#I didn't even read the book while being nine I only watch the dog show why has it hit me so xD

[longagoitwastuesday]

I just read an article on The three musketeers and it has left me teary eyed

[nagdabbit]

a song that will dig into my bones (1/?)

words: 1.9k

jon moxley/bryan danielson

(what if mox had to retire early and inherited a bookshop au, finally posting the full chapters) "Jon didn't mind it. It wasn't like he hadn't been used to that grind, always on, always working. The only difference was where his work took him. He'd seen pretty well most of the world already. He didn't mind that his work now only took him down a flight of stairs.“

also on ao3

When Jon thought about it, really thought about it, the wide array of human experience for him to pick and choose from, he liked very few things. He liked too-sweet coffee and milk chocolate and potato chips on a sandwich. He liked hiking and biking and running, and he liked tho0se precious few moments when he actually had the time for any of that. He liked dogs, all dogs, literally any dogs within petting distance—and most of the ones outside it, if he was being honest. He liked the quiet when he had time to read, music while he worked, and an audio book if he had to drive further than twenty minutes. 

He didn't like cooking all that much, but he liked that he'd managed to at least get better at it through the years. He didn't like having to talk to people, to place orders and make small talk, but he liked the shop. Liked that, even without all his savings and investments, he could be self-sufficient. That he'd managed to make the place successful, somehow. Liked that he could actually easily afford to pay somebody a living wage, if he ever got the balls together to hire somebody.

He didn't like wrestling so much anymore, but he still liked to watch it when he had the time. He hated being recognized, but he kinda liked it when people remembered him, called him up out of the blue. Didn't like thinking about those days anymore, but he liked catching up with the friends he'd made along the way. Liked watching them succeed, every chance he could.

He liked fixing up books with spines that didn't need resewn. And he really liked working without interruption. And, most of the time, he even liked Wheeler Yuta.

Jon was rethinking his stance on that last one.

They'd been having a stand off for about five minutes, ever since he heard knuckles insistently knocking at the door at the front of the shop. Jon stood on one side of the glass door, arms crossed and glowering, while Wheeler grinned at him from the sidewalk.

The kid was nothing but sunshine, Jon would swear it on a stack of bibles. He could be an unrepentant little shit, but he sure thought he was cute about it. All big smiles and boundless energy, a real golden retriever kind of kid.

Usually, Jon liked him.

He unlocked the door, finally, and let Wheeler bounce his way into the shop. "Dunno how many times I gotta tell you, the code for the alley door hasn't changed," he grumbled, giving Wheeler as dark a look as he could manage. He still accepted the warm coffee cup when it was thrust toward him, though.

"Yeah, but that's for employees," Wheeler argued, still grinning that big, stupid grin. Too early for that kinda thing.

"You're right, but only employees show up this fuckin' early." 

“It’s nine, it’s not early.”

“I don’t open ‘til ten.”

Wheeler just kept grinning at him, practically wiggling in place in all his goddamn excitement. It was disgusting. Far too early to be that excited about anything. "Well, I was in the neighborhood. Figured you'd already be working, like usual."

And he had been, but he wasn't about to give the smug brat the satisfaction. "You were in the neighborhood, huh?"

"Yeah, you know. Kicking around before I gotta head to the next show." He shrugged, like he didn't show up on Jon's doorstep every few weeks, anyway. "Thought I'd make sure you saw daylight this week."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I don't get paid to see daylight."

"With no one on the register, it's a wonder you get paid at all," Wheeler snarked back. It was a familiar script, they ran through it damn near every time he was just in the neighborhood.

"Yeah, well, my best employee just up and left one day," Jon shot back.

"So you're saying you miss me," Wheeler teased. 

Fucker thought he was real cute. Jon rolled his eyes. "Don't go fishing for compliments, kid."

"I don't have to, they just seem to find me." He gave another of those big grins. He casually leaned against the counter, trying so hard not to look expectant and excited. "So. Watch anything interesting lately?"

Jon, just for the fuck of it, feigned confusion. Made a face, scratched his head, put on a show. "Nah, not really. Frasier reruns, mostly. You know me."

"Really? Nothing exciting?" Wheeler pressed, barely able to contain himself. 

Jon didn't much care to talk about the good old days. Didn't exactly like to reminisce. He'd had his shot, his moment in the sun, and had it ripped right out of his hands. It was still sore.

But he didn't exactly mind when it came to Wheeler. Not really. Kid had stumbled in, same as Jon had all those years ago, looking for any job that would take him. Hadn't been able to hide the flash of recognition, but never once tried to push Jon on it. Hell, it took him showing up for work a month later, a little battered and bruised before, he even admitted he was training at all.

After that, Jon had insisted. Kid grew on him like a dandelion: invasive, hearty, and damn difficult to get rid of. Eddie vouching for the kid hadn't hurt, either.

But they had a whole rest of the script to get through, first. They'd talk shop once the place was closed and Jon could be dragged away from his work, usually with threats of violence and promises of tacos.

He held out a moment longer and then gave the kid a grin and opened his arms wide. "You know I watched, stop fishing." He expected it, had a moment to brace himself, but the kid still damn-near ran him over, like usual. 

"Bryan Danielson!" Wheeler gushed, excitable as a puppy, still bouncing on the balls of his feet as he hugged Jon tight. His voice was bright, and maybe just a hair too loud in Jon's ear. "Can you believe it? Me?!"

Jon kinda wanted to tell the kid to fuck off, just a little bit. Of course him. "You did great, kid."

"Oh, please, I got absolutely murdered. But I got murdered by Bryan Danielson." He said it reverently. Most people did, and with good reason, but it still made Jon roll his eyes.

Kid would be that one day. A name people said with that same respect and admiration. It was only a matter of time, and—were Jon a betting man—a short time, at that. 

He shoved back and gave Wheeler's hair a good ruffle. "Alright, you know the rules. If you're gonna show up unannounced, I'm putting you to work."

"Yeah, yeah. I expect payment in cash." He didn't miss a beat, as if he hadn't been shoved unceremoniously out the door when he started popping up on Jon's TV. 

"I'll buy you lunch."

"And dinner."

"Hey, you're the one with TV money," he shot back.

"Yeah, but I'm a cheap date." He grinned, pinning a name tag to his shirt.

Jon scowled. The shop did more special orders than walk-ins, there had never been a need for a name tag, but the kid insisted. Little shit. He hid it somewhere in the shop each time he left, too. It haunted Jon.

Wheeler's grin just grew, cheeks all bunched up and dimpled. "I thought you were busy?"

He shot the kid another dark look. "You're lucky I am, or I'd kick your ass."

"Bring it, old man."

"Don't think I won't tell on you. Eddie'll do it for me."

"Hasn't worked out for you before, I doubt he'll start doing your dirty work now." Wheeler swatted at him, already turning to busy himself with the familiar routine of opening the shop up. It was like he'd never even left.  "Go. I've got this."

"That's why you're my favorite, Yoots."

He laughed, loud in the usually quiet place. "You gotta buy me dinner now."

He knew what was coming, script familiar as the rustle of paper and the scent of ink and dust. But he asked, anyway, "Oh yeah? Or what?"

"Or I'll tell Eddie you said that," he said, smugly. 

Jon narrowed his eyes and threw a paperback at his head. Just for good measure.

 ***

"Shops closed, floors are swept, special orders have been placed, client calendar has been updated, register is closed out and I even swept," Wheeler announced, shoving into Jon's workroom. "It is seven p.m. and I am starving. Stop working and feed me."

Jon blinked at him, eyes straining to focus on him through the scratched lenses of his cheap readers. "Seven?" Last time he'd looked at the clock, it hadn't even been 4:30 yet. 

"Yup. Come on, I know you got the messy part done, you can break for the night," he demanded, forcefully yanking Jon's chair away from the desk. The wheels squeaked and whined as he was dragged across the room. "I checked your calendar, this isn't an all-nighter project. Eat food, be a person, tell me how to beat Danielson."

"I am a person, thank you," he groused. He crossed his arms over his chest and let himself be towed along. He'd learned not to fight back long ago.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," Wheeler grumbled.

"Was that not a response?"

"If you're not careful, I'm gonna make you get a full night's sleep, too." 

"You could try."

"And I would win." He wheeled the chair out of the workroom and toward the back hallway, humming as he went. "I ordered tacos from that new place a block over."

Jon huffed. "I thought I owed you dinner?"

"I remembered your card number," he said, dismissively. "Anyway, I got tacos upstairs, I queued up a movie that looked like it had spies and explosions, and I watered your cactus."

He frowned. "What cactus?"

"The one I brought last time. It's on the window sill above your stove."

"You really gotta stop that, it's just gonna die."

"It's a cactus, you can't kill it."

"You underestimate me."

"Oh, shut up, it'll be fine." He kept dragging the chair down the hall, past the bathrooms and back office Jon never used. He flicked off light switches as he went, blanketing the place in darkness and the dim shine of streetlights though the front windows. 

He knew Wheeler worried. Like he thought Jon only went out for groceries, only traveled for holidays, only relaxed when he was forced to. And—he wasn't wrong, but Jon didn't mind it. It wasn't like he hadn't been used to that grind, always on, always working. The only difference was where his work took him. He'd seen pretty well most of the world already. He didn't mind that his work only took him down a flight of stairs.

Wheeler flicked off the final hall light, spun Jon's chair around, and tipped him out at the foot of the stairs. "Go. Food. Relax."

He snorted and started up the stairs, "Don't you have a fancy degree, or something? They didn't teach you how to string a sentence together?"

"No, but they taught me how to deal with toddlers."

"Dude, you're like twelve."

Behind him, Wheeler squawked in outrage and batted at Jon's heels. He'd keep it up until they were settled in front of Jon's modest TV, food in hand. He'd make familiar jokes, always with that little undercurrent of worry—because he'd never be able to turn it off—and keep up their routine until he couldn't stand it any longer and their conversation turned to the match.

It was nice, and it was familiar, and it was warm.