he doesn’t think I know what I’m talking about.  Hell, I probably don’t.  These days, I’m used to the Hollywood version of meeting the fans, behind nice velvet ropes.

 He climbs out of the car slowly.  “I’ll walk ahead, so they don’t know we’re together.”

 By the time I reach the hotel, Sean’s already surrounded.  My God.  The crush of people is enough to give me pause.  As I slip through the door, they turn like animals scenting blood.  I give them a bland smile-Not who you were looking for, nothing to see here.

 They seem to agree, going back to swarming Sean and another young man, who I seem to remember as Eddy Guerrero.  They’re both signing, smiling, posing for pictures, talking to the fans.  As I watch, a couple of other stars come in, brushing past the group of fans, ignoring them.  More of them still, though, stop to talk and sign.

 Despite what he had said, Sean seems pretty popular, clusters of fans thronging him, begging for his attention.  He’s gracious, pleasant, chatting comfortably with them as he slowly moves towards the elevators.

 Finally, the last autograph is signed, and he slips from them, moving with a grace I could only dream of approaching.  I press the button for the elevator smiling as he slips in beside me, leaning his shoulders against the tasteful faux mahogany walls with a sigh.

 “Big crowd?”

 He shakes his head slightly.  “Not really.  We’ve had them where we can’t even get in the front door of the hotel.”

 “I can’t imagine it.  This was worse than anything I’ve ever seen.”

 Sean smirks.  “It’s not like a band, where there’s maybe five, ten people who the fans want.  There’s around thirty of us, not including our broadcasters and on air front office people.  It’s a logistical nightmare for Jim, our head of security.”

 I’ll just bet.  I’m spared from my gaping as the doors slide open with a whoosh.  Sean takes the six pack from me, leading the way to his room.  “They fucked up the reservations, so I ended up in a suite,"

 He opens the door, gesturing for me to enter.  Suite.  Uh-huh.  Presidential Suite, maybe.  It’s bigger than some apartments I’ve had, decorated with more of the dark, tasteful wood, and strong, masculine colors.

 Sean looks right at home in it.  He sits the beer in the kitchenette area before heading over to flip on some lights.  I stay right where I am, enjoying the play of his loose jeans over his ass.  Tight would be better, but there’s something to be said for tantalizing with little glimpses of  the muscled curve of his thigh, the flex of his ass.

 He turns back.  “Grab a seat.  Mi casa es su casa.”

 “Gracias,” I smile, scooping up a beer.  “De nada.”

 “Cerveza, por favor?”  Okay, he’s mangling Spanish, both in accent and in linguistics, but he’s doing it in this impossibly bad Cuban accent, so I’ll let it pass.

 I hand him the beer, smirking as he pulls out a penknife complete with several blades and gadgets.  “Someone watched MacGyver way too much as a child,” I observe.

 He chuckles, smooth and dark.  “Now, if I just had duct tape, I could make a nuclear bomb with no problem.”

 I grin back, slouching onto the sofa next to him.  “Really nice accent, by the way.”

 His smile dims a little, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.  He shrugs a little, concentrating far too hard on opening the bottle.   Finally, they’re open, and he hands me mine, meeting my eyes.  His are flat, a little tired.

 “What did I say?” I ask.

 “Nothing, really.  Just brought back memories.”  He sighs.  “That was Scott’s character, Razor Ramon.  Didn’t matter that he was a white hick from North Carolina.  Vince wanted him to be a Cuban bad ass, so he was.  He had the shittiest accent you can imagine, kept slipping in and out of it, and still, every so often, one of his vowels would still get that flat Southern sound to it.”

 “Sounds like you miss it.”

 “It had it’s moments.”  Sean lifts his bottle, staring at it.  “To love,” he proclaims.  “The greatest antidote to happiness ever devised by man.”

 I clink the bottle, silently offering twin toasts to Avila and Tim in my own mind.  “Here, here.”

 After a few moments of silence, Sean speaks again.  “Can I ask you a question?  Boingo, do you still miss it?”

 Yes, please rip open that scar, won’t you?  “I miss parts of it.  Mostly, I miss getting to see the people I cared about, my bandmates.  I miss performing, though, that’s faded some.” I hesitate for a moment, before curiosity gets the better of me.  “Why do you ask?”

 He smiles slightly.  “Just wondering, when I’m done, how long it’ll hurt for.”

 “I don’t think you have to worry about that anytime soon, Sean.”  I smile slightly at him.  It fades as he shakes his head.

 “I’m twenty eight, and I’ve had two broken necks.  My discs are slowly degenerating.  I figure I might get another two, maybe three years before I just can’t do it anymore.  I’ll still do the backstage stuff, maybe take the occasional bump as a ref or something, but my wrestling career will be over.”

 I wince a little at his matter of fact tone.   “Does it hurt to wrestle now?”

 “A bit.  It’s better since I’ve gotten back into weight training.  I have to keep the muscles strong enough to give it support, or it really hurts.”

 I reach over, touching his shoulder.  It’s warm, muscles strong beneath my hand.  “I’m sorry.”

 He shrugs slightly.  “Not a big deal.  I’m just going to enjoy it while it lasts.”

 “Good plan.”

 We’re silent for a few minutes, before I speak again.  “When Boingo ended, I wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever. Tim dragged me out, made me do his goddamn movie score.  Like he needed me so that martians could take annihilate the world?”

 Sean smiles slightly.  “Hey, that was a great movie.”

 “You’re weird.”  I sigh.  “I think John and he were conspiring against me, I swear.  They both seemed to think I was a risk for slitting my wrists or something.  Everytime I turned around, one of them was up my ass.”

 He smirks, raising an eyebrow.  “Kinky.”

 It starts out as a smack, aimed at his head.  He doesn’t dodge, and my fingertips brush over impossibly silky, glossy hair.  I stroke it, instead, letting it’s satiny texture slide between my fingers.

 He relaxes, nearly purring.  He scoots closer, and I’m drawn close to the muscular body, bathed in the warmth.  It’s pleasant, comfortable, and I lean in a little.  We talk when we want to, low rumbles of voices, but mostly we sit like that, enjoying the comfort of having companionship.

 I don’t really know what we’re talking about, life, relationships, maybe.  All I really notice is his warmth, the solid body next to me.  Before long, I feel my eyes droop, my speech slurring with exhaustion.

 It’s way too early for me to be tired, barely two in the morning, but here I am, sliding into sleep without working myself into exhaustion first.

 My first thought when I wake is that for once I didn’t fall asleep at my desk, working.  I’m warm, horizontal.  Wait a second, horizontal?  Memory floods back in a rush, carrying with it the thought of sweet coca eyes and full, kissable lips.

 I roll over, expecting to find him there, but the bed is empty.  There’s not even a pillow there.  I sit up, looking around the suite.  There he is, on the sofa, stretching as he wakes.

 Unaccustomed warmth blossoms in my chest.  He must have tucked me in, then gone to sleep on the sofa.  Jesus.  It almost makes up for not waking with him in bed.

 He smiles slightly, tilting his head back.  “Morning.”  This could be so uncomfortable, but it’s not.  He’s making sure that it isn’t, just acting like we were friends having a sleep over.  I don’t think I want him as a friend.  I find, much to my surprise, that I want him as more.

 The President’s Suite comes with a delivered breakfast, and we dig in, downing way more coffee than we should.  The chatter is comfortable, relaxed.  I could get used-whoa.  Stop that train of thought now, Elfman.

 He’s already packed, since he’s due to drive the three hours to the next arena, supposed to be there by three.  He walks with me to my room, two floors down.

 Then, it gets uncomfortable.  “Thanks for having everyone take care of me so well,” I murmur.  “And for dinner.”

 “Not a problem.  It was really nice to have the company.”  He fidgets for a moment.  “Look, I’m trying not to be presumptuous here, so I’ll just say that I really liked spending time with you, and that when we’re in LA again, there’ll be a pass for you, if you want it.”

 Relief washes over me.  “I’d enjoy that.  Thank you.”

 He smiles brightly, and starts to walk away.  “Cool.”

 He stops, blowing out a hard breath, then seems to make a decision.  He turns back, covering the ground in two quick strides, pressing me against the door with his body.  Strong fingers slide into my hair, holding me immobile as his lips descend on mine.

 It’s not a nice, genteel kiss.  It’s everything they warned you against in high school, deep, intimate.

 I don’t care, arms sliding around him, opening passively, enjoying the slick feel of his tongue sliding over my lip, my teeth.  He tastes…..wonderful.  Like coffee and sugar and some musky undertone.

 I’m shivering by the time he draws back, gasping and hard.

 He smiles, but I can see the tremors in his body,  the sudden erection pressing against his jeans.  “Yeah.  See you around, Elfman.”

 I stare, blinking, as he touches my lip lightly, as though in salute, before turning decisively, walking down the hallway, turning the bend, out of sight.  Bastard.

 The thought doesn’t stop me from running my tongue over my lip where he touched, trying to absorb the last bit of his flavor.

 Yeah.  Bastard.