Wrestling 1. Ch 1

**Tourniquet**

Rating: "R" - for mature themes & possible strong language.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the featured characters - they are the property of the WWE. The song "Tourniquet" from which the fic takes its name is owned by the band Evanescence and the lyrics may appear throughout. Reposted after a long hiatus.

Distribution: Just ask.

Summary: Two people gradually realise they have a lot more in common than they think but can they save each other … from themselves?

1.

A lone figure curled on a couch which had seen better days, in an anonymous hotel in an impersonal city – this was what she had been reduced to. She thought she would never change, had in fact _promised herself that she wouldn't. But she had, and she sure hadn't done it by halves either. Oh, yeah, when she looked in the mirror, she could look past the physical changes; but when she looked deeper, to the things that really mattered, she could no longer recognise the person she had become._

The changes had crept up on her from behind, without her really noticing; yet it seemed like yesterday when everything had been so different. It's funny how that happens, how a person can slowly transform, yet it still seems to have happened all of a sudden. Funny how the mind works; how you see what you want to see and blank out all the rest – maybe if she hadn't had such blinkered vision, it wouldn't have come to this. She wouldn't be alone. Alone, and hating herself like this. And yet, it was not like hating _herself_, but rather some stranger who had taken her over - invaded her body … corrupted her mind … corroded her very soul. Yes, that was it – maybe it was not herself she should be angry with at all. Maybe it wasn't her fault …

But it was and she knew it.

*****

Here she was, in old, worn jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, hugging a cushion to her chest and staring at the television. Watching images of herself; images of what seemed like another era, a different life. She had been so happy, so contented, then and with good reason. She finally had it all – a family who would have done anything to protect her, friends who cared about her, a boyfriend who loved her.

But that was then – what did she have now?

A boyfriend? That was well and truly over – he had cheated on her, had said she drove him to it. And she supposed that could be true. Truth was ... she had just never really loved him. Not as anything more than a friend. Hurting him had never been her intention though; she had just been … caught up in the hype, drawn by the idea of having someone of her own. Well, she wouldn't have to worry any more; there was little chance of that now.

Friends? That she _knew_ had been all her own fault – she had driven them away. The changes had already begun and they had been concerned about her. But she had known best, turned down their well-meaning advice and told them to stop interfering. So they had. She had never regretted anything so much in her life …

But that wasn't quite true. There was one thing she had done which stood out like a beacon, out-shining all other mistakes – she had betrayed her family. It was probably the one thing no one would expect someone like her to do; surely _she_ wouldn't even be capable of it. But she had done it just the same, after everything they had done for her. No matter how much her other actions pained her, the look of hurt and sorrow on their faces would haunt her for the rest of her life. It was that look which had told her there could be no going back – she couldn't expect them to forgive her. 

Not when she couldn't forgive herself.

Watching the screen, she couldn't help but flinch when she saw one of the many times she had been saved by the bravery of a member of her family. Seeing how selflessly they pushed her aside and took blow after blow for her made the tears which had been threatening finally spill over and she finally gave way to them. Sobbing into her cushion, her voice broke as she cried out into the darkening room.

"Oh, Bob, Crash … I'm so sorry … So truly sorry …"

*****


	2. Ch 2

2.

This was _not how it was supposed to go. He should be kicking back in a classy pent-house suite, dining on the finest food and drinking the most expensive champagne; all after fighting his way through legions of adoring fans – with an obviously disproportionate number of females, naturally. Yet, here he was. Sprawled on top of an uncomfortable bed, in a cramped, generic hotel room with his new best friend, one Mr. Jack Daniels. His only friend for that matter. Gone were the days of hanging out with the others, being the life and soul of the party – it was some time since he had been Mr. Popularity. His success had done him no favours on that score._

Who was he now? 

It was hard to tell. No one knew it was just an act – that it was all simply for show. The flashy clothes; the flamboyant confidence that was nothing short of pure arrogance; the desire to always take centre stage – it just wasn't him, not really. If anyone could see him now, surely they would realise that. Surely the mere fact that he was not out living the high life, but alone in a pair of ripped, faded jeans and an old hockey shirt; not quite drunk, but a long way from sober - surely _that would be enough to show them. Not that he would get any sympathy; but then, he wasn't looking for any._

There was no point in denying the truth, to himself at least – his pride had got the better of him. He had wanted to be the best … well, that wasn't strictly true. He _was the best – what he had wanted was recognition; for everyone else to admit what he already believed. And he had got what he wanted. Only to find it sure was lonely at the top._

People had frequently told him his big mouth would get him more than he bargained for and they were right. He had always been self-assured, but, fuelled by his string of successes, that had transformed gradually into unadulterated arrogance. One by one, he had pushed his friends away, pushed himself deeper and deeper into isolation. And he tried to justify his actions by blaming what he had considered to be the petty jealousies of everyone else.

"Screw them." he drawled aloud, "Who needs 'em? Not me."

But he no longer had the energy to muster either the anger or the malice needed for that statement to ring true. It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as well as everyone else – and it also seemed like he was failing miserably.

"I don' need _anyone - fuck 'em!" he declared, pouring himself yet another glassful and eyeing the rich golden-brown liquid before setting it down in favour of a long drag straight from the bottle. _

Wincing as the dark liquor burned a trail down his throat, he tried to force all the unwelcome thoughts from his mind, but found that they refused to go. At best, he could push them to the furthest reaches of his mind, but they had an alarming tendency to resurrect themselves and plague him more than ever. To make matters worse, he knew in his heart – yes, that same heart whose very existence he knew was now thrown frequently into question by his colleagues – he knew that he was blatantly lying. But he couldn't bring himself to admit he had been wrong. He would have given anything for things to go back to the way they had been before, but he "didn't do apologies"; never had. But then, he'd never really needed to before.

"Guess I wasn' always such a sorry sono'abitch then!" he informed the empty room, with a now truly drunken giggle. "No, siree!"

And anyway, he had no reason to think an apology would even have any effect. As far as his friends were concerned, it probably wouldn't even begin to cut it; he had almost certainly burned his bridges long ago. Turning on them in order to further his own career was hardly likely to be something they would easily forget. Just as he – hard-hearted, bloody-minded shit that he was, or was supposed to be anyway – would take a very long time to forget the hurt in their eyes at his betrayal.

"Only wanned wha' I d'served." he said stubbornly; but his heart wasn't in it.

In a sudden flurry of anger, he picked up the glass with a growl and heaved it at the wall. Watching as it shattered and rained glass and alcohol down on the almost threadbare carpet, he managed a bitter laugh.

"Oh yeah, I'm KING O' THE WORLD!" he hollered defiantly; but his head soon dropped into his hands as despair washed over him.

"Never wanned _this." he groaned faintly._

*****


	3. Ch 3

3.

As the first rays of the pale morning sun crept into the bleak hotel room, through the crack in the curtains, Molly buried her head in her pillow and tried to deny the dawning of the new day. Although she had spent a largely restless night, she was loathe to leave the sanctuary of the bed. Getting up meant facing the world and lately that was becoming increasingly difficult for her. Forcing herself to push back the covers, she sat up slowly and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Stumbling into the bathroom, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and winced - it was still a shock to see how she looked nowadays. No blonde curls, no sunny smile, no sparkle in her eyes. That was it; that was what she lacked now - sparkle. And she seemed to be losing a little more each day. 

The fact that she hated her new look wasn't doing her any favours either. To be honest, she didn't know what had possessed her to do it. It wasn't that she was _vain_, but even she could see that she had suited her old style much more than her new "heel" look - perhaps because her heart wasn't in it. She had gone through with it for all the wrong reasons. Okay, so she wasn't as pure as she made out on the show. But she was sick of the female wrestlers being constantly undervalued and exploited. Everyone expected them all to wear tight, revealing clothing and wrestle in gimmicky matches, like the bra and panties matches, for the gratification of the male members of the audiences. And of the roster, she suspected - Vince himself seemed pretty fond of that kind of stuff. She had never liked that side of the business - the mere thought of someone leering over her in such a way made her uncomfortable and self-conscious. And so, she had found a way out.

Standing out as being openly against such "immoral" behaviour had seemed like the answer. In an attempt to be taken seriously and not thought of as "just another blonde bimbo", she had dyed her once blonde locks and started to dress in a more sombre fashion. Thereby, transforming herself into a "serious wrestler". 

Or so she had thought.

Now, she was disliked by everyone - including the fans. Vince had considered her change in attitude to have great potential as a storyline and made her go further with it than she had intended. Now, her clothes were frumpy to the point of embarrassment and she was continually mocked and humiliated. Instead of seeing that she was really trying to stand up for them, the other divas turned their backs on her and she became increasingly ostracised, even by those she had once considered friends. And recently, someone had coolly fired off a jibe about her weight and her figure and it had stuck. It was beginning to seem like that was all she heard these days - "fat ass", or some equally intelligent remark. But could she let them see that it hurt? That it really did get to her?

Could she _hell! No matter what happened; no matter how bad things got - it would stay private. She would never, NEVER, let them see that it even affected her. Would never let them see her cry._

And yet, surely they knew? From the haunted look in her eyes; from the state of distraction she could never seem to shake, even when she tried _so_ hard to stay focused. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe they didn't see because they didn't care anymore. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper conversation with someone. There were people she had thought would always stick by her and they had let her down. Or she had let them down. Somehow that seemed a more appropriate way of putting it. She was the one living a lie after all. Yet, surely it was better to live a lie than to just sit back and let herself be disrespected? Surely she was doing the right thing … But if that was true … shouldn't she be reaping the benefits of her new-found "respect"? Being the constant butt of everyone's jokes - and quite literally at that - didn't seem like any kind of _respect she knew. At least, in the past, a few people had appreciated her talents and efforts in the ring - who bothered with her now?_

Everything was changing. And Molly had long since decided that she didn't like change.

***** 


	4. Ch 4

4.

Making his way through the corridors backstage with his usual self-assured swagger, Chris Jericho pushed passed anyone who got in his way - even those he would once have stopped to chat with. Instead of having time for anyone, if he paused at all it was only to deliver a scathing insult or cast a withering look at them. His façade of arrogance was firmly in place. At least until he reached his private dressing room. Then it all collapsed in an instant.

He just didn't know how much longer he could take this. 

He couldn't hide out in his dressing room all night that - that would _never_ do. He would have to go out there eventually, if only to keep up appearances - lord it over a few lowly ring hands; maybe threaten a few of his co-workers. He had quickly found that being an asshole is a pretty full-time job. That alone had given Chris a new-found, albeit twisted, version of respect for Paul Heyman and others like him. It was getting harder every day to just walk on by; to not stop with one of his former friends - if only to gauge their response. Sometimes curiosity would almost get the better of him and he longed to say something to them … anything. Just to break the silence. 

Even now, as he forced himself to brave the halls after his brief reprieve, he could imagine himself doing just that. He could see Lita strolling down the corridor towards him, chatting happily to Chris Benoit. A while back that would have been a strange sight, but it was mostly thanks to him that the two had become friends.

"Now it looks like _I'm the one on the outside." he mused miserably._

Two of his best friends and he couldn't even speak to them, knowing he would probably only get an incredulous look, a stony silence and, unless he was lucky, a fist in the face from his former tag partner. And his luck seemed to have ran out long ago. He was actually dreading even walking past them; knowing that as he did, he would have to witness their cold glances and whispered comments. He would have to face their contempt and he hated every second of it.

But he couldn't let them see how it got to him. He couldn't let them see any fear or even hesitation, so he would march on past as if they were not even worthy of his attention. All the while, cringing inside.

*****

As he strode along the corridor, his head held high; he couldn't help glancing at the people he had once been so close to out of the corner of his eye. And all of a sudden, he saw the flare of anger in Lita's eyes. He recognised that look - he had witnessed its results a few times, but never before had he been on the receiving end of it and his heart sank. The fiery redhead saved that particular look for those she truly despised and, now that something in her seemed to have snapped, he was really in for it.

"Hey, Jericho! You look kinda down - what's the matter? Upset that the _King of the World _has to slum it with the rest of us lowly mortals?" called Lita scathingly.

Maybe this once he could just walk away; ignore the opportunity for a trading of insults and just keep walking. 

"Are you deaf? Or are the likes of me not even worthy of a _witty_ retort?" she questioned sarcastically.

"Shut the hell up." he muttered as he kept moving.

"Ooh, good comeback - very original. How long did it take ya to come up with that one? And you could at least have the decency to stop and listen when I'm pissed off at you! To think I used to like you … To think I used to _respect you!"_

"C'mon, Lita - leave it. It's not worth it." said Benoit calmly, not even acknowledging the other man's presence.

"You think you're so great," she continue regardless, standing in front of her target so that he was forced to stop. "Well, I've got news for you, Jericho - you're not so hot. In fact, you're nothing now. _King of the World? Ha! Don't make me laugh! You're nothing now but a sad, pathetic joke. Maybe you haven't quite realised yet, but the crowd doesn't laugh _with_ you - they laugh _at_ you!"_

"Get out of my way." he said in a hard, but quiet voice he barely recognised as his own. He had to get away - away from her; away from everyone - or he was going to lose it completely. And if he broke down in front of them all … he'd be finished. 

"You may be able to push everyone else around, but I've had enough of you treating us all like shit when you're nothing but an arrogant, selfish _bastard_! You …"

His fists clenched by his sides, he was actually having more trouble fighting back tears than rage. But rage was the only defence he had to keep his true feelings under wraps.

"I told you to get the fuck OUT OF MY WAY!" he all but roared at the startled woman, who shrank back a little at his outburst. "Now you listen to me, Red; I don't give a damn what you or anyone else thinks about me, but if you ever - and I mean EVER - talk to me like that again …"

Chris was so caught up in protecting his image that he barely noticed that he had grabbed Lita by the throat. There had been a time when anyone who had even laid a finger on her would have got an ass-kicking from him; yet here he was, almost choking her himself. 

"Let her go, man! What the fuck are you playing at, Jericho!" he could hear Benoit yelling at him as he tried to pull him away.

Even as his mind registered what he was doing and he stared at his victim in horror and dismay, he couldn't let go - it was as if he was frozen in place. Lita was staring up at him with fear in her eyes as she clawed helplessly at his hand and, all of a sudden, he released his hold. Had it not been for Benoit, she would probably have collapsed to the floor, but he caught her before she fell. 

"Get out of here before I stop resisting the urge to break your neck!" he growled angrily, before turning his attention to the woman who was coughing and gasping for air in his arms. "GO!"

Still stunned by his actions, Chris backed away slowly with his eyes still fixed on Lita. Finally ripping his gaze away from the scene, he lowered his head and strode off. But not before hearing Lita's choked sob.

"Oh, Chris, what the hell's happening to him?" she was tearfully demanding of the totally out of his depth Chris Benoit.

Not even Chris Jericho himself knew the answer to that one. 

***** 

As he picked up his pace, fighting to keep from breaking into a run; he turned the corner and careered straight into someone coming the other way. Someone who, under the present circumstances, should have just ignored him like everyone else. However, there had been a time when that was not the case and, seeing how distraught he looked, she could not help thinking back to those days.

"Chris, are you okay?" came the tentative question, which brought his head up sharply as he shot her a quick suspicious look, mumbled a curt "Fine" and hurried on his way.

He couldn't believe it - someone had just asked if he was okay. And was actually being sincere - very nervous, but still sincere. She probably thought he would bite her head off or something. It had been a long time since anyone had shown concern for him. And Molly of all people … that was strange. Wasn't she supposed to be shunning everyone these days who didn't meet her high moral standards? He was fairly sure she didn't see him as the respectable type. Maybe there was a little of the old Molly lurking in there somewhere - the pretty, friendly blonde who had always made him smile with her infectious bubbly ways … 

No. Everything, everyone, was changing now and there was probably some ulterior motive he was just too distracted to see. He had to get away - and not just to his dressing room. He couldn't stay at the arena a second longer. He'd have to make an excuse and say he was sick or something. Anything to get away from everyone watching him with such contempt.

*****

Watching in surprise as Chris Jericho ploughed past her, looking as if he was going to keel over or cry at any minute; Molly inwardly cursed herself.

"Shouldn't have spoken." she muttered, "Should have left him to it - what was I _thinking?"_

Nonetheless, as she continued to stare after the blonde Canadian, she couldn't help taking comfort that even the biggest stars could have a rough time. Maybe they weren't really so different …

"Can't afford to think like that." she warned herself, "Can't let my guard down. I made a mistake today and it won't happen again … I can't let it."

*****


	5. Ch 5

5.

"Can you, like, ya know, move? I know it probably takes you a while to shift that ass of yours, but c'mon - some of us have places to go."

Starting in surprise at the sound of a taunting voice, Molly realised she had been standing in a daze right in the middle of the corridor and her cheeks began to burn in embarrassment. Way to convince everyone you're not a loser, Mols. She turned around, beginning to apologise, but then stopped dead as she remembered that just wasn't her style anymore.

"What's the matter, Trish? Got a street corner to get back to?" she managed, concentrating on preventing her voice from shaking. Before the curvaceous blonde could even respond, Molly hurried away, leaving her rival with a stunned look on her face. 

Throwing open the door of her changing room, Molly all but ran inside and slammed the door, breathing heavily as she leaned back against it. Had she really said that? That wasn't the virtuous Miss Molly speaking - that had been something entirely new. What a bitchy thing to have said … and yet … Nothing. She felt nothing. Running her hands over her short, brown hair, smoothing it back into place, she took a second to really assess herself and couldn't help but be surprised at what she found. That mild surprise - that was it. Nothing else but … emptiness. No anxiety that she had gone too far, said too much. No guilt either. And there wasn't even any malice; no small spark of pleasure at having stood up for herself. She was simply void of emotion. 

And the more she thought about it, the more it began to make sense. Why would she feel anything when she didn't even really exist anymore? She had no family, no friends, no life outside her job and no pleasure within it anymore - she was nothing now but a … a _shell. Molly Holly was gone and in her place was … nothing more than a shadow. A shadow which was fading fast. Soon there would be nothing left at all. The question was - would anyone notice? And if anyone did, so what? What difference could it possibly make?_

*****

Jerked from her thoughts by a loud banging on the door, Molly gave herself a little shake and moved to answer it, but was stopped by an impatient voice.

"Exactly one hour until your match - DON'T be late." came the brief call, without waiting for any acknowledgement. So much for the star treatment.

With a sigh, Molly made her way into the tiny bathroom adjoining her changing room, once again glad she had been convincing in her plea for a private room in order to "protect her modesty". It wasn't that she wanted to avoid all possible contact with her colleagues, oh no, not at all. She had plenty of time to get ready, having already changed into her plain black pants and the prim white top she hated - these days even that pink cape was looking pretty good. All she had to do was check her hair and make-up and that was hardly a big task now. It was starting to seem like the worse she looked, the better it fitted in with the script writers' plans for her. Nevertheless, she would still at least try to fix her hair, using her little hand mirror to make sure the back didn't look _too bad. Force of habit or something._

Trying to ignore the dark circles under her eyes, made the more obvious by her paler than usual skin, she patted ineffectually at the back of her hair and reached for her hairbrush with a frown. Unable to prevent a rare curse from slipping from her lips as the mirror tumbled from her hand, she knelt to pick up the pieces. Hissing as she drew in her breath sharply in pain, she dropped the shard of glass she had been attempting to pick up and turned up the palm of her hand. At first, she had felt only a little pricking pain, but as she caught sight of the dark red blood oozing from a small but ragged cut, the pain evolved into a sharp stabbing which made her whole hand throb. Just like when kids skin their knees and don't cry until they get a look and see even just a trace of blood. Molly only had time to think how lucky it was that the rest of her scars weren't physical, because if she ever got a look at those wounds … well, that'd be it. That'd be just too much pain to take.

Yet, it was bizarrely … comforting … if that was the right word for it, to know that she could still feel - even if what she was feeling hurt like a _bitch_. As time seemed to snap from slow motion to fast-forward, she shoved her hand under the cold tap and turned it on, wincing at the now biting pain as her hand started to tingle from the cold water. Watching as the water ran red, then eventually pink and finally clear, she realised how oddly … liberating … pain could be. For a few moments there, she had been Molly - just Molly. In pain and trying to deal with the cut, she hadn't had time for keeping up appearances and it seemed that, when allowed free rein, plain old Molly Holly was what came naturally. She couldn't help but wonder if it would be possible to recapture that feeling … that freedom.

*****

"Where the hell is she?"

"How should _I know? _I'm_ not her keeper …"_

"I never suggested you were! But you better find her, Trish; you've got ten minutes or I pull this match …"

"But Mr. Bischoff …"

"But nothing! This show is gonna go smoothly - I've had enough aggro lately to last me a lifetime, I _don't need any more!"_

With a glare on her usually pretty face, Trish Stratus stomped off through the backstage area trying to find her opponent for that night's match for the Women's Championship.

"Molly! Molly!" she yelled impatiently as she searched everywhere she could think the other woman might be. "I swear to God, if my match gets pulled because of you …"

*****

Inside her changing room, Molly heard the frustrated shouting of the blonde diva and frantically splashed cold water on her face, attempting to shake the woozy feeling which had fallen over her. Glancing into the large bathroom mirror, her alarm only grew at the unclear sight of her somewhat glazed eyes. What the hell had she been thinking? She had a match to do … Patting her face dry with a towel, she glanced down at herself critically and panic rose in her once more as her gaze fell on her awkwardly bandaged wrist. She wasn't thinking clearly enough to be able to explain it away - even she could see that. Feeling frightened tears dangerously close, she bit her lip and concentrated as hard as she could. What could she do? Her … little Molly Holly … Mighty Molly …

That was it! The image of herself in full pink superhero regalia, complete with pink taping on her arms was just enough to spark her initiative and she hurried to her bag, hoping she was right in her assumption. Rummaging through her bag, she cried out in despair and hurled the bag to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. Sinking to her knees amongst her scattered belongings, she was about to give in to her tears when her line of vision happened to cross a familiar object - a roll of strapping tape. And black, not pink. It seemed too good to be true, but there it was - maybe, just maybe her luck was changing. Hey, no point getting carried away.

*****

With about a minute to spare, Molly made it to the curtain to await her entrance.

"Where were you?" hissed the General Manager of RAW, Eric Bischoff, frankly too relieved to be angry.

"Sorry, had to … take a phone call - it won't happen ag …"

"Damn right it won't happen again - now there's your cue. Get out there."

Closing her eyes, Molly took a deep breath and then opened her eyes, marching out from behind the curtain and down the ramp in her black pants and white top; her head held high and her wrists firmly shrouded in thick black tape.

*****


	6. Ch 6

6.

Her chest heaving as she struggled to get her breath back, Molly pushed past bustling backstage workers in an attempt to make as fast an escape as possible from all the eyes watching her. Throughout her match she had somehow managed to block out the taunts of the crowd as they cheered Trish heartily and mocked her with equal enthusiasm, but there had been no way she could hide from the thousands of eyes staring at her; all seeming to accuse her. That had constantly been the foremost thought in her mind - that they knew; that somehow they all knew and they were staring at her, judging her. 

And it hadn't helped matters that her mind had been elsewhere. It must have been so obvious, but she had been unable to help it; she had struggled and failed to find her focus. The mistakes had been so unlike her and, in some cases, errors even a humble rookie would have been ashamed of. It was true that Trish had held nothing back - getting a sly dig in here and there; holding submission moves a little longer than she should have; using chokeholds just that bit tighter than was usual - but Molly had shown herself no favours either. Now she was paying the price; her ribs bruised and aching, her head pounding and she seemed to have twisted her knee slightly. All she wanted to do was gather her few belongings and flee back to the hotel to lick her wounds in private. She had to get away … 

"And where do you think you're going?" came the irritated voice of Mr. Bischoff, "Don't tell me after almost missing a match, you're thinking of sneaking off early as well? And here was me thinking you were the _virtuous_ one …"

"I … I just thought … with the knocks I took, maybe … maybe I could …" she stammered helplessly, thrown off guard by his aggressive tone and steely glare. Normally she would have held her head high and demanded that she be allowed to leave for the sake of her health and general well-being, but now the words just wouldn't come.

"Well, what can I say, Miss Holly? You thought wrong! What you're going to do is march that … ahem … _little keister back to your dressing room - see a trainer if you have to - but make sure you're cleaned up and ready to film a backstage skit ON TIME. You've already been told about this; surely it hasn't slipped your mind?"_

"N-no, sir." she lied, having not remembered a thing about it until he himself had mentioned it.

"Good. And maybe if you climbed down from your soap-box and put in a little more effort, you wouldn't be getting so ripped apart out there. Now get moving; go on, get out of here." he snapped in irritation.

*****

Outside the arena, it was growing increasingly dark and there was a sharp chill in the air - two factors which should have ensured that the parking lot was deserted. However, just by the entrance there was a tiny red glowing light which signalled the presence of a solitary figure, smoking a cigarette. Chris Jericho was slouched up against a stack of empty crates, silently seething that he had been forbidden to leave the arena as he had planned. After he had lost control of his temper, he had been desperate to get away from everyone - a move which probably would have been best for the rest of the roster, not just him. He raised his cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag - a vice he had previously denied himself for years - wincing as the smoke irritated the back of his throat, having long since grown unaccustomed to the sensation. Alcohol, nicotine - the rock 'n' roll lifestyle, he thought wryly. Some people don't know the half of it.

With the cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth, he ran his hands through his long, wavy, blonde hair before fisting them and bringing them crashing sharply down on top of the crates. Damn it all to hell! Damn Eric for not letting him go. Damn himself for losing control. Damn Lita for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and managing to push him far enough to make him snap. He could still hardly believe what he'd done to her. He tried to convince himself that he didn't care, or at least that he was only sorry for the unnecessary aggro the incident would cause - he'd probably have the Hardys baying for his blood before long and even his one time best friend had looked ready to kill him. That wasn't the whole story though. Deep down, he was truly sorry for what he'd done. There had been a time when he wouldn't have laid a finger on a woman outside of the ring, and only then if he had no choice. Now he had attacked someone he used to be close to … What kind of man was he turning into?

God, but he needed a drink …

Starting suddenly, he turned and narrowed his eyes - he had heard someone, he was sure of it. He seriously didn't need any more confrontations tonight; the mood he was in, who knew what he might do … and to whom …

*****

Unable to make her escape, Molly was forced to settle for finding somewhere out of the way to gather her thoughts. She couldn't stay in her changing room - it was still littered with shards of glass, taunting her - and she would go stir-crazy staring at those four magnolia coloured walls anyway. Why she had thought it would be any better at the hotel, staring at four dingy, faded green walls was anyone's guess; but at least there she could go crazy in peace.

Thinking of the bitingly cold wind outside, she had hurried to the one place she thought no one would bother her, trying to ensure no one saw her. However, no sooner had she found herself in the parking lot, than she had spotted the glow of a cigarette - obviously someone had been desperate enough to brave the elements in order to satisfy their nicotine craving, but surely they would leave soon? No one would want to stay out here any longer than necessary … no one except her that was - she was quite prepared to stay there as long as possible.

Running quickly through the possibilities of who the mystery smoker could be, Molly wondered if she could manage to steal across the shadowy parking lot without being spotted and began to edge away from the door. Without warning, a sharp voice called out, making her jump and press herself tightly against the door behind her.

"Who's there?" came the demand, in the easily recognisable Canadian accent of Chris Jericho.

She didn't know what to do - should she run … should she stay hidden … or should she speak up? She was intimidated by him - this was after all, the man who had grabbed Lita by the throat … yet it was also the same man who had staggered past her, looking like he was at his wits' end … But it was too late, the decision had been made for her.

She couldn't help the little shriek which was her gut reaction when strong fingers closed on her arm in an iron grip and pulled her from the shadows.

"You! Why didn't you answer me and what the hell are you doing out here anyway?" he questioned roughly, giving her a little shake.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped hastily, "I didn't mean to … disturb you - I didn't think there'd be anyone out here …"

"Yeah, well, you and me both!" he said in clipped tones, releasing her arm.

"I'll go …" she said, but he didn't seem to care anymore - maybe he had just mistaken her for someone else.

"You don't have to - it's a free country." he allowed finally, "Or at least it was last time I checked. Though why anyone would want to be out here tonight …"

"You're here …" she pointed out hesitantly.

For a second he looked stumped, but then he shrugged and waved the lit cigarette which he held between his fingers in front of her face.

"I didn't think you smoked." Molly said, wrinkling her nose a little as the smoke blew into her eyes. Since he hadn't actually starting yelling or throwing punches or anything, she was gaining what could only be described as an uneasy confidence as she remembered that this was only Chris and that, in the past, it had not been unusual for them to hang out together.

"I guess old habits die hard." he told her, inhaling a long drag before tilting his head back and slowly blowing the smoke out in a hazy cloud. "Smoke?"

She had been about to shake her head when something sparked defiantly inside her and she found herself reaching out to take the offered butt. Regarding it dubiously, she realised Chris was watching her with raised eyebrows and touched it to her lips, taking only a tiny puff. For a second she was fine, but the instant the smoke hit the back of her throat, she began to choke and it brought tears to her eyes. Coughing, she reached the cigarette out blindly in order to return it to the now smirking Canadian.

"Didn't think so. Stick to your pure little ways, Molly - being the bad girl doesn't suit you." he commented shrewdly, making her glare at him.

"You know nothing about me, Chris Jericho!" she snapped uncharacteristically, leaving him slightly taken aback. "And it's bad for you any way!"

With the corners of his lips twitching with the threat of a true smile, the first in a long time, he raised the cigarette in an attempt to mask the small change in his features but then sighed and flicked it to the ground, crushing it underfoot.

"I guess you're right - filthy habit." he said, with a sidelong glance at his unexpected companion. "You still haven't told me what you're doing out here …?"

It seemed to him that there was more to this petite brunette than initially met the eye and, thinking that it might do him good to show a little interest in someone other than himself, he grew determined to find out what her story was. And if she wouldn't tell him … what would it matter? He hated to admit it, but it was good to have someone to talk to other than himself; even if she wasn't exactly talking up a storm. Anyway, it wasn't like he had anything better to do …

*****


	7. Ch 7

7.

Tilting his head back with a heavy sigh, Chris straightened up and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the packet of cigarettes he had bought from a vending machine on a whim. He sat down on one of the large WWE printed wooden crates they always seemed to have lying around backstage - handy for those "impromptu" brawls, he supposed - and lit up, more to give his hands something to do than to anything else. He didn't even take a single drag; just sat there silently before turning to glance at his unexpected companion and gesturing to the crate.

"If you're stickin' around, ya might as well take the weight off …" he said indifferently, taken aback by the near venomous glare with which she met his words.

"What makes ya think I'd stay here to be insulted? I'm not a _complete doormat!" she seethed, close to tears through sudden rage and an underlying despair which could not be denied._

"Huh?" gaped Chris, looking so much more like his old self; startled out of his steely façade.

"I must have been _insane to expect any less - if all anyone does is criticise and mock me, why should the Undisputed King of the Biggest __Bastards in the World be any different?" she continued, willing herself to stay angry and not give away just how deeply the jibes cut her._

As it suddenly dawned on the baffled Canadian just what she must have thought he was getting at, he almost laughed but realised that would not be his wisest ever move and, for once, tried to do the right thing. Too bad she'd already caught a glimpse of a smirk.

"It's not FUNNY!" she practically yelled, trembling with fury and stamping her foot with a rare show of actual temper.

Suddenly Chris found himself strangely torn. There had been a couple of times when he had thought he had spotted signs that Molly was genuinely hurt by the comments others made, but he had not exactly been community spirited lately and had brushed the notion aside as both ridiculous and none of his concern. Now, however, it was evident that his initial observations had been correct, but he could hardly become an instantly reformed character and show his sympathy - he wasn't going to show weakness just because some chick had self-esteem issues.

Yet this was not "some chick", this was MOLLY. Okay, they hadn't been _best_ friends exactly, but he had always liked and respected the vivacious blonde. After he and Benoit had come to the rescue of both the youngest Holly and her then boyfriend, Spike, they had hung out together and had some pretty cool times … but then everything had started to crumble and change … He barely recognised the woman before him now as the same person he had once befriended; hell, he barely recognised _himself_.

He had no choice but to play it cool, even though he could see she was hurting.

"Jesus, Mols! Chill, will ya?" he drawled with seeming carelessness, "Not everything's about _you_, you know. I wasn't implying anything - kinda takes the fun out of it when there's no one round to hear it! Are you gonna sit down or stand there and rant at me?"

Lost for words at his couldn't-care-less attitude, Molly stared at him suspiciously and sank down onto the crate feeling oddly defeated. Neither of them spoke, but merely maintained a terse silence until Chris leaned back against the wall, not looking at Molly.

"It's bullshit." he commented, looking down at his still unsmoked cigarette and flicking ash from its tip.

"What?" asked Molly sharply, trying not to show that she was watching him from the corner of her eye.

"What they say. About you. About … well, you know …"

"You've said it too." she accused shortly, clearly suspicious of his change of attitude.

"That was a mistake!" he protested.

"I wasn't talking about just now."

"Oh. Well, what can I say? I'm an asshole - sue me." There was a long pause before he tried again. "But it is. Bull, I mean."

Seeing she was looking at him disbelievingly, he tried to ignore the pain in those dark blue eyes and instead laughed and shook his head.

"To be honest, I can't believe you fall for it - I had you figured as smarter than that." Sensing that she was about to bite his head off again, he continued quickly. "It's all about jealousy."

A wry, sadly bitter smile pulled at her lips and she nodded, a sarcastic look on her face. "Of course; why didn't I think of that? All those stunning, skinny blondes are just jealous of little ole me."

"You can put yourself down all you like, it's not like it makes any difference to me." Chris shrugged, "But at the end of the day, I'm right - you're damn good at your job while the rest of that lot will only ever be bimbos, needed to keep the place looking good …"

"So what does that say about me? I should wrestle, but with a bag over my head?" said Molly, determined to make things difficult for him and equally determined not to allow herself to fall for any attempts to lull her into a false sense of security.

"You know you were popular with the fans before … before all this." he said sharply, waving a hand to indicate her new look. "So you probably wouldn't have been asked to do all the Playboy shit - would you want to? You were cute little Molly Holly everyone loved and wanted to protect - everyone wanted to see you come out on top and live happily ever after with lovestruck little Spikey …" he told her wryly, "Why change? Would that have been so bad?"

Without waiting for her to answer, he stubbed his cigarette out on the crate and stood up, throwing the butt to the ground before striding back inside, wondering why the hell he got so chatty all of a sudden. He was certainly in no position to be playing therapist. He had, nonetheless, left Molly with a lot to think about.

***** 

TBC…


	8. Ch 8

Ch 8.

Finally, the chance to escape back to the sanctity of her hotel room! Thoroughly dejected by the humiliating backstage skit she had been required to film and the hostility of her co-workers, Molly walked across the parking lot with her shoulders slumped and her head down. Another night of ordering room service and hibernating in front of the television - not the most uplifting prospect ever. Still, the way things had been, it could still easily be the highlight of her day. 

Scanning the dimly lit area for her rental car, she spotted it and headed in that direction. She dropped her heavy bag on the ground to search through her pockets for the keys and it was only then that she noticed the peculiar tilt of the vehicle. It was all she could do not to burst into tears when she realised that both wheels on the left-hand side of the car were completely flat - too much of a coincidence to not have been done deliberately.

"Shit …" she swore softly, "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

Fighting to keep back tears, she focused instead on her anger and clenching and unclenching her fists helplessly, she kicked out at one of the deflated tyres with her foot and then heaved a sigh. What was the use?

"Hey, Molly, what's the matter - car trouble?" came a mocking voice as she heard light footsteps approaching.

"Aren't you perceptive?"

But her voice was thick with unshed tears and her unwelcome companion merely laughed in response.

"Awww, you're not gonna _cry_, are you?" came the inquiry, the words loaded with false sympathy and followed by another tinkling laugh.

"Piss off, Trish …"

"Well, well! Looks like the helpless little kitten's got some claws! What do you think you're gonna do if I don't?"

Pushed just a little too far by her whole day of misery, Molly stepped forward with her hand raised to strike her adversary, only to be jerked backwards. As a sharp pain burned her scalp, she realised that someone had crept up behind her and caught her by a handful of her short, dark hair. Twisting and turning only increased her own pain and she tried in vain to free herself by lashing out with her feet.

"Let me GO!" she cried and to her momentary relief, she felt her foot connect with someone's shin and hear the oath as she was released. However, with her car out of action, she had no where to go. Nonetheless, she simply wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and her tormentors. With one hand clutching her head, she fled across the parking lot and unwittingly ran straight into the path of an oncoming car.

Blinded for a moment by the headlights, she was powerless to move and could only remain rooted to the spot as the driver braked hard. Luckily, the vehicle had not been travelling at any great speed, but Molly could still only stare in shock at the now stationary car. After a brief pause, the driver's window rolled down smoothly and someone leaned out, shouting impatiently.

"What the hell are ya playing at? You _trying_ to get yourself killed?" yelled an angry voice, but Molly was too stricken to do anything other than squint into the headlights of the car helplessly.

"For cryin' out loud ..." the voice complained, breaking off as he spotted two figures charging in their direction and, recognising them as Trish Stratus and BuhBuh Ray Dudley, he made a pretty good guess at what was going on. He leaned over and opened the passenger's door from the inside, shouting at Molly as he did so. "Get in!"

*****

Already shaken by what had occurred, Molly was too bewildered to do anything other than what she had been bidden and so she quickly clambered into the passenger seat and slammed the car door shut. She had no sooner managed that than the vehicle sped off with a screech of its tyres on the asphalt, throwing her back into her seat. Breathless, she glanced backwards and saw her pursuers had given up the chase and were now standing in the middle of the parking lot, shouting after them. _Them_ ...

Her thoughts instantly turned to her rescuer and it only started to dawn on Molly that she could potentially have leapfrogged from one bad situation to another. Had she really just dived straight into a car driven by God only knew who? In the few seconds, which seemed to drag forever, in which she slowly turned to face her only ally - if this unknown person could even be called that - her thoughts raced through her mind unchecked. It couldn't be anyone she knew - which member of the roster would be willing to help her? None sprang to mind. And if it was a random stranger ... well, there was always the chance that she would be no better off now than at the mercy of ...

"Jericho?!" she exclaimed incredulously, breaking her train of thought as her eyes widened on sight of her mystery rescuer.

"Holly." he merely acknowledged dryly, barely glancing at her as he instead concentrated on rolling down his window and lighting up a cigarette.

"Why are _you helping _me_?" she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice._

"Felt like spoiling someone's day - Trash Stratus and the Dudley jackass seemed as good candidates as any." came the curt reply. "Put your seatbelt on."

"Oh ..." she wasn't sure what to make of his reasoning, but she followed his direction without question and then sat back, an uncomfortable silence falling over the car. After a few moments, Molly fidgeted slightly and waved her hand in front of her face, drawing Chris' gaze briefly although he turned away without comment when she remained silent. Repeating her action, this time she found the courage to speak up.

"Could you put that out, please?" she asked, indicating his cigarette with a look of disgust.

He merely looked at her blankly and she thought he was going to choose to ignore her request as he turned away again. However, she didn't notice that his lips twitched as if threatened by a smile and a moment later, he was pitching the mostly unsmoked butt out of the window, giving a few seconds for the smoke to clear completely before rolling his window back up. Still he didn't speak and Molly didn't exactly try to keep the conversation flowing, sitting back in her seat quietly having acknowledged his action with a mere nod. She shot sneaky little glances at him, but he didn't really cut an approachable figure as he slouched behind the steering wheel, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick, his eyes seemingly fixed on the road ahead and the taillights of the car in front.

"Uh ... where are we ... ah, you ..."

"The hotel."

"Oh."

More silence. A few furtive glances on both parts. A nervous cough from her; a weary sigh from him as he ran a hand over his eyes and reluctantly tried to lift the atmosphere, for his own sake more than anything else - the added tension wasn't really what he needed, given the day he had just had. Until a few moments ago, he had thought making it to the car would be as much as he would have left to contend with before barricading himself in his hotel suite - ideally with a newly replenished mini-bar. Now ... well, that idea was out, but he might as well do them both a favour ...

"So ya care to explain how ya came to be doin' your best 'rabbit-in-the-headlights' impersonation in front of my car?"

*****

TBC ...


	9. Ch 9

A/N: Massive thank yous to everyone who has reviewed so far and to anyone with the patience to still be looking out for this - final year of uni really took it's toll on my writing, but I graduate next week so here's hoping I can put in some more time, though I ain't promising anything! Sorry it's a bit shorter than the last few parts, but I figured it might be better than nothing! :)

9.

At first, Molly didn't know how to respond – why the sudden concern from Jericho of all people? First he's telling her all the comments about her figure are bullshit and now he's asking what's been going on? She couldn't help being suspicious of his motives … Maybe he was in on all this? But, no; that was ridiculous. Sure, in recent times, he had proved he could be as heartless as the rest of them, but he worked alone …

"So … What, I gotta guess?" he said with just a hint of impatience; his voice cutting into the thoughts of her overwrought mind, preventing her taking her conspiracy theories too far. "Frankly, I ain't that interested. I know Barbie and the Beast back there must have been hassling you, the rest …"

"Someone slashed the tyres of my car."

Chris turned to glance at her, not wanting to give away the fact that he was actually shocked by her admission and so, simply raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"What, all of 'em?"

"Just two – isn't that enough?"

"Guess so. And you reckon it was Trish?"

She shook her head with a little laugh, "She'd be too scared she'd break a nail – the smart money's on BuhBuh Ray Dudley, but I don't doubt she was behind it. And then, they just happened to be there to see my reaction – kinda convenient, huh?"

"What are you gonna do about it?"

Molly looked over at him as they stopped at a red light, a strange look on her face. "Nothing – get the tyres replaced and forget about it. Oh, and just feel grateful they didn't cut the brake cables for me!"

He shook his head grimly, inadvertently tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "So, let them get away with it in other words – no wonder people walk over you, you make it easy for them!"

"You don't know what it's like! Who would I tell? Who would care?" she demanded forcefully, her voice cracking with unshed tears, "You have no right to judge me – you don't KNOW!"

Shocked by such an outburst, he turned to her and would have yelled back had he not seen that anger was the only defence she had – and he of all people knew what that was like. In fact, he knew a lot more than she realised …

"You think I don't know?" he said, striving to check his own temper and keep his voice low. He was about to continue, unsure of what he was even trying to say or why he was even bothering at all, when he heard the driver of the car behind him blare its horn. Startled, he glanced up and saw the lights had changed to green and he was holding up the traffic.

"Look, Molly …"

The horn again.

"Yeah, yeah; the horn works - try your lights!" he shouted into the rear-view mirror, seeing the man waving his fist impatiently before blasting the horn again, loudly and persistently. "Bastard!" snapped Chris as he gave in, pointedly giving him the finger, without even turning round, before driving on.

As he was forced to focus on his driving for a while, an uneasy silence descended on the car and it lasted until they were turning into the parking lot of the hotel. A few times, Chris had looked as if he was about to speak, but the right words evaded him each time and he turned back to concentrate on the road ahead. Now, pulling into an empty space, he turned to Molly, who was looking at him warily.

"Thanks for the lift." she said; sounding as if she expected him to reveal there was some sort of catch, as if he would want to be paid or something.

"It's not like it was out of my way." he said with a shrug.

There was an awkward pause and then Molly opened her door and scrambled out.

"Wait!"

Chris didn't really know why he had said that or what he was planning to say next, but he couldn't help thinking of the look he had seen in her eyes – that same hurt, helpless look he had seen in the parking lot of the stadium when she had thought he was making fun of her. He may never have let that look be seen in his own eyes, but that didn't mean he couldn't identify with it.

"Don't let them get to you." he said finally; well aware of the inadequacy of his words but lost for anything better.

That same wry little smile and sad look as she gave him a brief nod which he knew she didn't really mean – they both knew it was a little late for that.

"Night, Chris."

And she was gone.

tbc...


End file.
