A/N: OMFG SUPER UPDATES. But I'd like um... some reviews, please? The last time I updated 159 people read it and I got one review. I write this shit for you guys, so I'd like to know what you think. Dig? This for Randy, whose win Monday night almost made up for Jeff Hardy facing Punk at The Bash instead of Edge. Almost.

"What the fuck is this, Lily?"

Lily sighed weakly, pressing her fingers to her eyes. "I don't... really know."

"Well, did someone try to break in?" Jim put his briefcase down on the hardwood floor, dropping his coat on top of it as he turned to look at the smashed window. "When did it happen? Were you even here?"

"I..." She shook her head. "No. I wasn't."

"Where the hell were you?"

"My mom's."

Jim sighed angrily, rubbing his forehead before he drove his fingers back through his hair. "All right. I'm calling the police."

"What! Why?"

"Because someone tried to break in, Lil!" He stalked into the kitchen and snapped on the light, heading for the phone next to the coffee machine. "Did you stay at your mom's last night?"

"No, I came back."

"And the window wasn't broken then?"

"No. I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" Jim put the receiver down. "Are you not telling me something?"

"No. I don't remember, Jim." She touched her head. "I have a headache."

"Jesus Christ, Lily!" He snatched her wrist and pulled her arm out, pushing her sleeve past her elbow. "You're fucking bruised!"

"I ran into the door today. At work."

"You ran into the door," he repeated.

"Yeah."

"You're so full of shit, Lil."

Lily closed her eyes tightly. "Jim, please. I'm so sore and—"

"Why are you sore?"

"Because I worked all day, Jim!"

Jim narrowed his eyes. "You're lying. You're not telling me something."

"All right, Sherlock Holmes, when you find the wrench in the Conservatory, tell me. Right now, I'm going upstairs to get some rest because I've had a long—"

He grabbed her shoulder. "It's Orton, isn't it?"

She paused, turning her head to look at him. "What?"

"Orton. He did this to you."

Bile rose to her throat, but she forced it back down with a laugh. "You've got to be kidding me, Jim."

"These are finger marks." He laced his hand around her bicep, trying to fit his fingers to the shapes. They were thinner and practically half the size, but they matched for the most part. "He put his hands on you."

"You're obviously looking for something that isn't really there. Maybe you should—"

"Don't fucking psychoanalyze me, Lily! Randy Orton put his goddamn hands on you, and he's going to fucking pay for it."

Lily widened her eyes as he stormed away. "What are you doing?"

He was already on the phone, dialing furiously. "I'm calling the fucking cops."

"Wait, Jim—"

"Don't fucking start, Lily." He just stared at her, shaking his head, receiver pressed to his ear. "I can't believe you'd lower yourself to protect him."

"He didn't do this, Jim!"

"I doubt that, Lily. Hello?" He turned away from her. "Yes, I'd like to report an assault."

"Jim, please don't."

"Yeah, I do. Randy Orton."

Randy sat alone in the locker room, staring at the wall as he slowly wound tape around his wrist. He could see himself in the mirror next to him, and no matter how hard he tried, the throbbing gash near his hairline didn't seem to just disappear.

His fingers clenched.

"Randy, we're cutting a promo in five minutes," Cody Rhodes started as he came in, but he paused, hand on the doorknob. "You okay, man?"

Randy looked up. "What?"

"I said we're cutting our promo in five minutes."

"Oh." Randy went back to staring at the wall.

Cody frowned. "Randy, I think you're taped up."

"Huh?"

"You've got about half a roll on there," he pointed out.

Randy looked down, frowning at the superfluous black medical tape around his wrist. His fingers were going numb from it. "Oh. Thanks."

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine."

Cody shut the door behind him, leaning back against it. "How's therapy going?"

Randy met his gaze slowly. "What?"

"Therapy. For..." Cody swallowed. "For your... anger problem."

Randy winced as his temple tightened from grinding his teeth. "It's going fine."

"That's good."

Randy looked up at him when he didn't move. "Did you need something?"

"Oh." Cody scrambled, pulling open the door. "No. I just came to tell you—"

"You can go then." Randy stood up, dragging the belt with him. "I'll be there when I'm supposed to be."

Cody nodded. "You got it, man. I'll see you out there."

Randy glared at his reflection as the door shut. His head looked worse than it did yesterday. The gash was getting brighter, almost vibrant, and the white bandage he'd try to conceal it with barely covered anything.

He thumped his fist against the counter.

What a stupid fucking bitch. She should've been groaning underneath him, begging him to fuck her. How could she just... reject him like that?

No one rejected Randy Orton.

If they did, they usually ended up dead.

"Randy." Ted knocked as he opened the door. "Time's up. Let's go."

"Give me a minute."

"No. We're shooting now. Everyone's waiting on you."

"Well, they can wait another goddamn minute."

Ted stuck his tongue in his cheek, his foot tapping. "You know, man, my dad's The Million Dollar Man and I don't act like the world's at my disposal. Time doesn't wait for Randy Orton."

"Don't fucking lecture me, Junior, all right? Tell them I said I'll be there in a minute."

"Tell them yourself. I'm not your messenger."

"Ted—" Randy jumped when the door slammed, and he couldn't stop the growl from escaping his throat. He smashed his fist against the mirror and tore out of there, flapping the belt around as he stalked down the hallway.

"There you are, finally." John Cena threw his hands up. "Are we gonna do this, or are we gonna do this?"

"Stop talking like a southerner," Randy snapped. "You're from Massachusetts, asshole."

John stepped back. "Someone woke up beside the wrong woman this morning."

Randy's narrowed gaze followed him until he walked out of the shot. The camera started rolling and Josh Mathews came up beside him, timidly holding the mic out.

Randy kept his eyes off set.

"Randy, since Triple H won the Battle Royal tonight, have you gotten the slightest bit nervous that he might—"

"Josh, Josh"—Randy put his hand on the mic, pushing it down—"Josh. Listen. I'm Randy Orton, okay? I don't get nervous. If Triple H thinks he's going to win the belt back at The Bash he is sorely, mistaken."

"But Triple H has been known to—"

"I know what Triple H has been known to do. All right? I've heard enough about it. Let's go over what Randy Orton has been known to do." Randy looked up and licked his lips. "I won the World Heavyweight Championship when I was only twenty-four years old. I was the youngest champion in WWE history, okay? I've knocked down the legends—Jake the Snake, Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair. Hell, I even punted Triple H's old man twice, in the skull." He sniffed slightly, fixing the belt. "I punted his brother-in-law, I sent him to the hospital. And most importantly?" Randy half-smiled. "I kissed his darling wife good-night. Right after I DDT'd her."

Josh Mathews swallowed weakly.

"So to answer your question, Josh?" Randy averted his gaze, waiting for Cody and Ted to join him, but he stopped completely as two police officers stepped through the back exit, shutting the door quietly.

Josh blinked. "Yes, Randy?"

Randy shook his blurry gaze, glancing down at Josh. "If anyone should be nervous, it's Triple H. Not only am I going to keep my title, but I'm going to do something far worse than anything I've done to his family."

Josh waited. "What's that?"

"I'm going to destroy him."

Randy stared at Josh for a second or two before he turned, walking out of shot.

Cena came into view. "Now, hold on a second, Orton—"

Randy continued walking toward the locker room.

Cena frowned. "Randy?"

One of the cops stepped up to him. "Mr. Orton?"

Randy's fingers curled as he halted, head down. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip before he lifted his gaze. "Yes?"

"I'm Detective Sanderson and this is Officer Giamatti." He flashed his badge quickly, stuffing it back into his inside pocket. "We need you to come with us."

Randy let the belt drop from his shoulder, holding it loosely at his side. "Is there a problem, officer?"

"We need to ask you a few questions."

"I'm not answering anything without my attorney."

"Fair enough. You can call him on the way to the station."

Randy's eyes sizzled. "Am I being arrested?"

"No," he said airily. "We'd just like to ask you a few—"

"Questions, I got it." Randy let out a breath. "Can I ask you something?"

Detective Sanderson nodded.

"What's this pertaining to?"

Officer Giamatti stepped up. "The assault of Lily Matthews."

"Assault?"

"Mr. Orton, we don't want to do this here, in front of your co-workers. Please, just come with us."

"Who says I assaulted her?"

Giamatti took his arm. "We're not at liberty to discuss that here."

"No!" Randy wrenched away from him. "Tell me. Who said I did this?"

Sanderson sighed. "Her boyfriend believes you may have."

"Her boyfriend?"

"Yes. Now, please, Mr. Orton, come with us or we'll be forced to take a more serious course of action."

Randy bared his teeth slightly. "Fine. Just let me do one thing before I go."

"What's that?"

"Put some pants on."

A/N: Oh God, Randy, don't ever put pants on. Review.