Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

Summary: Suffering from a lack of inspiration during the penning of his newest autobiography, Chris attempts to write something fictional. Inadvertantly, he realizes what he has written reveals more about himself - and his feelings for a certain McMahon - than is appropriate. JerichoStephanie, slight AU

Well, I've finally come up with a chapter fic idea for this marvelous pairing. I'm suddenly very inspired to write for this pair. Not sure if this is going to be a very long fic, but I'll see! This is AU in the fact that neither Chris or Steph are married. It's probably going to be fun and silly and whatnot, that's for sure. I do hope that y'all enjoy this!

The Pageturner
Chapter One: Stop and Stare

Chris Jericho sighed as he ran a hand through his hair.

The environment around him was a perfect setting for writing. Calm, quiet, peaceful. No people shouting at him, no other Superstars that would distract him from his goal. He knew that some people could get work done in those kinds of situations, but he was not one of them. That was one of the perks about working a show in your hometown - you got to stay in your own bed and finish some extracurricular work.

And, apparently, in spite of the perfect conditions, he still couldn't get things done.

It was almost infuriating, he found, that no matter how long he sat in front of his laptop, he just couldn't bring himself to write.

Maybe it was because of the previous two novels he had penned. Maybe he had spent all of his time and creative energy into those two books, and now he was burnt out. But that couldn't be true, could it? He had so many other stories to tell, so many other things he wanted to share. And, truly, he wanted to share these things. So, it wasn't a lack of drive - Chris had never lacked that particular part of the human spirit.

Then, what was it?

Thinking about just what was wrong with him was something that he didn't really want to focus on. Then again, if he didn't focus on it, he couldn't pinpoint the problem, and if he didn't pinpoint the problem.

Well, simply, he was screwed.

Groaning, he leaned back in his chair, just so it scooted back just a bit from the desk at which he sat. It seemed he had done everything he could to get back into the writing kind of mood. He had watched a few of his older wrestling performances, eager to relive old memories. He had called a few people from bands that he was good friends with. He even listened to the new Fozzy album several times, trying to relive when they recorded the thing.

And then, when reliving things didn't seem to work, he tried to distract himself.

Chris found that, when he was trying to write and got stuck, if he went and distanced himself from the material for a bit, he was able to come back and think of even more things to write about, in the end.

He had tried that, too. Chris had gone to a movie, eaten lunch, taken a nap, watched television, called one of his friends from high school, read a book, played some video games...

But none of it had helped.

So here he sat, completely and utterly discouraged, staring at the word document on his laptop that held less than was acceptable by anyone's standards - especially his own.

He tapped his fingers on the keyboard, typing out a line of nonsensical words and then backspacing over them. Maybe the activity would allow him to find some kind of motivation to write, inspiration. As if the words that didn't make any sense in context would immediately become something that would click in his head. And then he would gasp, a lightbulb coming on in his head, and he would be able to write without problems -

But so far, the only line Chris had written was, What's up with this? You're a dumbass, Jericho.

Because, clearly, degrading oneself was the key to finding inspiration.

Chris sighed as he backspaced over that particular line and leaned back in his chair, trying desperately to will some words onto the screen with his mind. As if those words would be any better than what he was capable of typing out. He was sure that his mind was a blank page as well.

He rubbed his face with his hands, as if that would help put some ideas in his head.

A silly little laugh escaped him. I could write a chapter about my epic case of writers' block.

Inhaling a bit too deeply, he held in the breath for as long as he could before slowly exhaling.

Was there something that he learned in one of his English courses in high school? Something to facilitate writing? Chris leaned forward, pressing his elbows to the table and leaning his face on his hands. Right. His teacher used to say that maybe writing something else - a random short scene, or even a few paragraphs of something completely unrelated to what he was currently writing about - would help the ideas for his other project flow easier.

Seeing as he'd tried every other technique available, Chris rose from his seat, made his way to the kitchen to grab an apple, and then found himself back at his desk, feeling somewhat renewed as he started to type.

Surprisingly, as soon as he started this exercise, the words flowed freely. He wasn't sure what was driving him exactly, but whatever it was, it certainly was refreshing. The only sounds coming from his room was the steady tap, tap, tap of his fingers against the keyboard and his occasional humming.

About two hours later, he had filled ten pages with his words. Leaning back with a smile crossing his face, he placed his hands behind his head and swiveled a bit in his chair. He didn't know why, but suddenly he felt a hell of a lot better - maybe even well enough to start writing on his other, serious project.

Just before he could save the document he had just spent so much time working on, a knock at the door sounded. Not expecting anyone's visit today, Chris was pleasantly surprised. He rose from his seated position and made his way to the front door.

In the process of writing, he realized, the afternoon had turned into evening. Where his house had once been lit by the sun, it was now dark. Chris flipped on a few lights as he went to answer the door.

As he peeked through the peep-hole, Chris felt a grin overtake his face. Opening the door and stepping away so that the person could enter his humble abode, Chris said, "Hey, Christian, how are you?"

Christian looked at him, smiling cordially. "Good. You holed up in your writing cocoon?"

"Maybe," Chris admitted. Though he wasn't writing what he was supposed to, he was still writing. So it wasn't an outright lie.

"Why don't you take a break from this and go out drinking with us?"

"Tempting," Chris replied, the devil on one shoulder warring with the angel on the other.

Christian stepped forward, nudging Chris with his shoulder. "You say no, I'm gong to go delete everything you just worked on."

Though an empty threat, Chris just sighed in false exasperation. "Fiiiine. You got me."

Besides, he could really use a good drink right now.

Christian grinned at him, proud that he got his way. Then, he laughed. "You might want to go change."

Chris looked down at himself, completely forgetting that he had been pajama-clad the entire day. Laughing at his attire, he ran a hand over his hair and moved to his bedroom to change. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay, princess."

Chuckling, Chris closed the door to his bedroom behind him. He wasn't really concerned with what he was to wear on this random outing, so he just picked a clean shirt as well as a pair of jeans. Grabbing his leather jacket from his closet and slinging his arms through it, Chris nudged the bedroom door open and stepped out into the hallway.

Christian was gone.

"Yo, Christian?" he asked to the empty space in front of him. Had he been hallucinating? Had he been in front of his computer for so long that he had started to imagine ways out of his writing induced hole?

Searching for his friend, he knocked on the bathroom door. Nothing.

Looked in the living room. Nothing.

Peeked in the kitchen. Nothing.

Sighing, Chris figured Christian had already left for some godforsaken reason, but that was before he moved to his writing room and saw the aforementioned man seated in his chair, leaning forward onto his desk with his chin propped in his hand. If he could see Christian's face, it would show that his fellow Canadian was enraptured. Whether it was a good or bad thing, Chris was not certain.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stepping forward. Christian didn't answer.

He knew Christian was joking at the time, but he had the sudden and irrational fear that he was going to delete everything - and by everything he meant the bits and pieces of nothing that made up his third book.

Before Chris could ask the inevitable question, Christian started to chuckle - a bit in disbelief, a bit in mirth.

"This is pretty good, man," he said, jabbing a thumb at the screen as he swiveled around in his chair to face Chris.

"But..." Chris said, voicing the unspoken word his friend left off.

"But nothing," Christian said. Though, Chris knew a lie when he heard one. He gave him a glare that could peel the paint off of the walls until Christian said the very words that Chris would never be able to get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.

"I just wasn't aware you were in love with the boss' daughter."

If Chris had been drinking anything, this would have been a fine moment for a spit take.

A few moments of stunned silence, then a rasping, "What are you talking about?" echoed through the place.

Again, Christian jabbed his finger in the direction of the screen. "This."

Morbidly curious, Chris leaned forward and skimmed what he had written. A few phrases came out and assaulted him without remorse.

"...long, soft brown hair..."

"...piercing blue eyes..."

"...composed, collected, clever..."

"...however, always with an insult at the ready..."

As Chris stared at these phrases, he tried to reason with himself that this was a coincidence. That these adjectives and nouns and verbs, linked together somewhat haphazardly, meant nothing.

They did not mean he was in love with anyone, especially with Stephanie McMahon.

But then a nagging little seed of doubt planted itself in the back of his mind.

Because, why else would he have written a piece that was apparently all about her?

Stepping away, not knowing what to do with himself, Chris turned around and started to leave his house. He heard Christian flit out of the chair and stand up, following him to the door.

"What are you doing?"

"I am going to go drink all of the alcohol in the world."

End Chapter One.