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The night before Summerslam is a tough one. Hell, from much before that, the weeks, months before Summerslam, ever since Stephanie's dear husband disappeared to deal with 'more important business' — what on earth could be more important than them? — and the masses of previously-injured wrestlers began returning, demanding the spotlight they had lost in their absence. Stephanie has been stressed since April, and it has only been getting worse.
Of course, Hunter isn't there to calm her. No, his children in NXT are more crucial, they need more help. Transplants from other countries, belts that mean nothing, pitiful crowds, he never even steps into the spotlight anymore. Stephanie doesn't like the Hunter that shows up when he speaks to those amateurs, if she didn't know any better, she would've thought he was too different, too soft, only a shadow of what he once was.
"I'm spending the night at the hotel today," he says in a phone call, as if that's a good excuse to not fly back home, to not be next to Stephanie, to not hold her until her fists stopped trembling. "Tomorrow's a big night, I want to be nearby in case anything happens."
What about me, Stephanie wants to scream, stomp, shake. I'm your wife, love me instead.
But she knows how it feels to be alone, she's gotten used to it by now. Maybe she had a moment of comfort from Hunter, but, ultimately, she knows this is what it's like. She never was and never will be more important than the company. Nobody is.
"That's fine," she says, looking at her nails. "Let me know how it goes."
Shane had been at least a bit of a constant in her life, despite the conflicted feelings. Stephanie doesn't know who had changed more, him or her, but whatever bond they had as children didn't seem to matter when he came back, trying to pull the rug out from underneath her. She tries to be kind to him, but he is so… him . Her kindness isn't limitless, and Shane deflects all of her attacks.
He's a McMahon, after all, impossible to deal with on a good day. No matter how she approaches him, he stays the same, cocky, surefire, with a grin on his stupid face. Even when she tries to incite rage in him, get a reaction she knows how to handle, something she deals with in her job and her home, he just won't work with her.
Fists are met with open palms, slaps to the face with sweet cheek kisses, boos with cheers, he'd even sent her flowers on Mother's Day. Her stress is his entertainment, she's starting to believe. As if every time she locks a door, he manages to jimmy open a window.
When the company decided to split the brands, give her full control over the flagship show, Stephanie thought that, well, at least now she won't have to see her brother. She won't have to be belittled anymore, made to feel like she's a teenager again, watching him get applauded right next to her. No, she can go back to being what she's best at being, the face of the company, the Billionaire Princess.
She thought it would be easier, especially with Mick on board, he can handle all the petty shit wrestlers seem to think up every day. All she'll have to do is paperwork, organization, nothing that can bring her over the edge she's been teetering on since she'd put away her winter coats in storage.
Shane's on his own show. Hunter isn't here, but that's alright, Stephanie knows how to live without him, anyway. She knows how to live without anyone. All she needs is speed dial for lonely nights and an assistant to bring her coffee for long days, and she can weather through anything.
That being said, she's still not surprised when Mick proves useless, when her office phone is constantly ringing with complaints, when not even Seth wants to get out of bed at one in the morning to attend to her.
She has to spend the night alone in her huge home, her daughters are away at camp, as they usually are during the summer. Stephanie can't even do any work, her most stressful match was the one she was least allowed to interfere with.
Stephanie can't talk to Brock directly anymore, Heyman will not authorize it. He was too large a ticket, too valid a fighter, had too short a temper, Heyman wouldn't let Stephanie use her silver tongue and put particular people in danger. There are consequences for foolish actions and poorly-thought word choices, Brock was the judge and jury, and Heyman gave her another one of his cards, just in case.
She wonders if that's a threat, but is too exhausted to complain, just wants the match to be settled. She can't even speak to Shane about all this, he seems to be actively avoiding her. Phone calls go straight to voicemail, emails are forwarded to more relevant personnel, the only time she can speak to him is in person, and she knows her short string will go up in flames when he'll do that dumb shrug.
The next day, Stephanie's trying to get dressed for the Pay-Per-View when her hands start to shake, something that had been happened for not too long, but long enough. One doctor proposed anaemia, another suggested calming tea, but Stephanie knows she would only be back to normal once her problems were solved and someone she trusted would let her use them as an emotional punching bag. She tries to steady herself on the vanity, but her hand gets caught and off pops her necklace.
"No!" she shouts, as if that could do anything. The pearls scatter on the ground, rolling across the carpet, lost in the pattern. Stephanie falls to her knees, distressed, desperately trying to grab all the innocent white pearls in her tight dress.
The tears threaten to form, burning her eyes, and Stephanie hangs her head low, trying to breathe steady. She isn't weak, isn't going to let something as silly as a snapped necklace break her. Not tonight.
She wears her second choice for her necklace and earrings, but it's fine. The stadium is busy already, teeming with stagehands and wrestlers, celebrities backstage, cameras getting set up, only more problems to be solved. When she snaps at Seth, she knows she's overreacting, but she doesn't know how to stop it. Mick offers help with the management of things, but Stephanie ignores him because she has to check on the belt and kick nobodies out.
Hunter's there, and she finally gets to see him again. He notices her necklace towards the end of their purely business conversation.
"That one? I thought you were going to wear the pearls I bought you," he asks, but there's nothing in his tone that makes Stephanie feel better.
"It broke," she says matter-of-factly, and she immediately berates herself for hoping that he would do something about it
"Shame," he says, and that's the end of it.
Stephanie doesn't ask if he'll stay with her for the Universal Championship match, doesn't ask if he'll go home with her tonight, doesn't ask if he still loves her. She touches her necklace and hopes the maid doesn't vacuum up any of the lost pearls.
Come the end of the Pay Per View, Stephanie is more exhausted than happy or sad, too tired and head pulsing too hard to process the damage done to Finn's shoulder, or to RAW's reputation. She pushes Mick off to check on Hunter's protégé, since she knows she won't be able to stay in the same room with the both of them without letting her emotions get the better of her. She's a harpy, a screaming bitch, bossy, Stephanie knows exactly what everyone says behind her back, and she'll never let anyone think she was a crybaby.
She's almost considering leaving early when the glancing blow strikes Randy. She drops her iPhone when she sees the shock of red blood pouring onto the mat. Every cell in her body is screaming damage control, her heart leaps out of her chest, and Stephanie whips around, pointing at the nearest stagehand and shouting for an ambulance.
This can't be happening, Stephanie panics, trying to keep an eye on the monitors while she runs to find more referees, anyone who could run in and save her company. Brock's ruthless, the crowd is only encouraging him when he gets on top of Randy and starts to punch him out of commission. Everything aimed to the head, of course.
"Someone get out there!" she yells, her own terror so foreign to her. "Get him off of him!"
Broken hands can never hold on long enough, and when Shane runs out to interfere, Stephanie thinks she hears something else break far away.
It feels like it's in slow motion, Brock picking up her brother.
Stephanie can't look for the aftermath.
She tries to find her phone.
Hunter runs in from outside the stadium, Finn having been carted off to the nearby hospital, his hand tight on her upper arm, just as nervous as her. "Steph, what the hell happened?" he shouts, Stephanie knows he doesn't mean to, he just gets loud sometimes, her dad's the same. "Are the cameras still on? Are the ringside doctors out there?"
Stephanie doesn't know if she has a good explanation, tongue tangling and knees shaky. "I don't know, Shane ran out there, but Brock just — " Her voice catches, and Hunter's hand lets go of her. "The cameras are off, the doctors are out there, but we still need to get Randy out."
Hunter doesn't have another word for her, and Stephanie realizes she refrained from mentioning Shane, too.
While the chattering, excited crowd files out of the arena, Randy is practically carried to an ambulance in the docking bay, Hunter supporting most of his weight. It's been awhile since Stephanie's seen such a brutal head wound, much less the sheer amount of blood pouring down Randy's face. The sight sends her heart aflutter, she has to steady herself while the mass of men shuffle outside, away from the crime scene.
She peers into the ring, carefully, not wanting anyone to notice her, and the pool of blood staining the mat makes her stomach churn. Shane is nowhere to be found, just a large group of workers in black shirts with black gloves starting to mop up the blood and take down the stage. Stephanie wonders if he's gone home, wonders if he's safe, and heads backstage to get a cup of water.
Stephanie pulls aside an assistant to help her find her cell phone while she gets a drink, and while the assistant is clearly still shaken, he nods and goes to search under tables and chairs. The ambulances are gone by now, the crowds finally dissipated, everyone leaving her for someplace safer and more comfortable. Wrestlers congratulate each other on their performances on their way out, not even one stops to acknowledge their boss.
When her cell phone is back in her hand, it's buzzing nonstop with calls, questions, and updates from apparently everyone in the damn company. Stephanie finds a corner to lean against when she answers a call from Mick, sent to the hospital alongside Finn.
"Stephanie, where is Shane?"
Not the topic that she'd wanted to discuss at all, but it would be irresponsible to ignore. "I don't know, Mick, he's probably gone home," She thinks of Shane with his family and wife, and feels a sharp pain in her chest. "It doesn't matter."
"What ? Steph, he probably has at least a concussion, what on earth are you doing letting him go home? He got an unprotected F5 from Brock Lesnar, he needs to see a doctor! You know the dangers, he needs help!"
Stephanie is tough — she does not waver. She is incessant, stable, and confident. Her mind is clear, her legs are strong. But, what on earth is she supposed to do when the world disappears beneath her feet?
She hangs up the phone with some form of muttered excuse, and lets her feet carry her to the clinic in the depths of the arena.
She hadn't been watching the monitor —
She'd hoped it had been resolved somewhat peacefully —
Shane's getting old, she knows his body still aches from his match against the Undertaker —
Brock had done so much damage to Randy, who knows what could've happened to Shane?
Stephanie's out of breath before she realizes it, and rounds the corner to find the small printed sign designating the backstage doctor's office.
She stumbles into the room, not entirely sure how she managed to get there in the first place, and Shane is just there, lying on the small examination bed, his jacket folded across his lap. He's too busy paying attention to the doctor standing next to him to notice Stephanie's entrance, but when she steps up to the foot of the bed, his look is one of surprise, with no hint of anger or bitterness to be found.
"You made it!" he chuckles, waving to his sister.
Quietly frantic, Stephanie tries to run down a mental checklist in her mind — he doesn't seem dazed or confused, his eyes aren't glassy, his voice sounds fine, and, oh, thank God, he's probably not concussed. She doesn't know if the relief shows on her face.
The doctor looks between the both of them and continues to speak, albeit a bit more conscientiously. "As I was saying, Shane, you're fine to go home tonight, but if you get a headache or start feeling like you can't remember what you were doing, give me a call, alright? As it stands, you'll just have some muscle soreness for now."
"Thanks, doc," Shane grins, and Stephanie remembers driving to the hospital almost two decades ago, wondering how many of his ribs were broken from his stunt off the titantron. She wonders why she hadn't been so frantic this Wrestlemania, either.
The doctor nods to the both of them and steps out of the clinic, leaving the siblings alone. Stephanie is glad, of course, glad he can read the room, because it seems as if she takes not even a step towards Shane before the floor beneath her gives way and she nearly collapses onto him.
"Woah, there!" he wheezes, Stephanie's body having shoved all the air out his lungs. His eyebrows are raised, eyes still bright, body language simple, no ire anywhere to be found. "What's up with you?"
"I cannot believe Lesnar did that to you, Shane," Stephanie can't stop herself when she starts, like her necklace breaking, the words pouring out without any time to think. "It was completely out of line, I didn't approve any of that, to think that he would go so far as to hurt you after doing that to Randy…!"
Shane wraps an arm around her shoulders when she starts to shake, her hands balling up into tight fists, her nails biting into her skin. "Hey, Steph," he says, somehow still so caring. "What're you doin'?"
"I jus' — " Stephanie sniffs, hiding her face in his chest, not wanting to let him see her cry. Even Hunter hasn't seen her cry, in sickness and in health, the one thing she ever managed to keep secret was her tears. "I'm sorry, I didn't know, if I had, I wouldn't have allowed it, but no one told me anything, so I couldn't do anything — "
Her throat clogs up and she stops speaking, terrified to let it break. Shane's hand, large and warm, rubs her arm, and when he speaks, she can feel the rumble deep in his chest. "C'mon, don't be like that. We didn't know any of that was gonna happen."
"I should've known," she says, a hand going up to her face to wipe her face, even though she knows it's going to smudge her makeup. She tries to look him in the eyes, but can't bring herself to do it, her face unnaturally warm, her emotions too close to the brink.
"I was so stupid, thinking Brock Lesnar could... could control himself." She says his name with disgust, through teeth, feeling her shoulders and stomach tense, wanting to wash her hands of everything, of Brock, of Randy, of the company. "I'm sorry you got caught up in it, I swear I'll..."
Shane's laugh snaps her attention away from the murkiness in her chest, and she sniffs again, feeling the tension in her jaw relax some. "C'mon, what's goin' on with you? Steph, you know as well as I do that this is just what wrestlers are like." His hand is hot on Stephanie's shoulder, and the weight calms her some, as if it were a salve. "He needs some repercussion for his actions, but you don't have to beat yourself up like this."
"I'm still sorry," Stephanie says, almost like a whisper. "This is my fault." The apologies don't feel natural to her, but she's not sure why. She's never had to apologize before, but, then again, she thinks, she's never had to watch her brother be F5'd by a beast of nature that was legally and morally under her charge. "I wish I could've done more."
"Hey, c'mere," he raises his other arm, gesturing for a hug. Stephanie doesn't move, darting her eyes away, focusing ashamedly on the small dots of wetness on the collar of his shirt.
Shane rolls his eyes and pulls Stephanie in anyway, nearly lifting her off the ground. Shocked, she stumbles, bracing her arm across his chest, her face dragged into the crook of his neck. He smells familiar, but different, sweat, cologne, and something more metallic.
"Shane," Stephanie complains, wanting to tear herself away from him, but not finding the strength in her arms to do so.
She feels warmth and pressure on the side of her head, tears finally springing to her eyes when she realizes that he's giving her a kiss.
Stephanie breathes in deep, biting the inside of her bottom lip, the casual kindness of his gesture making her throat sting. She gives up the fight and squeezes her eyes shut, just wanting to let him do what she knows he'll do, be the kind big brother he always was, that she had forced herself to forget about.
"I'll always love my baby sister," Shane says.
The pressure in her chest and throat is too much, almost like some sort of illness, Stephanie thinks she's near hyperventilation when she finally lets herself cry. Shane, endless in his compassion, doesn't break the hug, helping her keep steady until the world is remade under her feet, until her tight hands on his chest stop shaking.