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Mordecai and Rigby really hadn't meant to hurt Pops. He was just so good at wrestling and they got carried away. It's easy to forget that he's an old man. Now they're stuck on babysitter duty to make sure Pops stays in bed and rests. And Pops is great and all, but Mordecai really just wishes they got to go to RR Wrassle Frassle VII.
Pops' room is dark, and Mordecai can't see much of anything when Rigby groans, but he can hear as the raccoon shimmies his way out of his sleeping bag and scampers over to dramatically flop on Mordecai. Mordecai can't get his hands free to shove Rigby off, so with an annoyed sigh he resigns to his fate.
From his spot draped over Mordecai, Rigby quietly mutters, "Dude this blows. I mean seriously, it's not like we meant to hurt him. And he already got the tickets. Just because he can't go doesn't mean we shouldn't."
Mordecai huffs, staring up at the darkness of the ceiling, torn between responsibility and annoyance, "I know man, but what about Pops? This is kind of our fault. We can't just leave him."
"Dude it's fine. He's totally asleep," Rigby shifts around a bit, propping himself up on his arms, and calls out to Pops, speaking slightly louder than he was talking before, "Pops? Pops? Hey. Hey Pops."
He pauses for a moment, listening. The room is still, and near silent, with nothing more than the sound of their breathing and the usual creaking of an old house permeating the quiet. When it's clear that Pops isn't going to respond, Rigby shifts again, getting off of Mordecai completely. "See man? I told you, he's totally asleep. Now come on, let's go."
Mordecai looks at the lump of Pops' head, just barely visible against the darkness of the room, a vague outline at best. The old man is unmoving as stone. Mordecai hesitates for only a second longer, then nods, shimmying out of his own sleeping bag. He speaks quietly, kneeling on his pillow, "Yeah alright, let's go. I'll grab our tickets. You go to our room and get our outfits."
"Hell yeah. This is gonna be sweet," Rigby grins - not that Mordecai can see it, but he's pretty sure the raccoon is smiling - and pads out of the room quietly, his claws clicking slightly against the wood floors.
Mordecai waits until the door clicks shut again to crawl over to the nightstand on the other side of Pops' bed. He holds one hand out in front of himself until it brushes against the wood. Carefully, he reaches up, patting around until his feathers meet paper, and slides the tickets off the nightstand.
He stands, crouching slightly, tickets in hand, and sneaks out of the room, careful to keep the door hinges from squeaking as he exits. With the grace of someone who does this kind of thing frequently, he makes his way to their room, avoiding the creaky floorboard halfway between Pops' room and theirs, and stepping over the one right in front of their door.
He makes his way into the room, where Rigby stands waiting in the middle of the floor, holding Mordecai's wrestling outfit, already having donned his own, "What took you so long?"
"You try finding your way around Pops' room blind," he grumbles, walking over to pluck the outfit out of Rigby's hand. He pulls it on and carefully tucks away their tickets in one of the pockets.
"Whatever dude," Rigby huffs. "Skill issue."
Mordecai just punches Rigby in the shoulder and heads out of the room. They slip through the house, bickering quietly the whole way, filling the otherwise quiet house with a little bit of life.
The front door groans slightly as they pull it open and step out onto the porch, which is lit by the lamps spattered along the park's walkways. The air is just beginning to carry the chill of night and the sky is covered by clouds, small patches of stars just barely visible through gaps in the wall of gray.
"The cart is still in the shop," Mordecai says, stopping at the base of the house steps. He looks out at the night, then down to where Rigby stops beside him, meeting the raccoon's eyes.
Rigby smiles up at him, turning slightly to hold out a hand in the space between them. "Way ahead of you."
Mordecai grins back at him and reaches out to grab Rigby's paw, weaving their fingers together, weaving their very beings together. Mordecai feels, before who he is and who Rigby is blurs entirely, as Rigby's mind blends with his. As everything they are together and everything they've been together collides into something wonderful.
Then everything blurs and there's no Mordecai or Rigby anymore, not really. Not in any truly distinct way.
Mikey tilts his head back and takes a deep breath, relishing the slight bite of cold air in his lungs, even as the chill fails to creep in past the fur layer under his feathers. He lingers in the feeling of being alive, of being many, of being one, for a moment longer, then he shakes out his feathers and splays his wings out wide. He's got a deadline, if he doesn't want to miss any more matches.
He takes a second to brace, his tail flicks a few times of its own accord, and he leaps.
His first few flaps are shaky, gravity tries to drag him down, but he quickly gets everything where it should be, and soon he's pushing through the air like a fish through water. Spiraling up towards the clouds, showing off for an audience of two.
Eventually he settles just below the cloud layer, soaring gently on a weak air current. He hardly needs to flap his wings to stay aloft, so he lets his focus drift, enjoying his own company and the feeling of wind in his feathers until he reaches the stadium.
It's a sight to behold from so high up. The building is aglow with spotlights mounted on the domed roof, bright enough to illuminate all of the nearby clouds, buildings, and streets. The parking lot, large enough to look like it belongs to a mall, is packed full. Not a single empty spot in view. The coolest thing though, is the roar of the crowd, audible even from so far above like the ocean from a distance.
He grins and banks around the building in loose, lazy laps, twisting his tail for balance as he looks for a spot to land. He locks onto a portion of sidewalk close to the entrance but far enough from the crowds of people grilling not to be spotted. He shuts his weird clear set of eyelids that he recently learned he has, tucks his wings tight to his sides, and turns down into a dive.
The wind picks up around him until it's a howling shriek, whipping at his feathers as he plummets down, but he's built for this, whatever kind of bird he is, and he stays on course.
He waits, pavement fast approaching, until the tops of buildings come into view in his peripheral vision. Only then does he act, twisting in mid air to pull his legs down ahead of himself and snapping his wings out wide. He's wrenched back as his wings catch the air, but he stays braced, so it doesn't really hurt so much as tug. Not even a second later his feet meet the pavement and he hits the ground hard, landing in a crouch.
He stands, staggering slightly, and lets out a loud whoop, chest heaving and heart racing. The dive rarely lasts more than twenty seconds, the actual landing even fewer. Still, it's one of his favorite parts of flying. The rush as he rockets towards the ground, each second an eternity as everything narrows down to one point in time, it's a hard feeling to beat.
He ruffles his feathers, shaking out the tension in his shoulders, and turns his attention back to the stadium, "Aw yeahyuh! This is gonna be sweet!"
He jogs inside the large set of double doors on the front of the building, grateful to see the lack of a line. Being late has its perks. The look the lady manning the ticket counter is giving him is not one of them. Slowing to a stop, he hands her his tickets with a sheepish smile. She looks down at the tickets, then back up at him and asks in a deadpan tone, "Is it just you today sir?"
"Huh, what?"
"You have two tickets. Is it just you today?"
"Oh. Yeah. There was a last minute cancellation an-" He fumbles through an explanation, but the lady cuts him off before he gets too deep in his ramble.
"I don't care. Go straight ahead through the main doors."
He sputters for a second, but the siren song of the crowd's cheers draws him in before he can retort, and he goes to find his seats. They're in the top row, row Z, seats 97 and 98. He sprawls out along both seats, the only other seat nearby is 99, Pops', so he lets himself take up space. The ring is a couple dozen rows down, "Man... This is... awesome! So close to the action."
He glances over at the empty seat beside him. A pang of guilt flares in his chest briefly, but he brushes it off. Pops is injured, he needs his rest. There's no reason Mikey shouldn't take advantage of the tickets.
Down in the ring, there's a couple fighters already, and they rile up the crowd as the rest of the introductions are done. He recognizes a few of them from the TV and he can't keep from grinning as he lists them off in his head. There's Forearmageddon, a blond wrestler with two sets of arms, plus an additional set of arms as legs; the Fire Marshall, a muscular guy with a beard who's wearing a hard hat like firefighters wear; and Hissy Fit, a green lizard in cowboy boots. They're all practically nude - not uncommon for wrestling - and glistening in the arena lights.
Then comes a name he doesn't recognize; an up and coming wrestler who's making his debut in the big leagues, Hugehead. Dramatic music blares from the speakers as the spotlights angle towards lower entrance by the ring. After a moment Hugehead comes out, seated on the shoulders of two workers. They really weren't kidding, the dude's head is huge. Ha, man, it's almost as big as Pops'. He shifts forward an inch, narrowing his eyes. Actually, it is as big as Pops'. That is Pops. He shoves himself up out of his seat, gaze locked on Pops, "Dude‽ What is he doing here‽"
This is bad, really, really bad. Pops' back is still injured! He can't fight! They'll kick his ass. He sprints toward the stairs, taking them three at a time down to the ringside.
"Pops! Pops!" He yells as he turns at the bottom of the stairs, skidding to a stop in front of the bench Pops is sitting on.
"Why hello there good sir. I must inquire as to how you know my name," Pops states - asks? - in his usual fancy tone.
Mikey fumbles for the words to describe his situation. There is a degree of anonymity that comes from a crowd like this. Nobody would know he's a fusion because nobody would know who he is at all. He wasn't expecting to have to explain it, "Right- Uh-"
A voice cuts him off abruptly, and he looks over his shoulder to behind himself to see Forearmageddon leaning against the top rope of the ring, yelling down at them, "Oi, Hugehead! Get up here! Ladder match is starting!"
He looks back at Pops. The old man is trying unsuccessfully to stand up, shaking like a leaf as he tries to brace enough weight on his arms to stand. Still, seemingly unphased by his own body's lack of cooperation, he looks over at Mikey and gives him a polite but chary nod, "Well. I'm sorry sir, but I must be going now."
"No! Pops, it's too dangerous! You're still hurt! They'll crush you," he begs frantically; Benson'll have their hides if he gets Pops more injured.
"While I appreciate your concern, you are not in charge of my well-being!" Pops says, starting to sound upset. Mikey can't help but laugh slightly hysterically, because technically he is. God, Benson is going to kill him. "My friends told me this was all fake anyway. So I see no reason that I could not participate in the match."
"Dude I am y-" "-FAKE??? YOU THINK THIS IS ALL FAKE? HOW ABOUT YOU GET UP HERE IN THIS RING AND WE'LL SHOW YOU HOW FAKE THIS IS!" Forearmageddon roars.
Before Mikey or Pops can do anything, a set of arms reaches down and yanks Pops up into the ring. Pops yelps, and Mikey can do nothing but watch as he's pulled away.
God damnit. "Pops!" He yells as his hoists himself up onto the ring and wriggles under the bottom rope, "Let him go!"
"Bring it on!" The Fire Marshall yells, face twisted into a grin that looks more like a snarl.
Maybe Mikey hadn't entirely thought this through. Still, what else can he do? Pops needs his help. He gathers all his courage and charges forward, yelling. He goes for a tackle.
The Fire Marshall doesn't budge, not even a little bit. It turns out, being a fusion doesn't inherently make you better at fighting. Zero plus zero, still equals zero and all that.
The Fire Marshall grabs his arms, spinning around to get some momentum before throwing him into the corner of the ring. His back knocks into the corner post, sending pain shooting up his back.
He tries to get up, dragging his arms underneath himself and staggering to his feet, but Hissy Fit gets in low and wraps their arms around his chest before bodying him into the floor. He gasps as the air is knocked out of his lungs. For a second, he can't breathe, the air won't go in. He claws at his chest, gasping, but then his body sorts its shit out and he takes in lungfuls of air, chest heaving.
He hears Pops yelling faintly through the pounding of his heart and his own ragged breathing and rolls over, trying to get his feet under himself yet again. He doesn't even make it to standing this time before he's taken back down. Forearmageddon kicks - or is it punches? he thinks, slightly deliriously - him in the stomach, sending him back into the corner post. He slides down and hits the floor, vision slightly blurry. He needs to get up. He has to get up.
Everything hurts and he can't make himself get up, but he hears Pops cry out and fuck. Pops is an old man who's already hurt his back. Benson is going to kill him if Mikey doesn't die here in the ring first. He tries to get back on his feet, or even just back up on his knees, but his stomach lurches when he tries to move. He can't do anything but look over and watch as Pops falls from the ladder and hits the ground. Hard.
The world pauses. Or maybe it doesn't, but Mikey wouldn't know either way. All he can do is watch, gaze locked on Pops laying unmoving on the floor and pray he gets back up. Pops has to get back up. He has to.
And he does. Pops stands, grinning, and stretches out like he's good as new. He steps forward, slightly crouched, and starts to grapple with Forearmageddon. It's not even a fight. Pops crushes the professional wrestler like he's fighting a baby. Pops steps out of his field of view, and a second later Hissy Fit comes flying into it, landing unconscious in front of him.
He can't see the rest of the match, not with the unconscious lizard in front of him, but Pops must win because the crowd goes wild. The whole stadium erupts into a thunderous roar of cheers and delighted screaming and the announcers are screaming and a bell rings and the announcer roars out, "YOUR WINNER, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HUUUUUUGEHEAD!"
-
Mikey stumbles out of the stadium, hobbling slightly but on enough pain medication that he doesn't feel most of the consequences of his actions, "Dude, Pops! That was incredible!"
"Well, I'm glad you think so, and I thank you for your aid in that match," Pops says with a smile, looking no worse for wear after the match, but then his face twists in confusion, "but I really must ask how you know my name."
He blinks in surprise, "Oh right. I'm- Here we'll just show you."
"Show me wha-"
Before Pops can finish his sentence, Mikey defuses. He blames it on the pain meds that he doesn't think it through more.
Mordecai comes to with his hand still tangled in Rigby's. They look at each other, both smiling slightly. Rigby lets out a quiet, happy little sigh, then winces, and braces his free hand on his ribs. The raccoon leans against Mordecai carefully, clearly feeling equally like he got hit by a truck.
"Mordecai and Rigby? Did you see where that young man went?" Pops looks around, before stating inquisitively, "He seems to have disappeared."
"No Pops, we're that guy. He's our fusion." Rigby says when Mordecai freezes up, sounding tired.
"Oh. Oh! How wonderful!" Pops says looking positively delighted. Huh.
"You really think so?" Mordecai can't help but ask.
"Why of course! You two are always together, so really, it's no wonder you make such an incredible fusion!" Pops says gleefully. Mordecai feels a little bit like his world in caving in on him, but in a good way. Pops thinks they're a good fusion. Someone looked at them - other than Eileen who doesn't count because she'd always support Rigby (and other than Skips, who's seen too much to ever be phased) - and thought they looked good together.
"Ah, thanks man," Mordecai manages to get out, even if it's nothing more than a mumble. He looks down at Rigby, who's just grinning like he won the lottery. He nudges the raccoon slightly, smiling back at him.
He pauses, turning to look up at Pops, "Heyyyyy Pops, you wouldn't mind driving us back right? I think my... everything, is bruised, there's no way we're flying back..."
"Of course I don't mind! It's really no problem," Pops says with a nod, like he's assuring them it really is no trouble.
"Thanks man. And uh. If Benson happens to find out about this..." He asks, ducking his head sheepishly.
Pops catches on quick and gives them a sly smile, "Ah. Well. I snuck out on my own. You guys simply had no choice but to go retrieve me."
Mordecai lets out a relieved sigh. Benson really does seem to have a soft spot for Pops.
With that taken care of, they make their way back to Pops' car, Mordecai and Rigby trailing slightly behind, limited by their injuries. The drive back is peaceful, quiet chatter and gentle breeze taking up the space between them.
Benson does catch them when they get back, and Pops does take the heat, and sure enough, Benson is light on Pops. He lets them off with a warning, and the look in his eye makes Mordecai think he might be taking pity on them for their injuries.
The way back upstairs is slow and their nighttime routine abandoned altogether in favor of collapsing into Mordecai's bed together. Mordecai is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, and the last thing he registers as he slips into unconsciousness is the weight of Rigby pressed against his chest, shaking slightly with the force of his purrs.