Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: With his words, with his crooked smile, with his mischievous gaze, she had certainly been duped into feeling something for this man, because Lana could never end up loving Chris Jericho of her own volition. Never. That was just preposterous. JerichoLana, oneshot
Okay! Here is my small contribution to the JerichoLana section of this fandom. I remember thinking they had some great chemistry in their interactions together and then my lovely friend DrunkOnJerichohol wrote something involving them and I just couldn't resist writing something of my own, and with her great encouragement, this finally exists. It's certainly going to be something, since I'm so used to writing JerichoSteph together exclusively, but I'm excited to branch out! I'm actually kind of nervous about posting this one, so I hope that y'all enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!
Trickster
Delicately manicured nails rap, rap, rapped on the table in front of her, the only sound in the silence around her. Lana found it rather refreshing, considering the previous chaos of her thoughts. The repetition soothed her. It was stark, it was consistent, it was predictable. She liked order, she liked being able to manage things. Neat and tidy, every box in its place. The blonde Russian couldn't think of any other way she'd rather have her life.
Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes, continuing her cycle of tapping, trying to remove certain images from her mind, trying to remove certain feelings from her chest, ones that were unable to be shut away in a box and forgotten about. Those were as pesky as any enemy she and Rusev had conquered in their short time in the WWE. Pesky and annoying and oh-so-inconvenient. She hadn't time to feel this way. She hadn't the time or the patience or the need to feel this way, and yet she was sitting here, trying to fight off her musings with the feeblest of mechanisms.
Lana had always held a certain amount of pride about having a poker face envied by many, and she was doubly grateful for it now, all things considered. Anytime she and Rusev and a few of their friends were to play said game, she'd end up beating the lot of them without so much as a bead of sweat adorning her smooth brow. Even now, the memory made a smug smile break across her normally calm exterior. However, that smile was short-lived, as soon as she recalled the reasoning behind her tangled thoughts.
Him, she thought. The word said it all. So simple, so succinct. It was enough.
Or, it should have been.
Really, Lana could not think of enough words to accurately describe Chris Jericho.
It was an almost embarrassing thing to think about, that this man was not so easily categorized, that he seemed to break every single preconceived notion she had ever had.
Oh, that man, he seems barbarous and uncouth.
Oh, that man, he is just a large child, with no tact.
Oh, that man, he is completely and utterly useless.
With each thought that crossed her mind, he would do something to subvert her claims, something that would leave her surprisingly shocked and unable to respond. And, when she was able to somehow come up with a retort, it lacked the bite and verve she had intended. It lacked spirit.
It embarrassed her.
She was reminded of the moment he accused her and Rusev of having an affair; it was so sudden and brutal it was almost like a punch to the gut, although his voice had been light, airy, nonchalant. She had floundered for words, suddenly more aware of Rusev's presence than she had ever been, suddenly more aware of Jericho's presence than she had ever been, and her response was lackluster and stumbling, damning her for something that had never happened, as she devolved into a shrieking mess while he mocked her.
Somehow, errantly, in the muddled mess of her thoughts, came, Does he really think that?
It was a stupid question. One that she didn't really care about at the time until she analyzed it over and over, pondering over the exact inflection she had thought it with. She was almost stunned when the question floated across her subconscious, piercing through whatever she had planned on saying before.
And then there were the snide remarks she got afterward, backstage. The wolf-whistles and the chuckles and the people patting Rusev on the back. And then Rusev glaring at them like a man possessed, snarling like an animal. Lana didn't think she'd ever been so grateful for The Bulgarian Brute.
But then she had passed Chris Jericho on his way to the locker room, and it had been like all the air had been sucked from her body. He didn't gloat at his verbal victory, he didn't try to make any more jokes. The only response he gave her was a quirk of his lips, a playful gesture that somehow made her feel as if she were drowning in the most pleasant way. Then he had walked past her, nearly brushing her arm as he did so, setting her alight without even touching her.
It turned out, that was just the beginning.
Now, when he would pass her backstage, he would make a snide comment, just to get a rise out of her. The comments themselves would never be hateful - they were more of an annoyance, really. Some would be the equivalent of silly little observations more at home on a kindergarten playground, while others would be so clever and witty and insightful that she had to pause for a moment to drink them in. That was the enigma that was Chris Jericho, she supposed. One never knew what one was getting with him.
Lana kind of hated it, but she also kind of loved it.
As their interactions increased, she found herself looking forward to them. She found herself actively searching for him in the crowd, at attention to hear even the faintest intonations of his voice. It seemed like he'd wait until she had completely given up hoping to see him when he'd finally appear, a quick quip and a smirk to start things up again. And it was like this, almost like clockwork, almost like a familiar dance, as the two fell back into their usual pattern.
At least, until today.
He hadn't been around for a while, which was a usual thing for him considering how busy he was with everything going on in his life. With his silly band and his silly friends and his silly writing career. Lana had at least looked forward - in an almost begrudging manner - to seeing him again at some point, at least, until she found out his latest contract was expiring, and soon.
The blonde Russian found herself so distressed that it led her here, away from prying eyes, in the back room of their current venue, tapping her fingers and biting her lip and warring within herself. It was such a stupid, girlish thing to do, worrying over something as simple as a man leaving. It made her feel foolish. She had better things to do, after all. She had to worry about Rusev and his current feud with John Cena. She had to worry about keeping the United States Championship belt around his waist. She had no time to worry about frustrating Canadians and the strange fascination they brought with them -
"Hey."
If Lana was grateful for anything, it was her lack of a startle reflex - had she been particularly skittish, she would have jumped right out of her heels.
Slowly, all the while keeping her face a calm mask, Lana turned. As soon as her eyes met his, a strange sense of relief washed over her - relief that was quickly replaced with an uncanny dread.
"What do you want?" she said, snapping more harshly than originally intended.
Chris Jericho only looked at her with a smile on his face. His hands were in the pockets of a tattered leather jacket, a pair of well-fitting jeans hung from his hips, and that ridiculous scarf he was so fond of was slung around his neck. His eyes were strangely soft as he looked at her, as if he knew something she did not. That was another thing Lana disliked about the man - he made her feel foolish. All the time.
"I forgot how cordial you were, Lana," he said, and she found herself leaning closer to him as his voice caressed the syllables of her name.
Lana tried to find it within herself to snap at him, to treat him to a horrid insult that was typical of The Ravishing Russian, but she suddenly felt tired. Tired and drained and just over everything. She ran a hand along her hair, pulled back primly into her usual flawless bun, and sighed.
Instead of the insult she wanted to fire at him, she was blunt in another way, a way that was more effective in getting what she wanted. An answer. "Why are you here, Mr. Jericho?"
"I've told you to call me Chris," he chided, not unkindly, that smirk still on his lips.
She wrinkled her nose at the intimacy of it, hating to want it so. "And I have told you to - "
"Shut tup!" he crowed, an eerie mimicry of her voice. "I know, I know."
Lana scowled at him.
He waved his hand as if in dismissal. She found her gaze focused on his fingers, slender and graceful, and the tattoo that adorned his hand. Scowling deeper, she looked away with a huff.
"I had actually been looking for you," he said, his voice soft, softer than she'd ever heard it.
"And why is that?" she asked, a strange tone of accusation punctuating the question.
He didn't say anything, only smiled at her as he held out a small piece of paper, lifting his eyebrows in her direction as if signaling for her to take it. Lana eyed the paper curiously, wondering if it was some kind of joke on his part, before taking the item between her thumb and forefinger and looking at it as if it contained the most vile disease known to man.
In a way, it did. On the paper was, scribbled in nearly illegible handwriting, his name and phone number.
Lana felt the urge to throw her head back and laugh. She stamped it down, however, and quirked her brow at him in a way that would make The Rock jealous. "And this is for..."
"For anything, really," he said, somewhat nonchalantly. "I know you've probably heard that I'm leaving soon...and, I guess, some part of me would feel weird if I didn't do this."
Despite herself, Lana's heart had lodged itself firmly in her throat. She stared at him, moving her icy gaze down to the paper in her hands, and delicately inhaled. "Some part of you..."
"The part of me that enjoys your company," he said, giving her a sly smile. "Which, really, is the majority of me."
"Majority?" she breathed.
This caused his smile to widen. "Shut tup."
Lana couldn't hide the smile that came over her face, even as he mocked her.
"So, I suppose this means you want to talk to me."
"You want to talk to me, too, Lana," he pointed out.
She felt the argument starting to bubble up in her throat, but knew that it would sound false as soon as it left her lips, so she just leaned back in her seat, sighing again, the piece of paper crinkling slightly as she held it between her fingers.
"I expect you to text me with your number, just so I can bother you. It's rather fun, if you haven't realized."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll be deprived of The Ayatollah - "
Lana slapped his arm as if to quiet him. "Shut tup."
His responding grin was toothy and oddly charming, and he leaned forward, dangerously close to her, before pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. She froze, fingers digging into the arms of her chair, an electric shock running through her bones. The moment seemed to last forever, as simple as it was, before he pulled away and gave her a smile.
"You'll be hearing from me, Lana, regardless," were his last words to her as he left her, stunned speechless, the piece of paper dangling from her fingertips.
That night in the privacy of her hotel room, Lana stared at her phone, icy blue eyes unsure. His phone number stared back at her. It had been like this for an hour or so, this war within herself was something she could not win. It was a stalemate, her better judgement battling with what she really wanted.
In the end, she sent him a simple message, one that said, "Hello, you imbecile."
That was safe. That wasn't out of character. She even insulted him.
His reply took less time than she expected.
"Nice to hear from you, Lana." Punctuated with a smiley face. Of course he'd text with a smiley face.
It was in that moment that Lana realized she was also smiling. She tried to force the corners of her mouth into a frown, but was unable to do so.
Sometimes, she felt he must have tricked her. Somewhere along the line, he must have done something to fool her into feeling this way. It was impossible to think about, that she had actually developed these feelings for him - whatever they were - on her own, of her own will.
However, as Lana continued to converse with him throughout the night, she felt that - fooled or not - she wouldn't have it any other way.
End.