S.I.N

"Don't touch me," the Undertaker growled as he lurched along the corridors backstage, blood still running down his face.

WWF staff shrank away from his gaze and he took a few more stumbling steps, blindly holding on to the wall for support.

His brother had refused to answer his questions. He'd just lowered his head and turned to leave. Again and again, the Undertaker had gripped his forearm and forced his uncooperative sibling to face him, but Kane had remained silent.

The Undertaker could still feel the heat that had threatened to burst from his chest and risen in his throat as he stood on the ring, confronted by the bitter realization that his younger brother's wounds were far from healed... That the bond they'd briefly shared had once more been lost.

The phantom pressure of Kane's fingers around his neck came back to haunt him; he squeezed his burning eyes shut and swallowed, unwilling to surrender to the torrent of emotions that tossed his heart like a ship caught in a violent storm.

He thought his brother had forgiven him. He thought that they had finally put the past behind them. God knew that he had tried before, that he'd reached out to Kane before.

But Kane obviously hadn't forgiven, hadn't forgotten... and probably would never forget what his older brother had done, so long ago.

The Undertaker clutched his throbbing forehead. He raised his head, not bothering to push back the long, red strands of hair that hung in front of his face. He was vaguely aware that he had no idea where he was, or where he was going. He groaned and shut his eyes, dropping on one knee. Blood kept streaming from the deep cut above his eyebrow and he winced -was it the memory of the steel chair as it crashed upon his head, or the memory of Kane's words that struck him again now?

Always gotta watch yourself around here, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she set her cup of coffee back on the table.

Another moan, louder this time. It was a deep voice, but she couldn't be sure whose it was -a lot of big guys in the WWF.

Her mouth tightened. Maybe it's one of those Right to Censor bastards, creeping up on me... trying to trick me.

Her stomach muscles twisting into a knot, she snuck to the end of the wall and slowly peeked around the corner. Her eyes widened.

And he didn't look too good. The tall, imposing man was down on one knee, his black leather coat spread around him like a cape, blood dripping from his chin onto the floor. His jaw was clenched and his breath escaped him in harsh gasps; it seemed to Lita like he was fighting not to pass out.

A group of medics and WWF employees hovered nearby, hesitantly inching closer to the stricken Undertaker. The man who'd once been known as "Sargent Slaughter" glanced at Lita, tilting his head sharply in the Undertaker's direction.

Slaughter extended his hand and quickly flexed his massive fingers a few times, encouraging her to come closer.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Lita found herself carefully approaching the Undertaker, who was oblivious to his surroundings. Her chest felt a little tight. She knew he was one of the "good guys" now, but he'd had a decidedly infamous career. Even hunched over on the ground, his forehead almost touching his bent knee, he was an intimidating and formidable man.

Still, she wanted to help him. Part of her was touched by what had happened between him and his brother Kane; she knew that the Big Red Machine had practically driven the Undertaker right through the ring. The expression on the Undertaker's face when his brother's hand had locked around his throat had been one of utter astonishment -there was something about him, at that moment, that had resembled innocence.

It was as if he could not have imagined that Kane would turn his back on him... that his loyalty could abruptly disappear.

Lita's teeth clenched. Essa Rios had done the same thing to her. Stolen her trust, and bruised her body. Her lips trembled and she blinked, heat churning in the pit of her stomach.

She exhaled, and moved toward the Undertaker. I know I can make him listen to me, she thought resolutely.

He didn't notice her as she stood in front of him. She swallowed and reached out to him, her hand wavering. Though she didn't touch him, she didn't pull away. "Undertaker."

He lifted his head, moist strands of hair matted against his face, his brows furrowed between his green eyes. "What... is it, woman? You go... get along with... yer business."

"Taker, you need to see a doctor," Lita replied, undeterred by the Undertaker's gruff words. The Hardy Boyz had come to her aid when she'd been assaulted by Essa; she was determined to do the same for the Undertaker now.

"I don't need... to see anyone," he growled, but then he groaned, his face falling back upon his knee, his arm pressed against his chest.

"Come on, Taker... let me help you," she pleaded, bending down and putting an arm around his shoulders.

The small group of men who stood nearby were watching her with undisguised admiration and awe. One of them took a step forward, but Sargent Slaughter stretched out his arm, holding the man back.

"I think maybe you should sit down," she said as he lifted his head once more and she saw how clouded his eyes were -all the color in his face was draining away.

"Are you okay?" Lita asked, peering at his wan, blood streaked features. She'd never been so close to him before, and although she was mesmerized by him, by his sheer size and strength, she was also becoming more worried, because she had also never seen him so helpless.

He mumbled something she couldn't quite make out and she gripped his large, powerful hand as he settled upon the floor, resting his head against the wall. The Undertaker scowled. "He's gonna... gonna pay... fer this..." he murmured, his breathing shallow.

"Take it easy," Lita said, pushing his hair from his eyes, tucking loose strands behind his ears.

The Undertaker looked at her with a slight, confused frown. "What... what are... you doing here..."

Lita's lips parted in surprise. "Taker... I just helped you sit down," she said, concern etched upon her face. "I think maybe you've got a concussion or something," she continued, stroking his hair. "Please let the medics take a look at you."

"All right," Slaughter said, motioning the medics forward, and they all swarmed around an unresisting Undertaker.

"Is he... is he gonna be all right?" she asked as she watched a paramedic shining a light in each of the Undertaker's eyes.

"I can't say for sure, miss," the same medic replied, now pressing the flat, metallic end of a stethoscope against the side of the Undertaker's neck, then against his heart. "We need to get him to a hospital, run some tests. Seems like he's got a level three concussion."

"Get a stretcher over here," Slaughter instructed the WWF emergency staff. Turning to Lita, he added, "I'd like you to go to the hospital with him."

"Okay," Lita said, stepping aside as two men lowered a gurney near the ground. Slaughter and a few other medics struggled to pick up the Undertaker, who was too dazed to offer much assistance, and, grunting, they finally placed him upon it. The gurney was raised once more and they wheeled him down the narrow halls, Lita trotting along the stretcher, which was too short for the tall man.

"Taker, can you hear me?" she asked breathlessly, staring down at the Undertaker as he lay, his hair flowing over the pillow that cushioned his head.

There was the sound of scissors cutting away fabric, and Lita swiftly averted her eyes, her cheeks suffused with warmth.

The Undertaker was completely unconscious, doctors and nurses clustered around him, divesting him of his clothing.

Oh... not his leather coat, Lita thought with dismay when she glanced in his direction and saw them cutting the sleeves off with a few efficient strokes.

It only took them less than a minute and they had undressed him, although they covered his mid-section with a sheet.

He shouldn't have faced Kane so soon, Lita thought as they moved him out of the emergency room. Those refs should've stopped him...

"We want to keep him under observation, at least for another 24 hours," the doctor said. "He sustained rather severe trauma to the head, although we expect him to make a full recovery. But he won't be able to wrestle for a month."

The doctor shook his head. "If he gets back in that ring right away and receives another blow to the head, it could be fatal."

Lita winced inwardly. Going to his bedside, she said, "maybe... I can convince him to take the time he needs to heal."

"Well, I certainly hope so, miss," the doctor replied. "As it is, he has to be wakened every hour for the next 12 hours. In fact, we're going to have to do so now."

"Oh," Lita said, looking at the Undertaker who lay still. They had stitched his forehead, and an ugly dark purple bruise stretched from his temple all the way down to his cheekbone. "Let me do it," she said.

Biting her lower lip, Lita touched the Undertaker's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Taker," she said. "Taker, it's Lita... Wake up. Wake up."

The Undertaker's eyelids fluttered and he drew in his breath. Then he groaned loudly and cupped his forehead as he tried to sit up, grimacing with pain.

"Please, lie down, sir," the doctor said. "You've sustained a serious concussion. We can't sedate you, so you have to keep still. "

The Undertaker was in too much pain to argue, and his head dropped back upon the pillow. "Goddamn... son of a..." he snarled, squeezing his eyes shut.

An ice pack had been placed on the bedside table and Lita reached for it, delicately putting it against the bruise that marred his features.

The Undertaker almost immediately relaxed, unable to prevent a sigh of relief as the ice numbed the throbbing in his head.

The Undertaker's eyes opened half-way, and he stared at her with a perplexed expression. "Why are you here, miss?" he grumbled.

"Name's Lita," she said, unruffled by his irritable tone of voice. "Sergant Slaughter asked me to stay with you while you're at the hospital."

"No need," he said, but when she moved the ice pack further up the side of his face, he sighed again.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere," Lita declared. "You keep that mouth shut and those eyes closed, you hear?"

A sarcastic yet penitent smile drew itself upon the Undertaker's lips. "Fine," he said with his deep baritone. "I guess... you win fer-"

She silenced him with a finger on his mouth, her long, fire red locks brushing his cheek. "I knew you could be reasonable."

His smile widened, but he suddenly winced, and Lita took his hand in hers. "You have to rest, Taker," she said, holding the ice pack against his temple.

"I'm going to go back to the stadium," Slaughter told Lita. "You think you can hold the fort over here for a while longer?"

"I'm glad to help," Lita replied, putting the ice pack on the bedside table. "I'm... gonna get a moist cloth," she said, almost to herself, her eyes searching the room for towels.

"Ring the nurse if you need anything," the doctor told her. "I'll return later to check on his condition."

Lita found a face cloth and went into the bathroom, turned on the sink faucet and ran the cloth under it. Then she wrung the face cloth so that it wouldn't drip, and went back to the Undertaker's side. "Don't worry, big guy," she murmured as she gently dabbed the Undertaker's forehead. "You'll be back in action in no time. You just gotta take it easy for a while, understand?"

The next day, the Undertaker was released from the hospital with a stern warning from the doctor who'd been treating him: "Rest."

"I heard you the first time, doc," the Undertaker said patiently, slipping on his dark sunglasses. All I wanna do is go home and lie down on the couch. "Let's get out of here, if that's okay with you," he told Slaughter, who'd come to drive him to the airport.

Finally, Slaughter said, "Lita's waiting for us at the aiport. Commissioner Foley wants her to watch over you while you recover-"

The Undertaker had come to an abrupt halt. Lita. Redhead... hung around those kids, the Hardy Boyz. What the hell?

"Ain't nobody comin' with me," the Undertaker said, his eyebrows joined together above the bridge of his nose. "Foley should mind his own damn business. I don't need no goddamn babysitter. Besides, I've never had anything to do with the girl."

Slaughter looked up at the Undertaker, clearly surprised. "She stayed up with you all night, Undertaker. Left early this morning, to get some sleep."

It was the Undertaker's turn to look surprised. "Stayed up with me?" He shook his head. "I don't remember anything about that." Truth is, he thought, I don't remember much beyond being hit on the head with that steel chair.

"She's the one who convinced you to let us take you to the hospital in the first place," Slaughter said tentatively.

"Well, it don't matter none," the Undertaker snapped and he began moving again, taking long, quick strides down the hall.

"Commissioner Foley said he wouldn't take no for an answer," Slaughter called out after the Undertaker, scrambling to catch up with the tall man who was now marching around the corner.

By the time they'd reached the airport, the Undertaker was in an extremely foul mood, a headache pulsing at this temples. The small, almost inaudible squeeking sound the wheels on his suitcase made as he dragged it behind him was enough to make him want to hurl it through the huge panes of glass that formed a wall behind endless rows of chairs.

Slaughter followed at a respectable distance feeling sorry for Lita, who would soon be coming face to face with a hot-tempered Undertaker. He spotted her not too far away, sitting near the flight desk, fiddling nervously with the strap on her duffel bag. Here we go, Slaughter thought grimly.

Lita turned her head and saw them approaching; she jumped to her feet, a hesitant smile stretching her lips.

"Hey, you're looking better," she said as the Undertaker drew near, her face tilting upwards. "Ready to take it nice and slow... for... for the next few..." her voice trailed away when her eyes were greeted by the Undertaker's glowering expression.

"Listen, miss," the Undertaker said evenly, "I don't know just what in the hell is going on here, but you'd best be headin' back."

The Undertaker bent down and lifted her duffle bag. "Thanks fer spending the night with me -I mean, thanks fer... fer lookin' after me, and, uh... Hell."

"Gee, don't tell me little Lita here's got you all flustered, Undertaker?" came a mischievous voice behind them.

There was a low rumble in the Undertaker's throat as he dropped Lita's bag on the floor. Foley. He turned around, placing his hands squarely upon his hips. "I ain't in the mood fer your bull," the Undertaker said, staring at the shorter man.

"I understand, big guy," Foley replied with a grin, holding up his hands. "I was simply acting as Vince's emissary, and he says, Lita goes with you. He's acting upon the doctor's recommendation that you shouldn't be alone, because of your concussion. It's still too dangerous. Someone's got to be there with you in case complications develop."

"You don't have to bother with me if you don't want me around, Taker," Lita said, snatching her bag and flinging it over her shoulder. "You wanna fall asleep and never wake up, you wanna end up with brain damage or something, fine with me," she continued, her voice a bit shaky. "Don't even know why I got involved in this mess."

"All right," the Undertaker said, catching up to her and grabbing her by the arm. "All right, Lita."

She whirled around, yanking her arm from his hand. "I don't know who you think you are," she said, jabbing his chest with her finger, "but you obviously don't need anybody, mister high and mighty. So if you'll excuse me, I'm outta here."


	Lady Takersangel's Domain \| home S.I.N this is the first story in love series between Lita and 'Taker by Takershapsody Rating: PG-13, angst, Lita/Undertaker Shattered dreams lay next to broken glass I wonder if tonight will be my last I need an angel who can rescue me To save me from my mental symphony I can't take this alone Don't leave me on my own tonight -Ozzy Ozborne "Don't touch me," the Undertaker growled as he lurched along the corridors backstage, blood still running down his face. WWF staff shrank away from his gaze and he took a few more stumbling steps, blindly holding on to the wall for support. Why, Kane? Why? His brother had refused to answer his questions. He'd just lowered his head and turned to leave. Again and again, the Undertaker had gripped his forearm and forced his uncooperative sibling to face him, but Kane had remained silent. The Undertaker could still feel the heat that had threatened to burst from his chest and risen in his throat as he stood on the ring, confronted by the bitter realization that his younger brother's wounds were far from healed... That the bond they'd briefly shared had once more been lost. The phantom pressure of Kane's fingers around his neck came back to haunt him; he squeezed his burning eyes shut and swallowed, unwilling to surrender to the torrent of emotions that tossed his heart like a ship caught in a violent storm. He thought his brother had forgiven him. He thought that they had finally put the past behind them. God knew that he had tried before, that he'd reached out to Kane before. But Kane obviously hadn't forgiven, hadn't forgotten... and probably would never forget what his older brother had done, so long ago. The Undertaker clutched his throbbing forehead. He raised his head, not bothering to push back the long, red strands of hair that hung in front of his face. He was vaguely aware that he had no idea where he was, or where he was going. He groaned and shut his eyes, dropping on one knee. Blood kept streaming from the deep cut above his eyebrow and he winced -was it the memory of the steel chair as it crashed upon his head, or the memory of Kane's words that struck him again now? **** Lita heard a low moan and frowned. Always gotta watch yourself around here, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she set her cup of coffee back on the table. Another moan, louder this time. It was a deep voice, but she couldn't be sure whose it was -a lot of big guys in the WWF. Her mouth tightened. Maybe it's one of those Right to Censor bastards, creeping up on me... trying to trick me. Her stomach muscles twisting into a knot, she snuck to the end of the wall and slowly peeked around the corner. Her eyes widened. The Undertaker! And he didn't look too good. The tall, imposing man was down on one knee, his black leather coat spread around him like a cape, blood dripping from his chin onto the floor. His jaw was clenched and his breath escaped him in harsh gasps; it seemed to Lita like he was fighting not to pass out. A group of medics and WWF employees hovered nearby, hesitantly inching closer to the stricken Undertaker. The man who'd once been known as "Sargent Slaughter" glanced at Lita, tilting his head sharply in the Undertaker's direction. Lita's eyebrows went up and she mouthed, me? What do you want ME to do? Slaughter extended his hand and quickly flexed his massive fingers a few times, encouraging her to come closer. Without thinking about what she was doing, Lita found herself carefully approaching the Undertaker, who was oblivious to his surroundings. Her chest felt a little tight. She knew he was one of the "good guys" now, but he'd had a decidedly infamous career. Even hunched over on the ground, his forehead almost touching his bent knee, he was an intimidating and formidable man. Still, she wanted to help him. Part of her was touched by what had happened between him and his brother Kane; she knew that the Big Red Machine had practically driven the Undertaker right through the ring. The expression on the Undertaker's face when his brother's hand had locked around his throat had been one of utter astonishment -there was something about him, at that moment, that had resembled innocence. It was as if he could not have imagined that Kane would turn his back on him... that his loyalty could abruptly disappear. Lita's teeth clenched. Essa Rios had done the same thing to her. Stolen her trust, and bruised her body. Her lips trembled and she blinked, heat churning in the pit of her stomach. She exhaled, and moved toward the Undertaker. I know I can make him listen to me, she thought resolutely. He didn't notice her as she stood in front of him. She swallowed and reached out to him, her hand wavering. Though she didn't touch him, she didn't pull away. "Undertaker." "I said... Go..." he rasped, clutching his elbow. His voice faltered, rendering him strangely vulnerable, and Lita's courage grew. "Taker, it's Lita," she insisted softly. She patted his arm once, and waited. He lifted his head, moist strands of hair matted against his face, his brows furrowed between his green eyes. "What... is it, woman? You go... get along with... yer business." "Taker, you need to see a doctor," Lita replied, undeterred by the Undertaker's gruff words. The Hardy Boyz had come to her aid when she'd been assaulted by Essa; she was determined to do the same for the Undertaker now. "I don't need... to see anyone," he growled, but then he groaned, his face falling back upon his knee, his arm pressed against his chest. "Come on, Taker... let me help you," she pleaded, bending down and putting an arm around his shoulders. She felt his muscle tense, but he didn't shrug her arm off as she'd feared he would. The small group of men who stood nearby were watching her with undisguised admiration and awe. One of them took a step forward, but Sargent Slaughter stretched out his arm, holding the man back. "Not yet," Slaughter warned. "Give her a minute." "Can I take a look at your forehead?" Lita murmured to the Undertaker's ear. "All right," he answered at last, his voice strained. "I think maybe you should sit down," she said as he lifted his head once more and she saw how clouded his eyes were -all the color in his face was draining away. "Are you okay?" Lita asked, peering at his wan, blood streaked features. She'd never been so close to him before, and although she was mesmerized by him, by his sheer size and strength, she was also becoming more worried, because she had also never seen him so helpless. He mumbled something she couldn't quite make out and she gripped his large, powerful hand as he settled upon the floor, resting his head against the wall. The Undertaker scowled. "He's gonna... gonna pay... fer this..." he murmured, his breathing shallow. "Take it easy," Lita said, pushing his hair from his eyes, tucking loose strands behind his ears. The Undertaker looked at her with a slight, confused frown. "What... what are... you doing here..." Lita's lips parted in surprise. "Taker... I just helped you sit down," she said, concern etched upon her face. "I think maybe you've got a concussion or something," she continued, stroking his hair. "Please let the medics take a look at you." He shut his eyes and nodded once. "All right," Slaughter said, motioning the medics forward, and they all swarmed around an unresisting Undertaker. "Good job," Sargent Slaughter told Lita, who was still holding the Undertaker's limp hand. "Is he... is he gonna be all right?" she asked as she watched a paramedic shining a light in each of the Undertaker's eyes. "I can't say for sure, miss," the same medic replied, now pressing the flat, metallic end of a stethoscope against the side of the Undertaker's neck, then against his heart. "We need to get him to a hospital, run some tests. Seems like he's got a level three concussion." "Get a stretcher over here," Slaughter instructed the WWF emergency staff. Turning to Lita, he added, "I'd like you to go to the hospital with him." "Okay," Lita said, stepping aside as two men lowered a gurney near the ground. Slaughter and a few other medics struggled to pick up the Undertaker, who was too dazed to offer much assistance, and, grunting, they finally placed him upon it. The gurney was raised once more and they wheeled him down the narrow halls, Lita trotting along the stretcher, which was too short for the tall man. "Taker, can you hear me?" she asked breathlessly, staring down at the Undertaker as he lay, his hair flowing over the pillow that cushioned his head. "Gonna... pay..." he whispered, and then he was silent. **** There was the sound of scissors cutting away fabric, and Lita swiftly averted her eyes, her cheeks suffused with warmth. The Undertaker was completely unconscious, doctors and nurses clustered around him, divesting him of his clothing. Oh... not his leather coat, Lita thought with dismay when she glanced in his direction and saw them cutting the sleeves off with a few efficient strokes. It only took them less than a minute and they had undressed him, although they covered his mid-section with a sheet. "Vital signs are stable," one of the doctors was saying. "Let's get him in for a cat scan." He shouldn't have faced Kane so soon, Lita thought as they moved him out of the emergency room. Those refs should've stopped him... "He'll be fine," Sargent Slaughter said. "He's seen way worse than this." "Yeah," Lita said. But she thought, I'm not so sure about that. "Please, if you'll wait outside," a nurse told them. "We'll let you know when you can see him." "Come on, Lita," Slaughter told her, taking her by the arm. "Let's get some coffee." ** "We want to keep him under observation, at least for another 24 hours," the doctor said. "He sustained rather severe trauma to the head, although we expect him to make a full recovery. But he won't be able to wrestle for a month." "I can't guarantee he'll listen," Slaughter said. The doctor shook his head. "If he gets back in that ring right away and receives another blow to the head, it could be fatal." Lita winced inwardly. Going to his bedside, she said, "maybe... I can convince him to take the time he needs to heal." Slaughter suppressed a smile. "Well, I certainly hope so, miss," the doctor replied. "As it is, he has to be wakened every hour for the next 12 hours. In fact, we're going to have to do so now." "Oh," Lita said, looking at the Undertaker who lay still. They had stitched his forehead, and an ugly dark purple bruise stretched from his temple all the way down to his cheekbone. "Let me do it," she said. "As you wish," the doctor answered. Biting her lower lip, Lita touched the Undertaker's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Taker," she said. "Taker, it's Lita... Wake up. Wake up." The Undertaker's eyelids fluttered and he drew in his breath. Then he groaned loudly and cupped his forehead as he tried to sit up, grimacing with pain. "Don't move!" Lita cried. Instantly, the doctor joined her, while Slaughter rushed to the other side of the bed. "Please, lie down, sir," the doctor said. "You've sustained a serious concussion. We can't sedate you, so you have to keep still. " The Undertaker was in too much pain to argue, and his head dropped back upon the pillow. "Goddamn... son of a..." he snarled, squeezing his eyes shut. An ice pack had been placed on the bedside table and Lita reached for it, delicately putting it against the bruise that marred his features. The Undertaker almost immediately relaxed, unable to prevent a sigh of relief as the ice numbed the throbbing in his head. "That's it," Lita said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The Undertaker's eyes opened half-way, and he stared at her with a perplexed expression. "Why are you here, miss?" he grumbled. "Name's Lita," she said, unruffled by his irritable tone of voice. "Sergant Slaughter asked me to stay with you while you're at the hospital." "No need," he said, but when she moved the ice pack further up the side of his face, he sighed again. "Well, I'm not going anywhere," Lita declared. "You keep that mouth shut and those eyes closed, you hear?" A sarcastic yet penitent smile drew itself upon the Undertaker's lips. "Fine," he said with his deep baritone. "I guess... you win fer-" She silenced him with a finger on his mouth, her long, fire red locks brushing his cheek. "I knew you could be reasonable." His smile widened, but he suddenly winced, and Lita took his hand in hers. "You have to rest, Taker," she said, holding the ice pack against his temple. Her touch calmed him and he whispered, "Thanks, little girl." Then he was quiet once more. "I'm going to go back to the stadium," Slaughter told Lita. "You think you can hold the fort over here for a while longer?" "No problem," she said, gazing at the Undertaker. "Great," Slaughter answered. "That's one less worry. He's obviously in good hands with you." "I'm glad to help," Lita replied, putting the ice pack on the bedside table. "I'm... gonna get a moist cloth," she said, almost to herself, her eyes searching the room for towels. "Ring the nurse if you need anything," the doctor told her. "I'll return later to check on his condition." "Keep me posted," Slaughter said. The doctor nodded and both men walked out of the room, leaving Lita and the Undertaker alone. Lita found a face cloth and went into the bathroom, turned on the sink faucet and ran the cloth under it. Then she wrung the face cloth so that it wouldn't drip, and went back to the Undertaker's side. "Don't worry, big guy," she murmured as she gently dabbed the Undertaker's forehead. "You'll be back in action in no time. You just gotta take it easy for a while, understand?" The Undertaker slept, but his lips were curved in the faintest of smiles. ** The next day, the Undertaker was released from the hospital with a stern warning from the doctor who'd been treating him: "Rest." "Right," the Undertaker said, easing into a brand-new black leather coat. "No wrestling for two weeks. A month would be even better." "I heard you the first time, doc," the Undertaker said patiently, slipping on his dark sunglasses. All I wanna do is go home and lie down on the couch. "Let's get out of here, if that's okay with you," he told Slaughter, who'd come to drive him to the airport. "You got it," Slaughter replied, and they exited the room. They walked down the hallway in silence, leaving a trail of excited whispers in their wake. Finally, Slaughter said, "Lita's waiting for us at the aiport. Commissioner Foley wants her to watch over you while you recover-" The Undertaker had come to an abrupt halt. Lita. Redhead... hung around those kids, the Hardy Boyz. What the hell? "Ain't nobody comin' with me," the Undertaker said, his eyebrows joined together above the bridge of his nose. "Foley should mind his own damn business. I don't need no goddamn babysitter. Besides, I've never had anything to do with the girl." Slaughter looked up at the Undertaker, clearly surprised. "She stayed up with you all night, Undertaker. Left early this morning, to get some sleep." It was the Undertaker's turn to look surprised. "Stayed up with me?" He shook his head. "I don't remember anything about that." Truth is, he thought, I don't remember much beyond being hit on the head with that steel chair. "She's the one who convinced you to let us take you to the hospital in the first place," Slaughter said tentatively. "Well, it don't matter none," the Undertaker snapped and he began moving again, taking long, quick strides down the hall. "Commissioner Foley said he wouldn't take no for an answer," Slaughter called out after the Undertaker, scrambling to catch up with the tall man who was now marching around the corner. "Foley can kiss my ass," the Undertaker thundered. **** By the time they'd reached the airport, the Undertaker was in an extremely foul mood, a headache pulsing at this temples. The small, almost inaudible squeeking sound the wheels on his suitcase made as he dragged it behind him was enough to make him want to hurl it through the huge panes of glass that formed a wall behind endless rows of chairs. Slaughter followed at a respectable distance feeling sorry for Lita, who would soon be coming face to face with a hot-tempered Undertaker. He spotted her not too far away, sitting near the flight desk, fiddling nervously with the strap on her duffel bag. Here we go, Slaughter thought grimly. Lita turned her head and saw them approaching; she jumped to her feet, a hesitant smile stretching her lips. "Hey, you're looking better," she said as the Undertaker drew near, her face tilting upwards. "Ready to take it nice and slow... for... for the next few..." her voice trailed away when her eyes were greeted by the Undertaker's glowering expression. "Listen, miss," the Undertaker said evenly, "I don't know just what in the hell is going on here, but you'd best be headin' back." Lita's mouth opened and closed, and she stammered, "but... but..." The Undertaker bent down and lifted her duffle bag. "Thanks fer spending the night with me -I mean, thanks fer... fer lookin' after me, and, uh... Hell." "Gee, don't tell me little Lita here's got you all flustered, Undertaker?" came a mischievous voice behind them. There was a low rumble in the Undertaker's throat as he dropped Lita's bag on the floor. Foley. He turned around, placing his hands squarely upon his hips. "I ain't in the mood fer your bull," the Undertaker said, staring at the shorter man. "I understand, big guy," Foley replied with a grin, holding up his hands. "I was simply acting as Vince's emissary, and he says, Lita goes with you. He's acting upon the doctor's recommendation that you shouldn't be alone, because of your concussion. It's still too dangerous. Someone's got to be there with you in case complications develop." "I can't believe this..." the Undertaker grumbled, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. "You don't have to bother with me if you don't want me around, Taker," Lita said, snatching her bag and flinging it over her shoulder. "You wanna fall asleep and never wake up, you wanna end up with brain damage or something, fine with me," she continued, her voice a bit shaky. "Don't even know why I got involved in this mess." The Undertaker's mouth hung slightly open as he watched her stomping off. "I think she's upset with you," Foley quipped. "You'd better go after her." Swearing under his breath, the Undertaker hurried after Lita, calling out to her, "Miss!" "I already told you, my name's Lita!" she shouted without looking back. "All right," the Undertaker said, catching up to her and grabbing her by the arm. "All right, Lita." She whirled around, yanking her arm from his hand. "I don't know who you think you are," she said, jabbing his chest with her finger, "but you obviously don't need anybody, mister high and mighty. So if you'll excuse me, I'm outta here." "Come on, m- Lita," the Undertaker said. "I didn't mean to be rude. I'm sorry if I hurt you." Lita sniffed, her eyes avoiding his face. "Come on now," the Undertaker coaxed, removing his dark glasses. "I'm sorry, little girl." Lita raised her face, a smile twitching upon her lips. "All right, then," the Undertaker said gently. "Let's just forget this happened, okay?" "Okay," Lita said, looking up at him and lowering her eyes again. "Good. Say we check in," he said. "Okay," she repeated, and they made their way back to where Slaughter and Foley were standing. "Well, look who's friends again," Foley said with a twinkle in his eye. The Undertaker sighed. As if things weren't complicated enough... Hell. The End. continue to Hellraiser back to my library chamber