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A/N: This is yet another revamp on a previous story of mine that was written last year. I wanted to make it more enjoyable for you guys to read, so here's a slightly new plot, even though it's similar to the original story, in a sense. If you choose to read it, I really hope you like it. Thanks so much for your time and attention. You guys are the best!
The first thing he ever told me was that I made him uncomfortable.
If I close my eyes and concentrate hard enough, I can still recall the unique way my heart skipped a beat when I first heard his voice directed at me, so pleased he was speaking in my presence at all. Normally, he talked to no one backstage. He sat on the floor, his back flush against the wall, and I lowered myself to the floor beside him. All his nerves showed through his actions. His trembling hands, those ever-present quaking fingers, set in, and he actually scooted away from me, like I was some sort of leper. He planted his palms on the floor, moved about a foot away, and spoke the first words I'd ever heard him say — to me, anyway. I was hearing his voice while he was out of character for the first time.
"You're making me uncomfortable. Give me some space, please."
I remember those words like they drifted through his lips yesterday. My lips, even as I complete this thought, are spreading into a smile, quirking up at the corners as my mind falls away to the image of him. My sweet, candid Chris. His mouth had no filter, and perhaps that was a big part of why I was so taken with him. Being Stephanie McMahon is no easy feat. I had been lied to for my whole life, paraded around as the greatest thing to happen to Planet Earth since my birth in 1976, because that's how all of my father's yes-men thought they were supposed to interact with me, but Chris didn't cater to me like that.
He made me work for an opportunity to speak to him, and I liked that. Working for his attention was unexpected, it made me feel different, and, most importantly, it gave me a goal to strive toward. If I wanted his attention, I had to reach out and grab it like snatching a bull by the horns, and between the more chaotic moments at shows, it gave me purpose I didn't gain through my work. I could use my spare time to win over the man of mystique. Chris was mysterious in a way I had never seen, except in movies and on TV shows, and getting to know him was like unraveling my own secret case, trying desperately to crack the unseen code. His unique code.
"I'm sorry," I apologized, planting my own palms on the cool floor as I watched him. He turned away from me, so all I could see was the back of his head. Through his shirt, I saw the thump of his heart, and I knew his nerves were no joke. I had tangible proof of how bothered he was, and I don't know what made me do it, but I slipped my hand onto his thigh. He recoiled and pushed himself farther away, leaving my hand to fall to the floor. "I didn't mean to make you nervous."
In the beginning, we spent our time together in one of two ways: either Chris was pulling away, or I was apologizing. It seemed I was always doing things he didn't like, be it inadvertent or otherwise. He was a tough person to win over, but I wasn't easily deterred. I had to know where he had come from, where he had been, and everything in between. There's one more side note I should mention; Chris has the most breathtaking blue eyes I've ever seen. When I look into them, even to this day, every part of me melts like a Popsicle on a summer day, but I didn't see his eyes that day. He refused to make eye contact.
"I should get back to my work table. This Raw isn't going to run itself," I said to him, though I don't know why. He wasn't interested in my plans for the evening, but I had an urge to share, so I gave in. "I'll see you later, Chris."
"Bye, I guess," he said, softly and with a note of relief. I must have lingered for too long, or at least for enough time that my absence from the production table drew some attention. My dad had come looking for me, and his furrowed brow said more than any words he could speak aloud. My eyes didn't leave my dad's face as I drew nearer, but my mind was still in the same place, stuck on Chris.
"What are you doing down there with him?" my father asked, wrinkling his nose in that disapproving way he always did, which was basically whenever I spoke to anyone outside our normal circle of confidantes. There was also the underlying stigma that accompanied having a relationship of any kind with Chris. "I've been looking everywhere for you, and I don't appreciate having to leave my post to come track you down. You have a job to do, and if you want to be paid, I expect that you will come back and finish it. You don't need to be speaking with him to begin with."
My first emotion was anger that my father was trying to control me, just as he often did. He wanted me to essentially be a younger, female version of him, to parrot all his thoughts and decisions. My second emotion was alarm, because although we were down the hall, voices carried, and I didn't want Chris to hear himself being spoken of in such a negative manner. He didn't deserve it. "Dad, I was only talking to him. He's a person, too, you know."
"Not a person you need to concern yourself with. Come on," he said. He even went so far as to grab my wrist, like he used to when I was an unruly child, leading me around the corner. I distinctly recall glancing back a final time to see whether Chris was watching us or not. The spot he had taken up down the hallway was now empty. Chris was nowhere in sight.
Every person has a story, but not every story is the kind with colorful pictures and vivid memories. Some stories are painful and take a lot longer to come out, and Chris's story fell into the second category. I could squeeze some facts out of him, but only one at a time, and not on a consistent basis. He was the jigsaw puzzle I was always trying to piece together, and for every two pieces I connected, another two appeared. I went home to Connecticut after Raw that night, falling into my own charmed life, but a day never passed when I didn't think of him, or at least linger on the image of his hunched form in my mind.
I liked to think of Chris as the quintessential outcast, which may have played a large part in why I felt so connected to him. I, too, knew what it felt like to have people move away from a table when I sat down, or roll their eyes at me when I showed up to their party. Granted, those incidents had taken place back when I was in high school, but the rejection was still raw and hurt just the same. In the wealthy community my family belonged to, we were seen as the misfits, who only made their money by being involved with the 'unacceptable' wrestling world. Nobody frowns upon professional wrestling like the affluent do.
When I was in the first grade, a boy in my class made fun of my dad, called wrestling fake, and said everything my family stood for was a lie — not in those exact words, of course, but my point is made. My response was the only one that came to my young mind at the time; I kicked him in the shin. Looking back, I find the humor in it, but at the time, I was doing the only thing I knew how, in protecting my family. I used to wonder if Chris's reluctance to speak to anyone in his private time was his figurative way of kicking all the naysayers in the shin, much like I had all those years ago. Rather than letting them win, he protected himself by giving them the cold shoulder.
When the following week's Raw came, I was ready and waiting. The show had been underway for 30 minutes, and Chris had gone out, wearing a black mask, like a modern day Zorro. The only major difference was that this mask covered his entire face. Like I mentioned, he liked to hide. It was all he knew. Dad had hired him in 1999, brought him in from WCW, mostly because of what a spectacle Eric Bishoff had been making of him, cashing in on his odd appearance. At first, I thought my dad would be different, that he would take Chris under his wing out of the goodness of his heart and make him a star. Instead, he paraded him around like a zoo animal in a cage, no better than Bischoff had done.
The mask comforted Chris, I could tell, because it hid his physical flaws, but my dad ramped the storyline up to a whole new level. He made Chris the villain all the time, sending him out in squash matches to earn a quick laugh from the fans and the guys in the back. Never mind that Chris was an exceptional wrestler and had the potential to display charisma by the ton; all my dad cared about was making a quick buck off of another's misfortune. It sickened me and, yet, I oft wondered, was I any better? If a person sees wrongdoing and stands by while it happens, are they guilty by association? I struggled with that, much like I struggled with wanting to help Chris, but I didn't know what to do. My dad was in charge, and as long as he was, all storylines had to be run through him.
I wanted Chris to be a part of a serious feud, to showcase all the talents he had picked up in the Hart Dungeon in Calgary, but I stood by powerlessly. He returned through the curtain after his loss to Dolph Ziggler that night, amidst snickers from almost everyone in Gorilla position, no one caring that this man had put in nearly 15 years of his life for our company. Nobody cared except me. I followed Chris, because I knew I couldn't get him alone if I caught him near Gorilla. My dad or one of his agents would have tugged me away, and I didn't want that. He turned a few corners and so did I, matching his pace without sneaking up too terribly close behind him.
I tried to be quiet, to pick up my feet and place them down gently enough that the clack of my heels wouldn't be overheard, but he heard them anyway, and I knew exactly when, because he stopped dead in his tracks. I don't recall whether it was the shock of his abrupt stop or whether I was horrified because I had been busted, but I stopped too, frozen to my spot, palms pressed to the sides of my thighs as my eyes expanded. It's humorous, to me, how much I remember of our conversations back then. I never forgot a single thing Chris said to me, and especially not in those early days. He spun slowly on his feet, mask still covering his face.
"What do you want?" Chris asked. The question appears more harsh than it sounded when it left his mouth. He wasn't angry, nor was he confrontational. He was intrigued.
"To talk to you," I blurted out, smiling, which was my defense mechanism for whenever I felt weird. I was definitely acting like a weirdo, but I was compelled to speak to him. He needed to hear my voice and gain my companionship, and I don't know how I figured that out, but I knew. He didn't move any, so I took a few steps toward him, halting when I noticed him backing away. He didn't want me close. "I, um, wanted you to know that your match was outstanding. You have so much talent."
"Does it really matter?" he asked. He still wasn't angry. He was hurt now. His moods ebbed and flowed like a beach's tide, and I felt the switches each time they came. "I won't ever be taken seriously, anyway. I'm a joke around here. I want to collect enough money to retire and be done with this place. I put in almost 15 years here already, and enough is enough."
"I'm sorry you feel that way," I told him. I meant it, too.
"Why?" he asked. This time, he was angry. His shoulders squared up, and his jaw clenched at the corners. I could tell he was struggling for his hands not to ball into fists. "You never cared about me before. We both came into this company at roughly the same time and you've never taken it upon yourself to speak to me, unless it was business-related. Why do you need to talk to me so badly now?"
"I...because I..." The truth was, as I stood there fumbling for words, I didn't know. I was suddenly drawn to him, but he was right when he said I hadn't given him the time of day in all his years with the company. I wasn't sure why I needed to talk to him. All I knew was that I felt it, in my heart and in my spirit. "I don't know, really, but I'd like to get to know you."
"After 15 straight years of ignoring me?" he snapped. "What, did you get bored of spending Daddy's money and now you need something else to entertain yourself with?"
Touchè, Chris Jericho, I thought to myself. But I didn't let it stop me. I took one step, then another, closing the gap between us one second at a time. He didn't bolt like I had expected, and I was pleased in a way that I couldn't put into words. Progress. Sweat beads dripped down his face from behind his mask and trailed down his throat. "I'm not talking to you out of boredom. Truth is, I don't exactly know why I'm talking to you, but I'd like to make it a habit, if that's okay with you."
"Whatever evil tricks you and your family are cooking up, I don't want to be a part of it," he said, turning his back on me and continuing on his way. He heard me following, but this time he didn't stop when he spoke. "You must think I'm a complete idiot, if you honestly expect me to believe all you want to do is talk. I know your dad sent you here to play mind games. He wants you to do his dirty work, and I'm not subjecting myself to it."
"None of this is about my dad, or anybody else. It's about me," I said, jogging after him. I was desperate, and I didn't know why. I had to make him talk to me, but it wasn't like a task I was forced into; I just felt this incessant urge. I needed to know Chris Jericho, inside and out. "I just want to talk. I'm sorry I never gave you the time of day before. You deserve better than that, and I should have recognized that, instead of being weak and ignoring you like everyone else has. Please talk to me."
Chris grasped the handle of his locker room door, pushing it open and slipping inside. He tried to close it again, but I slid my foot in the crack between the door and the frame, blocking its path. He spoke slowly to me, as if talking to a young child. "Stephanie, I'm taking a shower now, so you're going to need to move your foot out of my way, okay? Can you do that much?"
"Can I come in?" I asked. Hey, I was relentless, if nothing else. Committed and relentless: a dangerous combination. He sighed loudly, so I capped my words off with a blinding white smile. "Please, Chris?"
"No."
"What if I play the boss card and tell you that you have to let me in?"
"I don't know; you tell me."
"I can have you fired."
"For what?" he asked, mouth dropping open. He was in disbelief, and so was I, in a sense, when I processed the words coming out of my mouth. I almost didn't recognized myself, but when I'm determined for a certain outcome, I use any and all tactics necessary to make it happen. To this day, I don't regret lording my power over his head. I needed to get through to him. "For wanting to take a shower in peace, without someone coming in and encroaching on my space?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I'll have you fired for, but I won't say it in those words," I said, turning my coy dial up a notch. "There; have I convinced you now?"
"Whatever. Come in, if it matters to you so much, but don't say I didn't warn you," Chris mumbled. "If you see anything you didn't want to see, it's your own fault, because I already explained to you that I'm taking a shower."
"That's fine. I'll look away, if need be," I told him, celebrating an internal victory.
I slipped into his locker room and closed the door, barely holding back a scoff at the meager conditions of his room when I set my sights on the cramped space. Every individual locker room was decorated and given a platter of fruits, vegetables, meats, and cheeses as a courtesy. That was the way it had always been, but Chris had no food or drink to speak of, and they hadn't bothered making sure a couch was inside, so all his things were bunched on the floor, in the corner of the room. I can't say exactly what caused me to tear up, whether it was the unjust reality of the situation or my own guilty conscious for not seeking Chris out sooner, but I stood there with tears in my eyes, struggling to blink them away.
To Chris, it was just another night at the conclusion of his match, and he went to the far corner, kneeling down to sort through his clothing and find something clean to change into. I sucked in loudly and reached for the door, falling back against it, and when I looked back up, Chris was watching me. I wanted to explain my emotions, to apologize for how mistreated he was, but I couldn't work up the words. He came to me, though, concern in his eyes, and he cupped the bottom of his mask with his right hand and tugged it off of his face and over his head, tossing it to the floor like forgotten trash. I had seen part of his uncovered face a handful of times in the past, but this was the first time he revealed it all to me, completely and unapologetically.
For the first time, I stared fully into a face marred by seething burns and jagged scars.
