DISCLAIMER: I do not own Chris Jericho, Shelton Benjamin, or other wrestlers that appear in the following story. They are the property of the actors and actresses that portray them, as well as the WWE.

SPOILERS: Discussion of Highlight Reel from 5-31 Raw.

Flowers for Jericho

CHAPTER FOUR

In general, Chris Jericho saw rookie wrestlers as pesky ants that swarmed his picnic basket. He took great pleasure in crushing them. It was an enormous pity that he befriended one.

"I don't see why you made me come tonight, Junior," Chris grumped for the seventh time as he glared at his companion. With his arms crossed and his body slouching in a folding chair, he painted the picture of absolutely pathetic.

Shelton looked over at the man sharing his dressing room. "How am I not surprised that you're trying to blame this on me?"

"Look at the facts: I don't have a match, I don't have an interview, I don't have any reason to be here," Jericho stated matter-of-factly, counting off on his fingers as he announced his list.

"Those facts are whack." Shelton continued to tape his wrists. "Let me give you the real list: First you hunt me down at the hotel and tell me you have nothing to do. Then you warn me about Randy and Batista going after me tonight as some sort of revenge for last week. And lastly, you follow me to my rental, deeming it necessary to accompany me if only 'to save my rookie neck'." Biting back a chuckle, he set down the athletic tape and gave Chris a serious look. "You're still curious about the girl, aren't you?"

At Shelton's words, Chris scowled and sunk further into the chair. "Since when do I care about a chick?" he retorted.

Of course, Shelton was right. Chris's mind had seized on the growing mystery of his admirer, not allowing him to sleep or think about anything productive. He wondered why she had ditched the marigolds last week; he currently had three decent theories and a dozen crazy ideas on the subject. The theories were as follows:

1. She realized he was watching his dressing room and was unable to deliver the flowers; therefore she chickened out and ditched them by the trash. This was rather improbable; this girl always managed to drop off the flowers before.

2. Trish, trying to make his life even MORE unbearable, somehow found out about the girl, and threatened her. This theory pissed him off only because he couldn't stomach that bitch solving a mystery that had been bothering him for weeks.

3. She saw him flirting with Stacy and threw away his flowers in an angry rage. By far the most appealing theory; plus, it would fit well in the timeline of events. This girl thought she was in love with him, for Pete's sake. Of course she would be act like a jealous idiot if another Diva had her paws all over him.

Another Diva, he caught himself mentally. Every time he contemplated this, he automatically assumed it was another female wrestler, and yet he did not wish to change his thinking. His gut told him that he was right.

His brain, on the other hand, told him he was acting like an idiot. And that he should let the bitch go; her distraction level was at orange, or elevated.

"While you were changing I told Stephanie that you were here, and to keep it on the DL," Shelton's voice broke his thoughts.

Big-mouth rookie, he thought tiredly. "And you did that because…"

"Because you don't have a dressing room. And you never know what deliveries you might get," Shelton said with a wink, knowing that would provoke his friend.

The younger man's words indeed struck a nerve. Rage coursed through his body, and before he realized what he was doing, Chris had Shelton up against the wall, a hand at his throat. "Wrong day to screw with me, Junior," he growled, curling his other hand into a fist. Perhaps a fat lip would teach the kid to keep his mouth shut.

As he reached back to do just that, Chris noticed that there was no fear in Shelton's deep brown eyes. Instead, there was a mixture of humor and understanding. This startled the blond man, distracting him from his task at hand. What is so damn funny?

Shelton fought the urge to smile; instead, he deftly maneuvered his way out of Jericho's grip and moved to his left. "Chill out," he said softly, patting Chris's shoulder before walking past him towards the door. "After all, like you said, it's just a chick." Inwardly, he prayed that this attempt would goad the other man into letting out some of his anger. Although not the recipient of the flowers, Shelton found last week's incident to be both extraordinarily curious and downright shady. A woman who would build up Chris for two weeks before and then crush his already weary spirit was nothing but heartless. It fit the profile of Trish Stratus to a T.

Instead of lashing out at Shelton again, Chris nodded slowly. "You're right," he bit out. Taking a deep breath to calm his jumpy nerves, Chris lowered himself into another chair, all the time mindful of his injured back. "Abso-fucking-lutely right, Benji."

"Benji?" Shelton repeated, but Chris remained silent, staring at a spot on the far wall. The younger man hadn't expected Chris to agree with much, much less fit him with a new nickname. With nothing left to say, and confused as usual, Shelton decided to abandon his friend and try to rustle up some trouble before his match.

When Shelton returned to his locker room, he found Chris in exactly the same position. This wouldn't be unusual, except that nearly an hour had gone by; and being a man who has had his fair share of back injuries, it was literally painful to think of sitting upright in a steel chair for more than five minutes, much less the 90 minutes he had been gone. Retrieving a towel from his bag, Shelton coughed loudly, causing Chris to jump about a mile in the air. "Welcome back, spaceman," he greeted as he wiped the sweat off of him.

Clutching at his back, Chris sent a glare at the younger man. "How was the match, Benji?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Secured my match for Bad Blood," he confirmed, unable to suppress a grin. Slinging the now sweaty towel around his neck, he studied the blond man's face. "So what did you decide?"

"Huh?"

"A man with a back injury doesn't sit still for more than an hour without coming to some sort of decision," Shelton reasoned casually. "Giving up on her?"

Chris was momentarily stunned; he never thought Shelton to be that intuitive. But as the other man's suggestion filtered though his thoughts, his surprise melted into the ever-present agitation. Give up on her; he makes it sound so damn easy, he thought to himself wryly. "I don't know what to do," he moaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Maybe she already gave up on me.

Shelton did not envy the other man's position. He watched as the mystery continued to eat away at Chris's spirit, even after the admirer trashed the flowers last week and put a theoretical halt on any further progress. With no words of wisdom to offer, he grabbed a clean towel and retreated towards the showers. The least he could do was smell better for his distraught companion.

A few minutes later, Stephanie McMahon burst into the dressing room, her hair flying about her face. "Trish and Tomko are in the ring," she spoke between pants. "Talking trash about you. Called you a problem."

That was all Jericho had to hear.

"A problem, eh?" With those fateful words, he rushed to the ring and bravely stood up to the duo.

Unfortunately, his back did not stand up against a much larger, perennially-pissed off Tyson Tomko. Within seconds, it seemed, he was laid out and being helped to the back.

A skirted Shelton met him at the curtain. (While skirts are coming back into men's fashion, due to such blockbuster films such as Troy, Shelton did not wear his to be avant-garde. In fact, he had been enjoying his shower moments earlier when Stephanie came in to inform him about the latest Jericho beat-down.) Batting away the referees, Chris moved to lean against the damp young man. "Beat it, penguins," he growled. "I don't need to see the damn trainer."

Amongst the squawking of the striped midgets, Shelton led the injured Chris back to the locker room. Not a word was exchanged between them; there was no inquiry after Jericho's condition, nor was there a snide remark on Shelton's current fashion statement.

This silence, however, would be short lived. For as they entered Shelton's locker room, they both immediately spotted the foreign object sitting beside Shelton's gym bag.

Well, perhaps not that foreign to Chris, anyway. This was the fourth time in as many weeks.

"You have got to be kidding me," Shelton groaned. Pissed that the mystery flowers could no longer be blamed on Trish, he tightened his grip on the suddenly stiff man and led him closer to the flowers.

Chris's first thought was to throw the flowers away in retaliation of last week. His back was screaming for medical attention, his ego was badly wounded from another Trish trouncing, and his brain was about to overload from collective stress. He didn't want them. He didn't need them.

It was also a widely known fact that Chris Jericho was a glutton for punishment. So neither man was surprised when Chris reached out to touch the nearest pink carnation. "Looks like the shit you see in cafeterias," he commented in a weak attempt at humor.

Shelton let out an obligatory chuckle before grabbing the card that leaned against the base of the vase.

"What's it say?" Chris asked, closing his eyes as he continued to stroke the carnation. His vision was filled with periodic bursts of spots, due to the shooting pain going up his spine; trying to read a 3x3 index card right now would be less than successful.

Wetting his lips, Shelton eagerly opened the note. "I'm sorry."

Chris's eyes flew open. "For what?" he demanded, his heart suddenly beating at a thousand beats a minute.

The other man merely shook his head. "That's what it says. 'I'm sorry.'"

He couldn't believe it. Forcing himself to look through the spotted colors that blocked his vision, he grabbed the card and read the two small words for himself. There was no flower doodle to enhance these words this time, and rightfully so; this was no poetic declaration of affection. Unable to continue standing, Chris slumped to the floor, moving to lie on his belly. "Benji?"

Squatting down, Shelton picked up Chris's head just high enough to place a rolled-up t-shirt underneath it. "Yeah?"

"I hate women."

END CHAPTER FOUR

Author's notes: This chapter is sub-par, at best. I could list excuses, most notably the lack of my CJ muse, but what good would that do? Hopefully I'll get my act together by next week. Until then, all reviews are greatly appreciated. Take care.