A/N: I'll just leave it at this. I've had a lot going on in recent months, and I haven't been inspired to write much. My other fics except for a couple which I do really want to finish, are most likely on hiatus. I know I shouldn't start anything new but oh well. I'm going there.

People probably get tired of me starting my fics and struggling to finish them, it's not that I don't want to, it's just that I tend to get a little discouraged what with lack of inspiration, the crud that is most times Monday night Raw, and the fact that a lot of really good stories get lost in the crap on this site. I know I have my issues with updating regularly but believe me, I put so much into what I do write and I wont update something just to have an update. If I don't feel it, I wont update, because I don't like half-ass. It has to be good, it has to be full on, or I wont update. It's not a lack of respect for my readers to leave them hanging, it is respect for you guys because I don't want to just cop out and post crap just to have something posted. Anyway, I'm done rambling about that now.

So, I have decided to go here. I've noticed that a lot of older pairings or classic pairings don't seem to get much reading/reviews these days, and I think it's a damn shame because without these guys your Cena, Orton, Hardy, anyone else you want to throw in there, wouldn't be where they are today if not for the guys who came before them. Just because you see the names of men who are retired, semi-retired, or who are oldschool superstars, you shouldn't just turn away you should at least give it a try.

Remember where your wrestling came from, remember the classics, because I guarantee you there are few who can live up to some of the greats in the history of the business—back when it was still an entertaining sport more than sports entertainment. Please do not be closed minded, and please be open to stories that are more than smut (don't get me wrong, yes I read/write smut sometimes, but there is more out there than two or more hot men getting it on) open your mind to something new and something deeper than just a good fuck. That's all I ask when you see an oldschool pairing by anyone on this site—because yes I do know of a few other than myself who write classic pairings. Anyway, I had to get that out of the way. :-)

I want to tell you straight up so you know what to expect. I'm sure updates for this will not be quick since 1) research 2) job 3) it's Bret and Shawn, for hells sake 4) emotions 5) I don't half ass. So please keep that in mind, and don't give up on me. This fic and this pairing is important to me, and when I say something like that, I mean the hell out of it.

Special thanks to: Nef for being amazing, inspiring, and an awesome friend. I luv you girl. Thanks to DK for letting me always bounce ideas off of her and for making me smile when I feel like crap. ;-) I luv you too bb. Thanks to Takers Dark Lover for PMing me when I seem to disappear from the face of the planet. Thanks to Thor for sharing my love for oldschool, and rping like a mutha. Thanks to Sera for the random and awesome Twitter quotes. Thanks to Esha for being a loyal reader. Love you all and you all know who you are. Lastly thanks to BHBK for being my OTM…One. True. Mess. You know they are.

Now, it begins. What a trip it shall be. You know the story, or do you?

-x-

There shouldn't have been anything different about the room, it looked nearly the same as the rest. Country wide, world wide, it was all pretty much the same routine. Tiles, lockers, drains, showers, sinks, johns, you know, just the usual. The cracked squares on the floor would see the bootfalls of legends in their prime, over it, and just being born. The lockers would hold so briefly the trunks, tights, singlets, outfits, and props that made men into heroes and villains, larger than life performers who would walk to a simple ring and make it into something inspiring. On that canvass they would leave their sweat, their blood, the steps of their dance, and the memories of generations. It was in these times before he was to go out and submit his own part to the play, that he usually found a quiet corner (if at all possible in a room full of barbaric men) and a scrap of paper, and something to draw with. It calmed him, and made his lips curl softly and his eyes smile beneath the damp curls that hung over his forehead, as he watched the simple cartoons of his co-workers unfold. He was no artist worthy of a spot in the Louvre, but he had always loved to draw since he could remember, and this was his routine.

He glanced up from his canvas, a stack of brown paper towels that he'd pulled from one of the metal holders earlier. The tip of his felt pen whispered over the thin material, sketching lines and curves. He glanced up, watching his brother in law through his curls, and then just as quickly his dark eyes flicked back to the drawing. He exaggerated Jim's goatee, and his belly, laughing quietly to himself as he knew how Jim would react if he happened to run across the doodle later. He'd pretend to be pissed off about it, but he never really was. Jim was Jim, and he didn't care.

The lines and the gentle whisper of the pen were working their magic, helping Bret to drown out the bustle around him and set his mind to a state of calm that would allow him to concentrate on every detail of the match when he was in the ring. Right now was the time not to think too much, or that would lead to anxiety, and anxiety led to sloppy ring work. Sloppy was not an option.

His pen stopped, the drawing of Jim completed. He dropped that napkin, and let it flutter to the floor as he concentrated on the stack draped neatly onto his knee, considering who to cartoonify next. The whine of the door hinges and a sudden waft of cool air made him look up, and his next breath was left dead in his throat. Suddenly everything seemed very still, and very quiet, even though he knew it wasn't. He could still see the men moving around the locker room, but their footfalls and voices had seemed to become clouded through wads of cotton. Their movements seemed to have been slowed, as if life was a circle of vinyl on some celestial record player and some deity had changed the speed from normalcy to a stretched, distorted kind of crawl. His blond hair ruffled back from his forehead as he entered the room, and the long, golden waves hung over his shoulders and down his back.

He was beautiful and handsome all at the same time, the star football player, and the head cheerleader all rolled into one. He had seemed to have brought into the room with him some sort of spell, which left Bret only able to blink, forgetting to breathe, and noticing only when he began to feel dizzy. Any calm he had built up was left in pieces, like a glass slipped from a nervous hand and shattered into shards against the floor. An unsettling feeling had wormed into his stomach, and a strange kind of numbness swept over him. His heart thudded hard, each beat seeming like an explosion in his ears, each thump sending grey spots swimming before his eyes. He was up to his feet, and barely noticed that he was moving. The paper towels cascaded over the floor as they lost their place on his knee, and he headed for the door and the hallway where maybe there would be some air.

He ended up shoving himself past mingling bodies in the corridor, and out the nearest exit. The door clicked shut and pressing himself against the brick wall, Bret dragged in a deep breath that nearly choked him. His head was spinning, and his lean against the wall seemed more like a necessity than just a reaction. This was not typical of Bret Hart. Bret Hart was cool, and calm, nothing threw him for a loop, nothing got to him. Just one glance and he had been terrified and captivated, hot and cold, all in the same moment. Suddenly there was a gleaming sword hanging above, ready to fall and lop off his very head, and yet he wanted to reach out and touch the tip of the blade.

Bret screwed his eyes closed, noticing the trickle of sweat down his jaw and neck. He could have attributed it to the hot, muggy air. It was June in California, it could have only been the searing rays of the sun beaming down onto his Northern accustomed skin. But it wasn't the sun. It was his calm suddenly turned to an inner chaos that had sent him into a ridiculous panic. Over who? Who was that man who was capable of shattering Bret Hart?

-x-

Shawn chuckled as he shoved his bag in next to Marty's.

"Ha. Well, guess I scared him off already." The blond flashed a grin to his dark haired counterpart, and flipped his hair. Marty shook his head, pulling out a pair of tights.

"You do know how to make a first impression." Marty joked, looking the tights over. "Are these yours, or mine?"

"Hell I don't know, I just shoved it all in."

There was a snort from behind Shawn, and he glanced over his shoulder but didn't find the culprit. He was nervous, actually, and he was bound to overcompensate for it by shooting off his mouth. That was just Shawn. When everything else failed, his lips could keep moving and that was not always a good thing. He shrugged, stripped from his jeans, and took the tights draped over Marty's arm. He began to shimmy into them, making it all a big show.

"Shawn…" Marty hissed, a pink blush warming up his cheeks.

"What?" Shawn pouted, feigning innocence.

The door to the locker room swung back open, the hinges crying once again to alert all of a returning presence. Shawn turned, and watched him carefully, as his lips twisted into a smirk. Shawn knew who this man was, he'd seen him on a t.v. screen many times but had never seen him in true form. His dark ringlets were tossed over his forehead and touching his shoulders, a handsome face with cheeks that seemed to be sporting a blush, and lips that would look much better doing something other than turning downwards. Bret was scowling at Shawn, the slow perusal of the bold blue eyes only making the pink petals twitch further with…disgust? Annoyance? Shawn was both amused and curious, and Marty was poking him.

"Let him be." Marty hissed, as he handed Shawn his boots.

"Oh but Marty, ya never let me have any fun." Shawn said, a little too loudly. He sulked over to a chair that just happened to be the same one Bret was sitting in moments ago, drawing. Said man was bending to pick up the paper towels he'd scattered across the floor when he'd bolted from the room moments ago. He dropped them all over again when he went to straighten up and his eyes met a crotch outlined in dark purple spandex. Shawn laughed—he couldn't help it.

"Mind if I sit here?" Shawn gestured grandly to the empty chair.

"No. It's mine." Bret snapped, scooping up the paper towels once more. This man was getting to him in a way that not many could, and there was no damn reason for him to be. It was something Bret was not very familiar with. He was a man who liked to have things under control, and right now, that was not the case.

"It's yours?" Shawn picked the chair up and searched it over thoroughly, turning it every which way. The locker room had went silent, all eyes on two of their comrades. "I don't see your name on it anywhere." Shawn sat the metal chair back down with a clang, and parked his ass in it, crossing his legs and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Bret said nothing, he moved to the trash can and dumped the crumpled napkins into it, and then moved back to where Shawn was sitting snapping his gum and arrogantly bobbling his head. God damn it, Bret wanted to wipe that haughty smile right off that pretty face of his. The fact that Bret thought it to be pretty only served to raise his hackles more. With one motion he swept the chair out from beneath Shawn, sending the young man with an 'oof' to the floor. Bret strolled to the door, kicked it open, and tossed the chair out into the hall. He walked coolly back to Shawn, who was picking himself up, pouting as he rubbed at his offended cheeks.

"Why'd you-"

"You know what, rookie…I think you're in the wrong locker room. Ya look more like a diva or a valet to me, than a real wrestler." That got a few chuckles from the guys hanging around, leaning against their lockers. Something flashed beneath the cocky set blue eyes, something that might have been hurt. Bret decided he didn't care, why should he? Who was this kid to him—nothing. Absolutely nothing. "This is a mans locker room pretty boy."

"Diva!" Shawn cried, his breath spilling into Bret's face, the tint of alcohol apparent on it. Bret wrinkled his nose. No respect for the business. He thought to himself, disliking this blond brat more than he already did. He bumped Shawn towards the door, their faces too close together for Bret's comfort, and those eyes bore into him much too deeply. His breath was stuck in his throat again, and he only barely managed to untangle his words before speaking them.

"Diva, that's what I said. Ya hard of hearing?"

Shawn snapped his gum, and twirled a strand of Bret's hair. With a growl, Bret slapped his hand away.

"I'm not hard of anything, but I think somebody else is." Shawn laughed, watching the ire flicker in the dark orbs of the man who was about to toss him out on his ear. There were no more words—Bret couldn't have came up with any if they'd been written in front of his nose. That comment completely bowled him over, and the only thing he could do was finish his excommunication of the little punk. Shawn was shoved out into the hallway, and toppled over the tossed chair which was laid sadly collapsed on the floor. He watched from his newly seated position as the locker room door swung shut, closing out the image of that handsome, angry man, who had now gained Shawn's full attention and fascination. Over Bret's shoulder peeked Marty, his eyebrows tilted in worry over his best friend.

Shawn picked himself up, and prodded at the metal chair with his toe.

"Hmph. Call me a damn diva." He scoffed, fixing his hair.

Marty appeared through the door, his arms full of their things.

"Shawn…Jesus Christ." He sighed. "I…I get the strangest feeling that we're not wanted in there." With a little shake of his head, and a smirk that he couldn't help, he handed Shawn his bag. The guy was a complete trip, and maybe more trouble than he was worth, but Marty couldn't help but love the fucking fool. "Let's go find a closet or something, we've gotta finish changing. You and I have a debut to make."

Shawn laughed.

"I already made mine, kid." He draped his arm over Marty's shoulders. "Lead the way, Jannetty!"

Marty smiled, and let Shawn steer him to the nearest closet. Shawn might give him the go ahead, but Marty never really 'led' them anywhere. It was always Shawn who made the grand entrance, who was noticed by everyone first, and Marty was okay with that. The two of them ducked into a closet, and Marty fought with a mop as he tugged on his tights. Shawn threatened to spray him with a cleaner, and in the end only succeeded in spraying himself in the face. Marty found a rag on one of the shelves, and gently cleaned the mist from Shawn's face.

"Don't go screwing up that face, it's too pretty." Marty half-joked, brushing his thumb over Shawn's lips. Shawn winked at him, and stepped out of the closet.

"Well geeze Jan, one of us has to be good lookin', or this would never work." Shawn flipped his hair girlishly, playing up the part, and he headed towards their entrance. Marty followed him, and The Rockers ran down the ramp to their music to greet their destinies.

-x-