Author's Note: This fic contains extreme slashy goodness. If that's not your idea of a good time, turn away now. For those of you who enjoy a a smokin hot slice of slash, here are a few suggestions before proceeding. Open a window... Turn on a fan... Get a frosty cold beverage... Then ease back your computer chairs and enjoy!

All The Games You Play…

Jeff Hardy was going to get Chris killed. Jericho was sure of that. Sure right down to his gym socks. Unfortunately, voicing his concerns was about as effective as pissing on a wildfire.

"If he catches us," whispered Chris. "Kane will snap our necks." He rubbed his own neck out of agitation. "We'll be lucky if it's the only thing he does."

Unmoved by Chris' plight, Jeff crept further along the hallway. He knew the locker room was down the corridor. He just had to find it. His partner in crime was not helping Jeff's concentration. "Will you hush up?" Jeff scolded. "I'm trying to figure something out up here. If you're so afraid, why don't you take your punk ass back to the hotel?"

They were harsh words, but Jeff needed Chris. And the only way he could get Jericho to stay was to put the size of his grapefruits into doubt.

The ploy worked.

"I'm no punk ass, Hardy," huffed Chris. He followed closely behind Jeff. "But I'm no fool, either. If we get caught, we'll be tasting the Big Red Machine's boot leather for the next two months. And no amount of ketchup will make it more appetizing."

Jeff glanced sideways at Chris. "What in the blue blazes are you going on about?"

"I dunno… Maybe the fear of getting my ass reamed has made me delirious."

It was sheer force of will that kept the smirk off of Jeff's face. It did not, however, stop him from blurting, "I thought the whole point of this was so you could get reamed by Kane. Or is it rimmed? I forget."

Chris froze, unable to take another step. He was walking with a madman. All common sense told him to run – not walk – to the parking lot, get into his rental, and drive as far away from Jeff Hardy as a full tank of gas would take him.

The plan was insane, the source of information suspect, and the likelihood of either one of them coming out alive slimmer than a Slim Jim.

Again, Chris attempted to reason with the younger of the Hardy brothers. "You are basing all this on a rumor. Unverifiable and most likely untrue. Why don't we just call it a night? Quit while we still have our heads?"

"It is not a rumor!" Jeff spun on his heels to face Chris. His voice reverberated down the empty hallway. So much for the element of surprise. "It is scientifically plausible. More than plausible, even."

Jeff was insane, reasoned Jericho. Yet Chris was no better. Standing in the hallway of a nearly deserted arena, searching for a locker room they had no business going into, Chris was a willing participant. Jeff hadn't twisted his arm. Hadn't put him in a figure-four leg lock. The innuendo had piqued Chris' curiosity just as much as Jeff's.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Spurred onward by inquisitiveness, Chris sighed, "Let's just get this over with."

"Fine," said Jeff. He continued to lead the way down the corridor.

"But if, for whatever reason, I don't make it out alive," Chris started, "make sure they bury me with my Intercontinental Championship belt."