Crack! Chris didn't hear the announcers, or the refs or any single one of the thousand upon thousands of fans that filled the sold out arena. All he could hear was the sound of HIS hand connecting with the face of his boss, who some of the fans had, just seconds earlier been bowing to as if he we were some sort of a God. Vince was stunned. It took him a few moments longer than usual to recover. A God? "Why don't you screw with me you godamn coward?" Chris slapped Vince again, pulling his hand back when he felt the full force of the impact. There was no doubt in Chris' mind that his handprint would be clearly visible on the Chariman's face in a half hour or so, but he didn't regret it one bit.

For years Chris had tried to reason with himself—tried to see BOTH sides of the problem while neither participant defended their position. Sure Vince had done some downright shitty things in his own time, on the other hand, his experience with Victoria had taught him that even SHE could have a bit of a streak in her—when she let her guard down. Whatever the case or circumstances may be didn't matter to Chris anymore.

She needs a shove, I'll give her a shove. Chris fumed on his way back from his in-ring promo with her Father. He was half tempted to punch the brick wall out of sheer frustration at the entire mess. Christopher and Christopher alone understood exactly what that "resignation letter" and consequent disappearance of one slightly auburn haired, blue eyed Victoria Kennedy Hart-McMahon was all about. Was it possible that none of the Monkeys backstage could see what HE saw so clearly from the beginning? She didn't want out. All she wanted was for somebody, somewhere to stop kissing their ass long enough to pay her SOME sort of attention. She wanted help! And not even the sanctimonious, Shawn Michaels, who had established himself to be the resident Victoria McMahon expert was willing to hold his hand out.

Jericho had been in an exceptionally foul mood since Victoria had disappeared. Unfortunately, getting into a fistfight with her Father, and proceeding to whack her God Father over his head with that Bible that was constantly being shoved in everyone's face only added to the downright foulness of his mood.

Chris sighed. He hadn't been able to shake his customary habit of dropping by costuming at least once a night—if for nothing else than to tease the living hell out of his friend. On his way to the trainer's office, he had passed the side hallway where the other two women that worked alongside Victoria were stationed. A third station was painfully vacant. Chris swallowed his heart. He secretly kept on hoping she'd appear.

His eyes ached as the sunlight hit his face. 'I thought I closed the godamn drapes, last night.' With a cranky moan, he rolled over, pulling the covers far over his head. Perhaps he had been a bit of a hermit since his divorce was finalized, but, he reasoned, it wasn't completely devoid of perks. He winced as he felt a cold liquid trickle down his neck. "What the fuc…." His first instinct was that his dog had decided to use his gorgeous body for a common toilet. In vain, he tried to swat away the frigid liquid that was assaulting him at a much higher level than before.

"I let the dog out when I got here." That tone. He wasn't a match for that perfect mix of strength and tender comfort that only SHE could give. He closed his eyes. There had to be an explanation for this—of course! He was still dreaming! Or hung-over from the drinking binge of the night before. Or, as was the more likely case, a mixture of all three. Yet, he'd be damned if the icy liquid didn't keep coming! "You know I'll pour this whole thing out, Christopher." Through the blankets and sheets that protected him, he could hear her foot tapping away at the carpet—and she was loosing patience from the sound of it. He decided to ignore her for another moment, if only out of a sort of perverse pleasure. Chris loved the fire she showed when she was angry. "And I know you sleep in the nude…so if you don't want me to…." She sniffed, ever so slightly. This was a rare opportunity. Chris' ego refused not to live up to the challenge.

Ever so the sexy beast he was, he rolled over on his back, folding his arms behind his head and smirked at the figure before him. Damn. It didn't phase her. It may have earned him a temporary reprieve from the pitcher of ice water she held in her delicate hand, Victoria didn't flinch. While most women wouldn't hesitate at the chance to throw themselves at him, this one stood before him, barely any makeup on, hair pulled back in a messy bun, dressed in a hoodie and jeans ready to throw something very different on HIM. She had once admitted, later laughing it off, that she didn't find herself attractive at all. She wasn't skinny like the other girls and didn't have their perfect complexions. But for some reason, God help him, he was attached to her. Snickering, he eyed the pitcher of water before looking back to it's holder.

She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and Christopher told himself that she might have actually had the right idea bringing that pitcher of ice water with her. "You'll….join me?" That had come out sounding a little more hopeful than he intended.

His grin broadened as she rolled her eyes. She held the pitcher perilously close to the verge of spilling—all over him. "Yes…that's exactly why I got on a plane, flew almost three thousand miles on MY time off…and came—here?" It was her turn to snicker. "To sleep with the almighty, Geriatric Christopher Jericho?"

"Well…you know…." He started to peel back the covers as if he were going to let her in. Instead of glaring at him, she returned the smirk and sat down on the edge of the bed. Holy SHIT! Was Victoria ACTUALLY attempting to come on to him?

"How ever could you have guessed my intentions?" She teased him, leaning in as if she were going to kiss him. She was close enough that all he would have to do is lean up a bit more and….

"GODAMNIT, BUNNY!" As quick as the nick name he had given her, he shot up out of the gigantic bed, grabbing a blanket to cover himself while she stifled giggles. How often he forgot that she was, like it or not, related to her sister. Even Stephanie, however, despite al the years of on-screen banter they shared, knew her place. Victoria, on the other hand, either wasn't aware or simply didn't think there were any lines for her to cross.

Chris hopped around the room, trying to shake off the effects of one well-placed pitcher of water (Victoria had actually managed to pour it all over his lap, behind her BACK, despite pretending to be enamored with his lovely self). "It's about time you got your raggedy, Canadian ass out of bed…" She stood up. Just exactly where had his bathrobe disappeared to, this time? And, better yet, how had she gotten into his house?

Quickly robbing up, he eyed the youngest McMahon who was, at the present moment, very much occupied with examining the state of her manicure. He raked his hands through his hair. If it had been anyone else…male or female—who dared to show their face, Chris would have told them where to shove it. But it wasn't. It was HER.

This must be his payback for the countless number of hours Chris spent bitching to Victoria about his ex wife. She hadn't judged him, or tried to give him her two cents worth, as everyone else he broached the subject with seemed to do. Victoria simply listened to what he had to say, occasionally uttering gentle words of comfort. Hell, she had even gone so far as to help him out with "date-night" ideas when they had been in Calgary. Why she continued the friendship was beyond Chris' comprehension.

"Jesus Christ, Jericho! Are you listening to a WORD I'm saying?!?" The self proclaimed "cerebral assassin" fumed, pacing behind the trainer, who, hard at work cleaning the gashes on Chris' right hand, was oblivious to the two Superstars. Chris quickly snapped out of his thoughts.

"No, Paul. That would be your long haired, Bible thumping, little partner—" Biting his lip, Chris replied still distracted as he winced, feeling the frigid hydrogen peroxide, and it's accompanying sting. Just exactly WHO is responsible, doesn't matter anymore. After all, was HE responsible for writing the scripts? For once in his career, he thanked Fate for providing him with such a properly timed storyline.

By far the more sizable of the two men, Paul (HHH) stared at his blond-haired Canadian friend incredulously. Prone to bouts of loosing his temper, the thought that Chris Jericho—out of any guy in the locker room would turn his anger, randomly, towards Shawn Michaels, let alone DARE to start shit with the almighty Vincent Kennedy McMahon, blew him away. The fact that he had interrupted what seemed to be a rather heated conversation between the Canadian and Shawn, earlier that day, hadn't fazed Paul. Shawn Michaels was, despite all the preaching and Bible thumping, still and would always be Shawn Michaels.

The way Chris glowered at him forced the mighty Champion to step back and put some distance between himself and the wounded lion. The trainer had finished caring for the gash on Chris' hand, and Paul thought that maybe, just maybe he'd have a better chance trying to reason with Chris—in private. Chris obviously wasn't going to volunteer anything.

"I still don't understand what the HELL you're doing here H." Chris swore to himself that he would go through Paul too, if he so much as tried to insert himself into this mess. At least I don't need a woman to have job security. Outwardly smirking, he reveled in his opponent's dumbfounded expression. One twitch of that bulbous nose would have Chris telling H exactly what he thought—on that account. "Did your Daaaady send you in here so I wouldn't beat his ass—again?" Wisely, the trainer decided to make his exit as Chris started to rub his eyes and feign baby-like crying noises.

"Cute, Chris. Really cute." Paul's voice was becoming edgy as he shut the door behind the fleeing trainer. Paul wasn't completely sure what had crawled up Jericho's butt and had proceeded to die a slow and painful death, for the last couple of weeks, but Jericho was grating on his nerves. He rested against the door, barring Jericho from leaving. Paul crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited—for the reason to Jericho's recent psychotic break. Generally speaking, he liked the kid. Jericho wasn't his favourite, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was a hard worker, and talented—Paul had to respect those qualities, despite the gargantuan ego that, so many times, rubbed people the wrong way—especially those that weren't used to Chris' personality.

Chris remained smugly silent, instead, choosing to raise an eyebrow at the look of concentration on the "Game's" face. He wasn't sure if he had evvvvvver seen H attempt to concentrate as much as he was doing now. Chris snickered. How Paul would shit his pants if he knew that he had gone after the WRONG woman.

Paul stroked his goatee. Something about Jericho's recent change of attitude struck him as being familiar. A knock at the door snapped both men out of their thoughts, and Paul moved aside to let the person enter.