there is violence in my heart

He remembers when he first met her – didn't really meet her, just kind of saw her from a distance. She was all curves and chocolate curls, all packaged in some tight little business suit. Infinitely more confident in that three second span than any of the guys in the locker room had been in the handful of months that he'd known them.

Some guys really couldn't tell just by looking at her. Oh, but he could. Those big blue eyes could catch you off-guard, so you had to be careful. The way she could look at some guys like they were nothing wasn't anything compared to how she looked through some guys like they were less than that.

And that mouth.... Feral grins and sneers and bared teeth, who knew if she could even smile? He imagined she could eat you up whole, though, if she wanted.

Straight-back and ever poised. One might think admirable, even.

A far cry from the self-indulgent whore that Hunter and Ric often made her out to be.

Heels click stridently from around the corner, and he looks around and hopes his mouth isn't hanging open. She cuts in front of Eric like he's a dust mote in her sunlight, and when she takes his hand, he thinks for a moment she's made of silk or something.

"Hi, Randy," she beams up at him, ignoring Eric's fuming behind her, as piano-fingers squeeze around his hand tighter than Eric's earlier shake. "How ya' doin'?"

"Very good, Stephanie," he tries not to look at her open cleavage. "How're you?"

&

He doesn't know how he recognizes her so quickly. She's changed so much physically, yet still has that same indefinable quality to her. She's just slapped the taste out of her brother's mouth and is storming around backstage, barking orders like she runs the place. It kind of sickens him, looking at her now, womanly hips contrasting so violently with her fury. She looks much softer, but all the right edges are still there, buried beneath years and layers of new motherhood.

Next time they speak, he's on a stupid fucking tier in the ring as she angles herself self-consciously behind a podium up on the ramp. She's got flowing chestnut locks, glasses, and a loose suit – her confidence a shadow, struggling through in her newfound position of power. Less delectable than he recalls. Her collar is unbuttoned but folded in modestly, and he can't help but scowl.

"Who's first?"

He steps up through the crowd and matches her eyeline. His questions are cleverly and articulately averted, and that burning in his chest flares at her ineffective attempts to placate his wounded ego, at her plugging Cena and his supposed 'deservedness.' She looks like the cat that ate the canary as he squirms with aggravation under her indifference toward him.

Then fucking Cody Rhodes is running his mouth, and it's all he can do not to drop the little shit right there. The kid's bringing up the business with CM Punk from months before (who gives a shit now?) and she's getting this sneer on her face like she just smelled warm garbage.

"But instead of suspending Orton," she holds out, like she's got a captive audience, and he's struck by her bravado for the first time. Her eyes narrow in on him, and he flinches. "Orton will have to face CM Punk, right here on Raw, tonight." Excuse me? He gapes openly at her audacity, but she continues untroubled, "And in order to ensure there is a winner," how is she looking past him like that? Does she not see him? "It will be a 30-man lumberjack match."

He wants to rip that smug look off her pretty face. "What?!" He hollers above the cheering around him and the roaring in his head, tearing the fucking mic from Cody. "Are you kidding me?! A lumberjack match, with thirty people around this ring?" The lights are reflecting off her glasses, and he can't see her eyes. He rages inside. "That is gonna ensure NOTHING but total chaos!"

"I respect—"

"How can you—"

"—fully disagree, Randy," her voice cuts through like a scalpel, and there he sees her, and what could be impatience or even boredom slithering into her expression. "Next question."

&

She doesn't deem him worthy of acknowledgement. He hasn't had a meeting with her, hasn't found her in the halls to have a word. To let her know where he stands and where she ought to. And yet Chris fucking Jericho can saunter in and out of her office like he's worth a damn. People say they have a 'history.'

From what he's gathered, she's had a 'history' with just about everyone in the back.

He'd like to use that against her, see her break and maybe even cry, maybe get her angry at him. He's seen her ferocity – it's a thing of beauty, when you really look at it. The way she lashed out at Jericho had his blood boiling and made his palm sweat with anticipation, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest as she met the runt verbal blow for verbal blow. She seemed so unafraid, and she had obviously done this before. It was nothing but a gag bit for her.

In that moment, he had truly envied Jericho, despite the fact that pathetic shithead had nothing on him. Jericho had been a breath away from that woman last week; how he could stand there with his hands at his sides and just take it…

He laughs to himself, his insides twisting wretchedly at the mere thought of what he would've done in the same position. Unwarranted, a multitude of fantastic and deadly ideas ripple through his brain, and he shivers as each and every one of them hit down his ribcage and trickle into the pit of his gut.

Subconsciously his hands clench at his sides, before he knocks at the door that has her name boldly stated at the top.

"Come in," she rasps from inside.

Ill. Vulnerable. He thinks of a fawn in the woods when he sees her curled up on the couch. She ducks her head and almost blushes, muttering into the receiver of her cell, "And, uh … please, tell her mommy loves her. Okay, thanks." The endearing term races sickness up his throat, exacerbated by those unassuming blue eyes staring up at him, now.

"Steph, uh, may I sit down?" He shouldn't have to ask for permission. Why the hell is he asking for fucking permission?

"Sure," she allows him, naturally, and she scoots forward, her thighs bound tight within her leather pants – and what mother wears leather pants? His mouth goes a bit dry. "What can I do for you?"

Her ease unnerves him, this whole thing unnerves him. She's barely said twelve words to him in the last week or so, and now she's acting like this isn't anything; like he isn't sitting there in his gear, like he isn't twice her size and could break her in half, could do whatever he wanted with and to her. She doesn't fear him, and he thinks he knows why. And that genuinely concerns him.

"Well, uh, Stephanie, I just wanted to say that I think you did the right thing last week when you fired Chris Jericho," he tells her with only slanted truth behind his words. "The way that he talked to you was completely inappropriate." This part was always easy. Glossing it over, making it better. Coupled with the fact she's a woman and he's – well -- him, he should make it out of here unscathed and for the better. "In fact, I think--"

"Randy." Her fingertips brush his kneepad and he looks down and hesitates. Looks back up and sees her half smile. "I think I know where you're going with this and," she gives a little toss of her hair and leans in, and he leans in, too, "don't worry. I'm not gonna fire you."

He exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding and he drops his head, relief and gratitude flooding through him like a fresh spring. "So you can stop…" her voice tapers off from its comforting lull, and at the pause he begins to draw his face up, "… sucking up to me," her illness serves for a growl, now, and he can't believe the glint behind her eyes, "And get out," she's fucking standing over him – OVER him, "of my office."

He's to his feet and less than a foot from her and it's got the dizzying effects of déja vu or a shot of Jack. He would make better use of this than Jericho had, if he weren't so infuriated with the way she's got her chin tilted up or that squint that says she's got him all figured out. "'Sucking up to you?'"

"Yes." It's a challenge. Does she know what he could do to her? Right now? In her office?

"I was being nice." And he really fucking was, you stupid bitch. "You think I'm worried about you firing me?" She flutters her lashes pointedly and he wants to rip them out, one by one. "Stephanie, your dad is coming back tonight. If anyone needs to be worried about being fired, it's you."

"That's really none of your—"

"None of my business," he booms over her and relishes in her momentary surprise at his nerve. "None of my business, right?" All at once it's rolling into him and into life and he grits his teeth against it.

Here it comes, "Is it none of my business that no one respects you?"

Like a tidal wave rising, "Is it none of my business that the only reason you have this job is because you're Vince McMahon's daughter?"

Flooding him with dense, unfounded courage, "Is it none of business that everyone laughs behind your back?"

And a blinding temper, "Is it none of my business that if your name wasn't McMahon, you would be a complete—"

Only fueled by those insufferably blue eyes, "—NOBODY!"

She swings faster than he has time to react and – crack! – her open palm comes across his cheek, sending spit flying and leaving a wicked sting. It only takes him a moment to recover and he's in her face, closer than before, he can smell her and see the smudges of her eyeliner and the flecks of green in her eyes. He threatens her with his proximity, menaces against her, and when she doesn't budge, he can't even swallow.

It's like a terrible knot caught in his throat and god damn it he doesn't think he's ever felt this ignited, this furious, this fucking murderous.

Author's Note: Was rewatching some Raw clips from earlier this year and got to thinking how really powerful some of the Randy and Stephanie stuff was during the height of that feud. He was so absolutely psychotic, it was AWESOME. So, I thought I'd take my first crack at writing WWE fanfic. Might be more to come, so tell me what you think! :D