Eep. So sorry this took so long to get up. I had some major writer's block while trying to figure out how to start this.

Thank you to all who reviewed. I read each one and they help motivate me. Thank you again!


The hotel room door clicked shut, cutting off all traces of light and leaving CM Punk in darkness. He let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cool wood and taking a minute to enjoy the lonely silence. Slowly, he shuffled in the pitch black, blindly feeling around for his bed.

"Shit." He muttered, wincing after bumping his shin on the nightstand. Finally, his fingers brushed against the softness of the quilt.

Punk plopped down on the bed, face first.

His mind was spinning. Jericho's words played in a loop in his mind. He wanted to brush it off as some passing mark, but he knew it wasn't. No one just says something like that. Punk's stomach tightened as he remembered how close Chris's lips were to brushing his cheek. He scowled, rolling over on his side and snatching a pillow, which he promptly shoved his face into.

How could Jericho have shifted from hostile to suave and…flirty? Punk groaned. That word didn't seem to work, yet he knew it was the only one he could use. Yes, Chris Jericho, the bane of Phil Brook's existence, was flirting. The signs were all there; the way his voice seemed to flow out of his mouth, the way his hand lingered slightly on his own.

And his words. Especially his words.

He didn't know what angle Chris was playing, but Punk wasn't going to fall for it. If Jericho expected him to flounder at the innuendo behind his words like a lonely teenage boy, then he had another thing coming. Punk smirked, sitting upright.

"Fuck him." The straight edge declared suddenly, propping himself up against the headboard and turning on the television.

Staring idly at the screen, Punk let his thoughts drift away.

A Pepsi commercial blared on the screen.

Punk touched his lips, and couldn't help but wonder if what Chris had said was true.


Chris Jericho didn't bother hiding the smirk on his face as he walked through the lobby of the hotel that most of the wrestlers were roomed in. Everything was falling into place. Slowly, but nonetheless, still falling in place.

Jericho's smirk changed into a dazzling grin as he approached the check-in desk at the end of the wide lobby.

"Hi there." He drawled, leaning over the counter and giving the lady behind the counter a heart-melting stare.

"H-Hello." The tiny brunette employee squeaked. The Canadian held in a snort. If only Punk was this easy to get to.

"Mind giving me my room number? I've forgotten." Chris asked, pouting his lips perfectly. The woman nodded.

"May I have your name?"

Chris smirked, chuckling lowly. This was way too easy.

"CM Punk. I'll either be under that or Phil Brooks."

"Room 373."

Chris nodded, sending the woman a smile before turning on his heel and slipping into the closing elevator doors.

The bing that echoed through the metal box of the elevator told Jericho that he arrived on the floor. The door opend to a brightly-lit hallway, carpeted in tacky green. He scanned the doors before him, eyes falling 373.

Chris cleared his throat, rapping his knuckles against the door. He could hear a bed squeak in the room. The door clicked, swinging open, leaving him face to face with a sleepy-looking Phil Brooks.

"Hi." Chris chirped, flashing his teeth.

Punk's eyes widened as he took in the man before him. No one just knocks on his door to talk, much less Chris Jericho. His lips quirked down into a small frown. What the hell was he doing here?

Chris caught hold of the door as Punk tried to slam in his face.

"Hi." Punk responded finally, sarcasm dripping from his words as he leaned coolly against the doorframe.

"What's up?"

"How'd you get my room number?" Chris almost laughed. It was so like Punk; brash, to the point, and not one to spare another's feelings.

"I got it from the lady at the counter." Punk quirked a brow. "May I come inside?"

"I don't want to get pregnant." Chris faltered, before snorting at the joke. Slipping inside the room, he immediately made himself at home, flopping onto the wrinkled bed.

"That wasn't a yes." Punk protested, eyes flashing in anger. Who did Chris think he was? The dark haired man stepped forward, looming over the man currently sprawled across his mattress. This wasn't going to fly.

He reached out, grabbing hold of the man's ankles and roughly tugging him off the quilt. My bed, bitch, he thought victoriously, hopping onto the mattress. Chris yelped as he tumbled to the floor.

"That's no way to treat a guest."

"You're no guest."

Jericho winced. Punk had shifted from humor –cynical humor, but still humor- to blunt snaps. He was fighting a losing game.

"Punk-"

"Leave."

"Listen to m-"

"Leave."

"I'm serious."

"Leave!"

"Phil."

Punk faltered, No one called him Phil; no one. Especially Chris Jericho. He ground his teeth together, keeping his eyes trained on the t.v. A small smile played on the blonde's lips, and he clambered into the bed beside the man. Punk chose to stay silent, pretending that the other man wasn't even there. Some would say he was pouting, but he'd deny it.

Nearly a half-hour later, Punk finally spoke, his voice quiet with the sleep he knew was going to take over him at anytime.

"Why are you here?" He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

Chris sighed softly, fingers lightly brushing the raven's hair from his face.

"To say I'm sorry. For everything." Punk's deep breathing let him know he had fallen asleep. Grinning, he pulled out his phone, quickly typing a text.

'Plan's underway'


Well, how'd you guys like it?

I'm afraid it's not realistic..What do you guys think?