The Emancipation of Trish Stratus
A/N: I was hoping to get this chapter up sooner, but I was writing it while keeping tabs on Vengeance, and I got side-tracked. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy it, and thanks for the rave reviews. Also, TrishOrton, thanks for spreading the word on my work. I appreciate it more than you know!
Also, I've totally avoiding any reference to the draft in this story, even though I've mentioned Cena on RAW. I'm choosing, for the purposes of this story, to act like that whole thing (the draft) never happened. Cena is on RAW because he just is. You'll understand why it's important after you read this chapter. Just know that I'm not trying to confuse you or anything. Also, in case you were wondering, and since I didn't really explain it before, this story was written on the premise that Batista lost his title to Triple H at Vengeance. I am now doing the happy dance because that didn't happenin reality - but for the story, it kind of had to. Just thought I would clear those issues up, since I totally ignored them for twelve chapters. My bad - sorry.
Um, I don't own Randy or Stacy or Trish, even though I use 'em for my own amusement in this chapter. Oh, and for those of you who have started reading my other story - I was totally intending on updating it tonight, but since this chapter took so friggin' long, I've put it off until at least tomorrow. Sorry - but I promise frequent updates on both stories as soon as possible.
Dancing around the kitchen of Randy's St. Louis condo, Trish hummed along with the hip-hop song on the radio and chopped vegetables happily. After three days of nothing but relaxing with spa treatments and hot tub therapy, her muscles were feeling loose and ready for a work out. And she was banking on the fact that, as soon as Randy came home, he would be ready to give her one.
Dressed only in white, lacey, boy-cut panties and the white dress shirt he had worn to dinner last night, Trish giggled as the breeze from the open window sent whispers of his cologne wafting through the air. He had been right, whether she wanted to admit it or not – missing a few days of work was exactly what she needed to regroup and get back to fighting form. After all, he had his title. It was time to start focusing on regaining hers.
Grabbing the bottle of Corona from the counter beside her, Trish took a long drink, and then watched as Randy opened the front door and closed it behind him. He always looked good, either in a designer suit or his wrestling trunks. But Trish decided that her favorite look was the casual Randy – in his well-worn jeans and his St. Louis Rams tee shirt. Sometimes she forgot that he was nearly five years her junior – but dressed like a college athlete, it was hard to deny. And she liked it that way.
He stopped in the doorway and raised an eyebrow as he watched her, watching him. "What is this?" he asked with a smirk.
She shrugged and drank from her bottle again, making sure to hold his gaze as she ran her tongue around the neck and then placed her mouth over the opening. "Dinner," she finally answered, after making a show of swallowing and wiping the thin line of alcohol that had dribbled down her chin.
He moved to her with a determined look of hunger and put his hands on her waist. "You are my fantasy right now. You know that?" She accepted his brief kiss and then smiled as he stared down at her with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Finding my girl, in my shirt, drinkin' a beer and cookin' me dinner? Hot damn," he laughed, lifting her off the ground.
Trish gasped and laughed as she wrapped her legs around his waist and ran her fingers through his hair. "I've been missin' you so bad all day," she whispered, grasping his ear lobe between her teeth.
"Clearly, you're feeling better then?" he asked, but his voice sounded far away, like the answer to that question was the last thing on his mind.
She nodded and placed hurried kisses down his jaw and across his chin. "So much better," she groaned just before she captured his lips in a searing kiss that nearly knocked him off balance.
"Baby," he whispered finally, breaking the kiss and setting her feet back on the ground. "Let's go upstairs," he took her hand, but Trish held back. "You wanna do it in the kitchen? I'm okay with that, too," he shrugged, reaching out for her again.
She shook her head. "Let's eat first," she suggested. His face fell slightly. "I'm just plannin' on bein' up there for a long, long time, and I don't wanna take a food break." It was her turn to break out the "puppy dog" eyes and Randy waivered. "I promise, I'll make it worth your wait," she winked.
He wondered sometimes if she knew she didn't have to give him those eyes to get her way. He wanted to give her everything before she even asked for it. He wanted to give her things she hadn't even asked for yet. "I'm sure you will," he winked, kissing her forehead quickly before looking around the kitchen. "So what do you need from me?"
She let her eyes flicker to his pants and then smiled when he gave her a look of mock-warning. "I'm just making salad. I figured you and your dad probably had a big lunch, right?" Randy nodded and popped a slice of red pepper into his mouth. "Do you want something more? Because we could put some salmon on the grill?"
Shaking his head, Randy grabbed a beer from the fridge. "Nah. You know my dad. We ate enough to feed an army," he said. "So," he tossed another look around the kitchen and gave her a wide-eyed look. "If you got everything covered," his eyes floated to his watch.
"Go," Trish pointed. "Watch Sportscenter. I'll bring it to you in a minute." He smacked her ass as he walked out of the room, and Trish leaned against the counter with a sigh. A thought flashed through her mind – one that would have made the old Trish Stratus scared to move. But this time, it only made her smile wider. This was her life now, with Randy. Cooking dinner for them to share in front of the television. Watching him flirt and cajole his way out of helping her with said dinner. And giddily enjoying a life that revolved around her two favorite things – him, and their shared career.
XXXXX
"Okay, so I was thinking," Trish started, re-entering the living room after stacking their empty dinner dishes in the kitchen sink. She handed him another beer and then popped the top on hers. "Maybe we should talk strategy for our big return?"
Standing in the middle of the room, Randy stretched his arms over his head as he watched the Smackdown action on the television. "Did I tell you that Teddy Long talked to my agent the other day?" he pointed the television distractedly watching the action.
Trish sank to the couch and shook her head. "Um, no," she said.
"Are you sure?" Randy asked, watching as Matt Morgan took on the Big Show on the television. He sat beside Trish and reached over her for the remote on the couch arm.
But she wasn't interested in those gorillas. Staring at him blankly, she shook her head. "I think I would remember something like that. What did he want?"
Shrugging, Randy reached over and wove his fingers through hers. "Just said he had an offer in the works for when my contract was up," he said simply, as if it were no big deal.
Trish laughed slightly and played with his fingers, wrapped loosely around hers. "Like you would ever go to Smackdown," she rolled her eyes and settled her shoulder against his. He didn't respond. "You wouldn't ever go to Smackdown, would you?"
With another apathetic shrug, he seemed to have tuned out of their conversation completely. "Give me a chance to get back at the Undertaker for 'Mania," was all he said.
"And to be away from me," Trish accused.
Rolling his eyes, he shot her a look that said she was crazy. "Now why would I want to do that, Trish? Huh?" She pouted and stared at the floor. She knew that he would be giving her those eyes, and she didn't want to see them. "You know how I feel about being away from you," he added, nudging her shoulder. "Plus, the whole sex with my own hand thing."
He was trying to be cute, but she wasn't feeling it. Something had been nagging at her since they started eating dinner, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Now a sense of dread was filling her belly, and she was not about to sit back and let it pass.
"Why are you avoiding the subject of going back to work?" she asked suddenly.
"I'm not."
"You totally are. Every time I ask you about our next plan of attack, or what the strategy is, you change the subject. And now you're talking about Smackdown? Something is up, Randy," she deduced. "And if you're that scared of Hunter, maybe we should," she started.
He sighed and tore his hand free from hers, wrapping his arm around her body and pulling her close to his chest. "Baby, you don't have to worry about Hunter anymore, okay? He's my problem now – and I am not scared." He was emphatic with his last statement.
But that answer wasn't suitable to Trish and she wasn't backing down. "Hey, your problems are my problems, buddy. We're in this thing together, remember?" He "hmph"ed and rolled his eyes. "What? Are we not?"
"We are," he agreed. "We are in this thing together, Trish. This relationship. We have never been in the whole "beating The Game" thing together. That's been all you, since day one."
She pulled away from his grasp and stood before him, hands on her hips. How dare he, after all she had done for him, act like she had been selfish? She had risked her own career, maybe her own life, for him. Everything she had done over the last month had been for him. "Randy, I have put myself on the line for you. I got your fuckin' title back, for Christ's sake! How can you sit there and act like we haven't been doing this together? I have a right to know what we're doing next," she defended.
Randy rolled his eyes and dropped the remote onto the floor, prepping himself for the big fight. If she wanted to go – he had plenty to say, plenty he had been sitting on for well over three months now. "Like I had a right to know that you were gonna hit Hunter over the head with that chair? Or how about like you filled me in on how you were gonna challenge him for his title?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was coming out deep and threatening. He took a deep breath, trying to re-center himself.
"I didn't even know I was gonna do those things until I had already done them. I told you that. You said you supported me," she reminded him, her face turning redder by the minute.
"I did support you. Because it was something you felt like you had to do, something you had to prove." He put his hands on his hips and cringed as the next words came out of his mouth. "But you never once asked me what I thought about any of it, so don't you even try to tell me that we were in it together."
She didn't know what was happening. Why were they fighting about this? He had his title, and he was out of Evolution again. This is what they had dreamt about, talked about for hours. This is what he wanted. Why was he pissed? "I don't know what the hell is going on, Randy. I don't know why you're so upset," she paused and threw her arms in the air.
His eyes narrowed as he stood, towering over her, but keeping his distance. He didn't want to scare her into agreeing with him, but he had never been good at fighting while seated. "That's why I'm pissed. Trish, you keep tellin' yourself that what you did was for me, but it didn't help me," he pleaded with her to understand.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," she shouted, her arms flailing at her sides. "Didn't help you? What do you call that damned piece of gawdy jewelry on your dresser upstairs?"
He balled his hands into fists and then relaxed them at his sides. Licking his lips, he tried to carefully think out his words before he said something he couldn't take back. "I call that a gift," he said. "A gift for which I am grateful, by the way," he tried to smile, but it didn't work. "But now I have to prove that I deserve it."
She huffed and rolled her eyes. "I cannot believe that, after everything I have put myself through, you're gonna spew some macho, testosterone-driven bull shit about your fuckin' ego at me. You beat the champ, and you won the title. What else do you want?"
"Dammit, Trish, this is not a guy thing," he demanded, a little louder than he intended. He saw the flash of concern in her eyes, and reminded himself to breathe again.
Her eyes shot fire as she stepped closer to him and raised an eyebrow in defiance. "Ya know, if you have such a problem with strong, independent women, maybe you should have stayed with Stacy." She regretted the words in an instant.
His blood boiled as he took another step back, forcing distance between them. The urge to punch her came quickly, and he forced it out of his mind before he had time to entertain it. "I'm only gonna say this once, and I want you to listen carefully. I love you, Trish. I love you because your strong, and because you have the courage to go after what you want, even if it doesn't make any fuckin' sense." He steadied his gaze and bore deep into her with his eyes. "I could have stopped your feud with Hunter in the beginning. I could have told him the truth, or I could have tried to talk you out of ever getting into the ring with him at SummerSlam. That's what I wanted to do, ya know?" He shook his head. "But I tried to ignore what I wanted because you so desperately believed that it was something you needed to do. And I thought that's what love was, Trish. I thought it was compromising what I wanted so that you could have what you needed."
She couldn't speak. She was still angry with him, still felt like he didn't appreciate what she had done. But he had never told her how strongly he felt about everything that had happened in the last couple of months. Every time they had talked, at night when no one was around, he had just told her that he supported her, that he was behind, that he had her back.
"So what do you want from me?" she asked finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence. "You want me to just sit back and watch whatever you come up with next? Because I don't know if I can do that, Randy. It's not me," she stated, her voice barely above a whisper.
He wanted to shout that it hadn't been him, either, but he had done it. For her, he had stifled who he was, and let her be whatever the hell she wanted to be. But he calmed himself, moving toward her. With his hands on her shoulders, he waited for her to meet his eye. When she didn't, he spoke in a smooth, reassuring voice. "Baby, look at me," he ordered. Her brown orbs met his blue ones and he felt her shoulders sag. "I just want you to let me prove, to myself, what I need to prove." His eyes were expectant as he moved one palm to her cheek. "I don't want you to worry about me at all. I want you to focus on getting your own title back, because as much as I would love to go out there Monday night and challenge Christy for her belt, I don't think it'll fly."
Trish smiled reluctantly and then rolled her eyes, stepping out of his grasp. "I don't like being shut out," she told him. "I don't like not knowing what's going on. But I'm going to call a cease fire for now," she stated, looking over her shoulder toward the stairs, and then back at him, as she slowly unbuttoned the shirt she was draped in. "But only on the grounds that I have been dying to have you all day, and I'm not willing to let a little fight stand in the way of my Stratusfaction."
She left the room, and Randy followed, knowing that this conversation was far from over. He wasn't even sure that the problem had been solved, or if either of them really knew what that problem was. But he was still a red-blooded, American male, and there was sex to be had. Fighting could wait until another day. Like the day he told her he was going to Smackdown.