Chapter Text
Roman Reigns was eighteen years old when a curious alumni from his university offered him a job that changed his life. What could have been a mediocre career in football or some other sport pivoted cleanly into a life serving the public from the shadows and he never looked back. After years of training, he is finally settled into the ranks of Statesman, with his own specialties, his own office, and a house of his own.
Surviving V-Day was 80% pure luck. Roman was conveniently isolated on a ranch in Northern Texas when everything went to hell. He took out two stable hands and got thoroughly bruised by a stallion that went berserk, but it crushed his phone and then everything calmed down. Checking in and rebuilding the small field offices throughout the country kept him running off his feet in the following months, until larger crimes started to cast their shadows on the world.
Tracking down the leaders of an illegal fighting ring should be one more simple mission. A small thing to better a world that is still chaotic in the wake of Valentine’s misguided attempt to eliminate ninety percent of the world population.
~~~~~
Dean Ambrose has never backed down from a fight in his life, at least not one that mattered. He didn't when he was in martial arts and gymnastics in middle school and the little bit of high school he went to. He didn't when he joined the army or when he got kicked out of it.
It has always been Dean’s first instinct to fight and put his body on the line to defend others. After the army, that instinct led him to the seedy underworld of Ohio’s biggest cities and into the underground fight scene. He isn't about to back down now when he's being pummeled on by three giant guys in sheep masks while the crowd jeers. Dean's been in worse situations.
It sets Roman on edge to watch the fights going down, hating the screaming, raucous crowd as much as the shady overlords who profit from them. Tonight he's only here to make sure that local law enforcement doesn't screw up this bust or let the organizers get away. Roman's been trailing these fights all the way from Florida, trying to get to the men in charge as they dodge charges from illegal drug dealing to manslaughter.
Roman's seen four similar fights in Ohio now, and he recognizes the smallest of the four men currently fighting at from all of those "shows." The man is tall but without the muscular bulk that many of the fighters have. However overwhelmed he looks, however cruel the odds set against him, the lanky man with sweaty ginger hair fights his heart out every time, like this is a show, like this is what he wants to do. He's not staying down under the onslaught of his three giant opponents, despite already bleeding from a split lip and a gash across his forehead.
Dean lets the Wyatts beat on him for a little while just to make them get lazy. They aren't paying attention to him when he falls against the barricade and manages to rip a loose two by four with staples in it out from under the thin gray mats. He swings it around and hits the three of them in the shins and achilles tendon before going to town at the giant men like the board is a baseball bat.
"Fuck you Bray, sending your fucking dogs after me!" Dean spits out the words and blood oozes out from his split lip. "You want to fight me, do it for yourself!"
Roman can’t actually spare the attention to watch the fight and is trying to slip away into the crowd when the slim redhead turns the tables on his attackers, toppling the larger men until a shorter man with dreadlocks and a hateful smirk emerges from the crowd with more masked men, all with the bulky muscle of hired guards. They drag the redhead kicking and screaming out of the makeshift ring and toward the back of the dirty warehouse.
Roman fights down the desire to go after them and still heads upstairs, setting a few things in place to make sure that the organizers are caught with their cash takings and some additional incriminating contracts. Even as he completes his mission and sets the bust in motion, he can't shake the memory of the confident spark in the young man’s eyes.
Roman knows he should walk away, but he ends up waiting outside to be sure the capture goes down properly. When he sees the feisty redhead being dragged out in handcuffs, he starts walking toward the car before he can think better of it. The officer glares at him as he steps in, but doesn’t talk back. Roman handed them this bust after all. A big splashy victory for the side of order. Roman smoothly catches the young man’s arm just above his cuffed wrist and pulls him away before the officer can put him into a patrol car, one hand still in the pants pocket of his trousers.
"There must be a misunderstanding here, this young man is with me. Sorry for the confusion.” Roman doesn't give them a chance to question him as he takes control and guides the man away to his own car, parked in the far corner of the parking lot.
Dean isn't really sure how he ended up in handcuffs and locked in the back of a sleek black sedan. Less than an hour ago he had been pretty sure Bray Wyatt was about to gut him with a knife and use his heart as part of some weird satanic ritual, but then the cops had barged in and were arresting everyone. The police probably would have let him go but one of them, Officer Mizanin, had made a comment about him being white trash and no better than the scum they were arresting and Dean had seen red. He punched the the stuck up rich boy cop right in his stupid face and landed himself in cuffs. And now he's here; still in cuffs and being kidnapped by a giant dude in a suit.
"Hey, fuck you man! Let me go!" Dean yells as the big man gets into the driver's seat.
"I will." Roman says, lips quirking as he flicks his eyes up to look at the man in his back seat in the rear view mirror. "I didn't mean to get you arrested, so I wanted to make sure you got out of there." He says evenly, "You'll be free when we get where we're going."
Out of the ring, the lanky redheaded man looks like he can't be older than nineteen, maybe younger. Roman probably should have taken the cuffs off, but they won't hurt the kid and if it keeps him a little more under control then that simplifies both of their lives.
"And where exactly would that be?" Dean questions as he contorts himself in the back seat to shift his hands in front of him. With that movement free, Dean is able to haphazardly crawl his way up into the front passenger seat without too much awkward shoving. His long legs make the transition a little weird but he settles himself in the seat after a few minutes and even manages to put his seatbelt on despite the handcuffs.
Roman watches the man squirm and contort to get his hands in front of him and then raises an eyebrow at him as he twists through into the front seat. "Regular escape artist, aren't you?" Roman notes, nodding in approval at the click of the seatbelt, but keeping his eyes mostly on the road.
After staring for a minute, Dean is sure he recognizes this dude. "I knew you were shady when you showed up at the show in Florida. No one wears a suit like that to a place like Bray's clubs."
"You were there in Florida, too?" Roman asks in mock-surprise, concerned that he'd been too obvious in his surveillance. "Plenty of people were trying to look dressed up at those clubs. Especially on the VIP levels." The areas where bets were arranged had been full of people trying to look more in control than they were.
"Florida people can not be trusted to act like normal people.” Dean says matter-of-factly. “Your suit alone says you are not an average Florida man. Also, you didn't answer my question." Dean replies with a smirk. "People dressed like you don't come to personally watch a bunch of swamp people beat up on street trash. Those assholes usually just pay for the live stream so they can sit by their pool while they watch people bleed." Dean pauses and gives the man in the suit a once over, "Is that what you're into? You kidnap me to keep me as your own personal punching bag?"
Roman makes a distasteful face. "Not at all. I saw someone very talented being abused and then arrested and decided to step in." He glances out the door at the shabby buildings slowly looking nicer and nicer as they approach the city center and his hotel. "I thought I'd let you get a shower and have some dinner, but I'm happy to let you out here if you like."
"My name is Roman Reigns." He adds, realizing that being in business mode means he skipped the niceties.
"I'm Dean, and food and a shower sounds great. Sorry I bled all over your car." Dean replies. The easy offer sounds a little too good to be true right now but he's gotten used to men trying to pick him up looking for a little action. Everything comes for a price and this Roman Reigns at least looks clean. He smirks and licks at his split lip. Maybe he'll enjoy paying his dues to the large man.
"Nice to meet you, Dean." Roman says, offering his hand though the angle is awkward. "And don't worry about the car. I’m sure it’s seen worse." Roman is. Little relieved when Dean shakes his hand despite the cuffs, building some small level of trust between them.
The drive is smooth this late at night and Roman pulls up to the front of a hotel that's a bit more opulent than he would normally choose for this kind of operation. He leans over and unlocks the handcuffs, secreting them away in his coat before the valet opens Dean's door. Roman steps out and hands the car keys to the valet, sliding his suit jacket around Dean's shoulders to try to hide some of the blood before he guides them into the hotel lobby. "Stand up straight," he urges under his breath, "Even if it hurts. Act like we belong and no one will question it.”
The high end hotel makes Dean uncomfortable. He does as he's told and presses up against Roman's side, letting his hips sway more seductively as he pulls Roman along. Half way through the lobby he slides under Roman's arm and presses against him as if he's an adoring rent boy. He smirks at Roman and winks when the older man rolls his eyes.
Roman tenses slightly, but he is nothing if not accustomed to playing it cool in public at this point and just pulls Dean in against his side. He’s slightly impressed at the ease with which Dean absorbs a role that makes sense for their situation and appearances.
"So are you like FBI or NSA? I mean, what's left of them after everyone tried to kill each other." Dean asks quietly when they're in the elevator.
"Not exactly. My organization is a little more... discreet." Roman glances up at the small security camera in the corner of the elevator and keeps his arm around Dean's shoulders, not missing that the man is probably taller than him if he'd stop slouching in on himself.
The ride is long as the elevator carries them up to one of the top floors, but Roman lets them into his room soon enough. "You noticed the riots then? And made it through that all right?" He doesn't try to hide that he is slightly impressed. A lot of people just pretend that nothing happened, some even actively deny it. Others keep seeking to recreate the freedom and violence of that day. Dean’s words shake Roman from his thoughts.
"I was in the army, in bootcamp. Didn't have a phone and neither did anyone else except for our CO. He took a few with him before he was subdued." Dean explains as he wanders into Roman’s private suite. "The room matches the suit. Don't know if I was expecting anything less." Dean comments before he groans and leans against the wall for support. "Fuck... I fucking hate those mask-wearing assholes."
Roman considers the lanky man before him, covered in grime, and can see army drop-out all over him, but also see the mistake the Army made letting him go. "Why did you end up fighting for them then? I know Wyatt manipulates people into fighting, but... what did he promise you?"
Dean pulls the jacket off along with his blood and dirt caked tank top. "Well, my mom needed money. So, I did what I do best and started fighting in local shows. Prize fights when I could. Bray picked me up when I agreed to fight in a ring with barb wire barricades." Dean replies like it's not a big deal.
Roman doesn’t know how to respond to that. As much as he tells himself that Statesman works to make the world a better place, it's still a shithole for some. Instead of speaking, Roman moves easily to his luggage and loosens his tie, logging into a tablet one-handed to check what files they had on Dean and how he missed him in the Florida fights. "The bathroom is through there. I'll... order dinner in, I guess." He says, realizing that he doesn't have clothes that will fit this man and everything Dean's wearing is filthy or destroyed or both.
"Great!” Dean says, eager to be clean and to take the excuse to stop talking about himself. “I'll be back in a bit. I vote burgers or steak!"
Roman's eyes narrow and his head whips around, but Dean is already gone with the bathroom door closing behind him. Roman changes to more relaxed clothes and orders the room service before he settles onto the bed to read anything they have on Dean. There's more than he expected, but of course the Statesman database has information on anyone who entered the armed forces and showed promise.
Dean leans against the door of the bathroom to wait and hear Roman doing other things before he starts undressing fully and starts the shower. He's not going to turn down a hot meal and a shower, but that doesn't mean he trusts the large man. Dean has fought a lot of guys bigger and badder than himself, but there something about Roman with his too-clean hair and smooth dark skin in a suit that probably cost more than most cars that tells Dean he might not win that fight.
Dean stands under the hot water for a long time and lets all the grime and filth of the Wyatts run down the drain as he scrubs at his pale freckled skin, first with the hotel soap and then with a fancy body wash that clearly belongs to the hot not-a-cop in the other room. There's blood caked in his hair and Uber his nails, and he winces as he fights to loosen it.
Once he hears the water turn on, Roman thinks to find clothes for his guest. A t-shirt and sweatpants isn't much, but he folds them along with clean boxers and knocks on the door to the bathroom. "There're clothes outside the door for you." He calls when there's no answer. He doesn't blame Dean for taking a while given that he looked like he hadn't been really clean in a while.
Dean takes his time getting clean and smirks to himself when he uses Roman's personal shampoo and body wash instead of the hotel’s. By the time he steps out of the shower his skin feels new and exposed without dirt and blood on it. He quickly dries off and then grabs the clothes Roman left him. They're too big in size but the length is good.
"Hey, thanks for the clothes." Dean comments as he walks into the spacious hotel room and sits on the end of the bed Roman is lounging on.
"Of course." Roman replies, carefully locking the tablet he's been reading on and setting it aside. Dean's hair is still mussed, but looks almost brown while it's damp. Roman can smell his own shampoo and bodywash on the man and is trying very hard to ignore the low burn of arousal that comes with that. For once, he's not here for that and his instincts won’t be helpful. "So you were in the army, did well enough in boot camp, survived that whole mess with the phones... why're you fighting in these meat grinders now? There are plenty of ways to make money."
Roman isn't naive, he knows that being willing to take and deal out violence is big business now. Even after Valentine's chips were deactivated, the whole remaining population had seen true rage and violence. A good portion of them had felt a thrill from it and wanted to see the same again. The kind of underground fighting shows that was broken up tonight are springing up all over the country. Some evolved from independent wrestling or boxing promotions with more legitimate roots, others just grew up from drunken fights at bars or clubs that someone saw potential in and started to organize.
Dean wishes he had a better answer than what he has to that. "They kicked us all out of the military, those of us who didn't have enough training. They couldn't afford us. So I went home. My dad was drunk and my mom didn't care. I was angry that I had lost the chance to get out of there, so I started fighting underground to travel. Bray picked me up in Louisiana. Been with them for a few months now." Dean shrugs and crawls up the bed to sit next to Roman. If he's going to pay for the kind treatment he might as well get it out of the way. "Why do you want to know?"
Roman avoids answering immediately as he gets up to answer the knock of their room service being delivered. He checks the tray quickly for any bugs, more out of habit than any actual worry of being surveilled. "You can take your pick," Roman says, setting the tray down on the small coffee table because eating in bed - even in a hotel room - is not something he permits himself to do. "I was just curious why someone with your obvious talents was abusing your body for a living. Should have known it was government mismanagement."
Dean rolls his eyes when Roman moves to the table to eat. He shrugs as he gets up and joins Roman on the love seat to dig in on the steak and French fries. "People were fucking scared man and we barely had a government. I mean I know I shouldn’t blame anyone, but it is what it is I guess." He replies as he bumps his knee with Roman’s.
Roman pulls his own steak over to him, cutting it a little more neatly than Dean attacking his. "That's a very nihilistic view of the world you've got there." He says softly, remembering the sketchy family history in Dean's military file. If the birth date in the file was right, Dean is 23 now, though he still looks like teenager to Roman. "There's still jobs out there that won't get you murdered or arrested, you know."
Dean laughs and smirks at Roman. "Well that might be true but I'm pretty talented at fighting and not a whole lot else." Dean replies as he flips over the knife in his hand and shrugs. "And I'm from the shady side of Ohio that doesn't have a lot of opportunity for a young person with a record." Dean doesn't talk about growing up very much; doesn't think about it much either. It leaves him feeling empty and with a bad taste in his mouth.
Roman sees even the thought of his past weighing on the younger man. "A neighborhood and a family can only have so much effect on your life. There are always other choices." He could have gone any number of ways himself, coming from Pensacola, but he'd caught the eye of the right people at college, been pulled from ROTC training to learn more, and finally become a Statesman.
Education, Roman thinks despondently, is the barrier. How many talented young men are they missing by relying on the old Ivy League societies, and the chains of privilege and sport for recruiting? "I guess it doesn't always feel like there are options though."
Dean decides that eating in silence is probably for the better right now. Roman seems tense and uncomfortable. After a few more bites of steak and a handful of fries, Dean sets down his plate and moves to stand behind the loveseat. "You seem a little tightly wound for someone who had no problem kidnapping a guy." He comments, shifting to rub Roman's shoulders gently and work on the extensive series of knots he finds there. "Relax, if anything I should be the one who's freaked out." Dean replies and he doesn't think about why he isn't. There's something calming about being around this guy.
Roman glances sharply at Dean, not used to the physical contact. "I didn't mean to kidnap you. Sorry for that." He allows himself to relax slightly under Dean's hands, before he realizes what he's doing. "You don't have to do that." Roman says, catching Dean's wrist in his hand. "I don't like seeing people in trouble when they shouldn't be. I didn't mean for any of the regular fighters, workers, whatever, to get in trouble over that bust. You were the one I could help.” It doesn't sound very sensible, even to Roman’s ears, he’s still not sure what possessed him to bring Dean here after all.
Dean's breath catches when Roman grabs him and holds on, fingers long enough to close all the way around his wrist. A rush of arousal shoots through him at the contact. "And that's awesome." Dean replies softly as he comes back around the couch; his wrist still trapped in Roman's hand, and straddles the man's lap. "Thanks for that. No one cares about us kids who were born with nothing." Dean adds as he leans in and brushes his lips against Roman's in barely a kiss.
Roman pulls back, releasing Dean's wrist when he realizes he's still holding it and pressing that hand lightly on Dean's chest to keep space between them. He can see the arousal in Dean's eyes this close, but he forces himself to stay in control. "I care. And I also don't take advantage." Not when it's not on orders for work anyway, what he may or may not like with proper consent is not up for discussion at this time.
Dean doesn't back down when Roman pushes him away, "It's not taking advantage if I want it. You took care of me, now I want to take care of you." Dean whines as he rolls his hips a little. He runs his hands over Roman strong arms and over his chest to fiddle with the buttons on his dress shirt.
"Just because you feel you owe me something doesn't mean it's not taking advantage of you." Roman closes his eyes briefly to steel his resolve, because the temptation is strong to take this man, claim him, but Dean moves like a victim, like someone who thinks he has to pay twice for every favor, and Roman won't be a part of that cycle. "As you mentioned, I kidnapped you against your will. Let's say the meal was an apology for that."
Dean groans but doesn't move from his place firmly in Roman's lap. He doesn't understand the man beneath him. "Why do you care about me? You don't even know me." Dean asks in mild bewilderment. Roman is the kind of man who should eat guys like Dean up for breakfast but instead he's acting like Dean is something important, like he's someone special that shouldn't be messed with. "I don't get you."
Roman looks up at Dean and doesn't want to lie, so he doesn't. "I was young once too. And I did some things I'm not proud of because I thought I had to." He averts his eyes from Dean's. "Now I get the chance to protect some people from dealing with the same things. So when I can, I do." He's never been able to explain it well, and with this gorgeous young man on his lap, he's even less eloquent than usual.
Dean huffs out his disappointment, but it's fairly late already and if Roman isn't going to fuck him then he wants to sleep. "Mind if I crash here tonight Big Man?' Dean asks as he climbs off Roman with just a kiss to the man's cheek. He walks over to the bed before Roman can reply and crawls onto the exorbitantly large mattress.
"No problem." Roman answers automatically before he considers that that's probably a really bad idea. "I'll sleep on the couch. You're injured." He gathers up the trash from their food, planning to set it outside the door.
Dean arches an eyebrow, looking from Roman to the hotel sofa. "That couch isn’t even big enough for your bicep let alone your body. This bed is plenty big enough for both of us." Dean retorts with a smirk, "What are you afraid of big guy? Think I'll molest you? Well don't worry about that. I'll keep my hands to myself. Scouts honor and all that trash.”
Roman looks up at Dean, lips quirking as me looks at the little loveseat and finds Dean's summary to be accurate. "Fine." He locks the door and brushes his teeth, letting his hair down and turning off the lights before he finally moves over to the bed and slides under the sheets. It's been years since he shared a bed with anyone who wasn't a lover or a target and he can't fully shake the tension.
Dean strips off the extra large tee shirt and sweats while Roman is brushing his teeth. He slides under the blankets and almost instantly falls asleep. The bruises are already beginning to darken on his face and body and the adrenaline of the day finally takes its toll. He barely registers Roman climbing into bed but his slim frame does slide in instinctively closer to the older man's heat.
Roman relaxes a little when it's obvious that Dean is mostly asleep, even letting him slide up against Roman's side. The kid is actually distressingly thin, his ribs easily traced when Roman runs a hand along his back. The darkness and soft breathing let them both drift quickly off to sleep, and if Roman wakes briefly in the middle of the night to find himself curled protectively around the smaller man in his bed, then he's not letting himself worry about it.
It's just after dawn when Dean wakes up. He smirks when he realizes that Roman, despite his protests, has an arm wrapped around his waist and has pressed his body up against Dean's back. He moans happily and lays there for a little longer than he normally would enjoying how the safety and warmth of being held securely in a warm room with a locked door. In the dim light of dawn he can finally see Roman's full sleeve of tribal tattoos that were only barely visible when he rolled up his shirt sleeves the night before. Dean has to ball his hands in fists to keep from tracing the lines with his fingers.
After a few long minutes, he slides out of the bed and pulls on his dirty jeans but keeps Roman's shirt and boxers. "I wish I could keep you." he whispers in the dark. On his way out the door he takes Roman's wallet with him, a guy like Roman probably won't miss it. Dean hitches a ride west with a trucker and does his best to ignore the ache in his chest.
Roman wakes up just before eight in the morning, a bit later than his usual time, and it takes him a moment to remember that he didn't go to bed alone. A moment of listening tells him that Dean isn't in the room anymore, no breathing, no movement. Roman fights down the slight regret as he pulls himself out of bed, heading down to the hotel gym for a work out and showering before he starts to pack up and realizes his wallet is missing. Luckily it’s the mostly civilian one and not his Statesman ID or any weapons. Except the one credit card that is actually a plastic explosive, but he has to hope it's unlikely Dean will trigger that one by mistake.
Checking out and taking the the flight home feels as surreal and boring as they always do. Dean didn't leave him a note or any words of farewell to think over, and the annoyance caused by arguing with the TSA over his access to get through security without his civilian ID seems like a strong enough message. No good deed goes unpunished.