Ummm...so I'd intended to write the prologue for "Brink" (Borderline's sequel) today, to usher in the New Year. And somehow I ended up with this instead.

To an extent, I was going with the flow as far as format. But now I've decided to do a present chapter, from the 3rd person (focusing on whomever is more relevant at the time), then a past chapter from Stephanie's POV. The rest of the story will alternate like that, until past and present meet and then we'll see where I go!

The reviews totally made me LOL, by the way. Let me know what ya'll think about this installment.

Note: if you see a whole sentence in italics it means that was a piece of an actual prior conversation of theirs. Or a thought Stephanie is directing towards whomever she's having a conversation with.


Stephanie

The night rolls on as planned.

During tonight's hall of fame ceremony, everything went as it should have. Coordinators, greeters, sound technicians, cameramen, presenters, award accepters (really, I couldn't think of anything better. A sad testament to how inspired I was from this evening) were all in place. All with well delivered hand gestures, speeches and jokes.

Not to be left out of this perfected script – we, the audience, smiled and laughed on cue. Looked pensive when it was warranted, nostalgic when it seemed appropriate. We cocked our heads and giggled as if we were all both curiously interested as well as amused. But only when invisibly instructed to do so.

Yes, we all had parts to play. And maybe, just maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. To make a good impression for television. Make the audience watching at home feel something. You know? We can never truly hold on to anything for any amount of time. At best, it's all about the memories. Creating them. Experiencing them. Chasing the good ones down as they run away from us. As if we are predators and the pleasant times are our prey. We hunt for those memories…and when we catch them – even if only for a moment – we demand more.

More, always more. Never satisfied.

That's what Paul says about me tonight.

It wasn't enough that I'd suggested we stay at the hotel that our coworkers were. That I'd convinced him to hit the heated pool with me last night. That I'd encouraged him to participate in brief interviews when all he wanted to do was escape the media frenzy and relax. Now, he figured I had nagged him into his current attire. In my mind, I thought I was being complimentary. Hey babe, why not this one? It really looks amazing on you.

But he'd taken it as an insult. So my appearance isn't acceptable to you unless I'm wearing shit that you handpick for me?

I was stunned. That's not what I-

Interrupted. Save it. Whatever, I don't even care.

Then why? WHY did you bother starting that quick, but intense fight? Asshole. But I didn't say that because it's pointless. Everything I say to the man as of late is perceived negatively. You'd think that he had somehow been the one to receive the unstable pregnancy hormones and mood swings, instead of me.

In public, we've disguised our deteriorating marriage better than this. We play our parts. We're both proudly beaming spouses, always doting affection upon the other when interviewed. We give compliments and praise. We drone on about how wonderful and loving the other is. He'll put his arm around me and I'll lean in to him. And for the few seconds or minutes that the cameras flash and record, the lie is believable.

The lie being: Paul and Stephanie Levesque, happily married couple that has yet to lose that newlywed glow and giddiness.

The truth is: Paul and Stephanie Levesque, married couple that can't have a simple conversation in private without it turning into an argument or perceived mind-fuck attack.

Our limo comes to a smooth halt and the door is pulled open in an instant. The driver steps aside and Paul hops out first. He clears his throat, nodding respectfully at the driver before turning to me. He holds his hand out for mine and I oblige him. His other hand comes to rest on the small of my back as I'm safely escorted to the curb. Dear husband, the thorough pretender you are. God forbid anyone see you allowing your very pregnant wife to get out of the limo and enter the hotel without assistance. It would be downright inhumane.

I've always loved Paul's chivalry. I loved it when it was genuine and done because he truly cared about (and then finally, loved) me. Now it's just like a cruel inside joke. Or something. It's becoming increasingly difficult to identify any of my own feelings towards him that are not one of the following: disappointment, rage, longing...more rage.

We enter our hotel room in silence, where once there used to be casual and jovial chatter. In separate corners (worlds, symbolically speaking) we undress without even sneaking a flirtatious peek at the other.

As I get down to just my undergarments, it seems to occur to me that my sleepwear is on the other side of the room. Paul's side, as I'd ominously labeled it in my mind. I imagined myself feeling horribly self-conscious and not wanting to cross this barrier...vulnerable and exposed – my pregnancy hormones had perhaps gone haywire, he would think. My next actions would say that I didn't want him to stare at me if I walked across the room in my lacy little black, matching underwear. Whether it was to admire or loathe them I didn't want him looking at my ass, legs, arms or anything else.

Just…don't fucking look at me at all. Don't look at me, don't touch me…much like his behavior at tonight's ceremony. The great majority of the time he'd sat with his hands clasped, the arm closest to me, turned in the opposite direction. Every time I glanced up and over at him, I never found him looking back at me. It's like I wasn't even worth pretending for anymore. That would change. By the time we'd left the event, I'd decided as much.

So I masked my true motives and prepared to play the part I knew so well. Instead of walking and risking him seeing too much, I meekly asked, "Can you…my clothes…" I trail off as he looks up, gesturing my hand towards my neatly folded pile.

"Sure," he says with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

I stared at him, seemingly dazed. The woman whose attraction had not at all waned despite a recent lack of action. I inserted myself into this role seamlessly. Then he was standing in front of me, holding out my clothes as some kind of a peace offering.

Paul looks at me…and for the first time in weeks, I see my husband. Like, the man I married. His eyes are kind, sympathetic, probing. The polar opposite of the annoyed, disinterested, insulted hazel orbs I'd started to become annoyingly accustomed to. His mouth twists in consideration as I accept the clothing and begin to slip it on. It's not much – a tank top and some pajama pants with cute penguins floating about icicles, snowflakes and whatnot. I'm well aware that it's currently spring…but the pants are cute and it wasn't like Paul would notice or care anyway. That's what he'd think I was thinking when I selected the sleepwear. He was an intelligent man who picked up on those kinds of things - on symbolism, ironies, metaphors. All the little shit he didn't know I did on purpose to remind him of something undesirable that he'd said or done.

Because it always made him feel guilty and compelled him to behave better. Always.

"About tonight," he begins, unsurely. "I shouldn't have lost my temper with you like that."

No, you shouldn't have. Especially not over something so trivial and ridiculous. But he did. And so I nod at his conclusion. One thing I can say for my husband is that he has never actually yelled at me. Not once.

"And…" he continues, his fingers twitching. I can tell that he'd like to shove his hands into imaginary pockets. "The way I ignored you at the ceremony, in the limo…it…I mean I'm…I hope you understand that I didn't do it to hurt you."

There it is. The closest thing I'm going to get to an actual apology. He can't say that he's sorry. Because sorry was a regret and regret meant that you'd done something wrong. And Paul, who was constantly accused of wrongdoing since the day he entered the wrestling world, couldn't be that guy. The guy that made a mistake. The guy that hurt someone.

He'd been veering into that territory when he mentioned losing his temper. So instead, he's trying to subtly make this my fault. If my feelings are hurt, it's simply because I didn't understand that wasn't his intention. And that's supposed to make everything right, but these ill attempts at non-apology (this is the most fucked up sentence ever, but at least this is all in my head) never solve anything. But that's okay.

"I understand."

This makes him smile at me cutely and draw me into him. He kisses me full on the lips, passionately – like we had always done until just a few weeks ago. His arms wrap around my waist.

I smile against his mouth. He thinks we're sharing the same emotion, I'm sure of it. I'm also sure that he thinks wrong. But that doesn't matter.

Electricity hums between us as we move towards the bed. Very glad I picked the matching, lacy underwear.