Malum

by AeonBlue

Part 2 to Analeptic. Meg is on the run from an entirely new disaster, but is it all in her mind? Randy tries to hold her, and himself, together while sorting it - and his past - out. Joe, meanwhile, finds out if he really burnt his bridges with Meg.

10. Seventy Hours in Heaven

This one's going to be a text bomb, guys. Sorry not sorry? The title did say seventy hours...

(Oh – and for anyone questioning the repeated themes, there's a reason. It'll become clear.)

This chapter wouldn't have been possible without all the love and kindness from the amazing Nattiebroskette...if you haven't read her work, please do. :)

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(Nobody's Counting, Yet)

The drive around the bay to the resort took exactly fifteen minutes for Meg to complete, which was half the time it took to ease Randy out of the SUV and in the building. She begged him to wait for her to get the keycard and come back, but he insisted on walking in with her. Meg allowed it only because Randy seemed to have forgotten about the luggage; she reasoned she could drop him in their room and run back alone to grab their bags. 'He's not exactly going to be able to chase me down, anyway. One quick lap back to grab our stuff, and we're all set.' The irony of their reversal of situations wasn't lost on Meg, and she had to work to suppress a smile the entire way up to their room. 'Wasn't too long ago he did this for me...and I should thank him.' Settling him on the bed and swearing him to zero movement, Meg ran back down to their SUV, grabbed all of their bags, and was grateful for the help a bellboy offered in getting them up to their room. Letting herself in and backing through the door, Meg was smart enough to avert her eyes and call over her shoulder into the room. 'How many times have I walked in on him changing? Eesh.'

"I'm back, Ran. And I checked, room service runs late, so we're all set." He was prone on the bed, shirt already off, looking at the doorway, his head resting on his forearms. "And clearly you're ready for bed, so nevermind."

"Wha- no, Meg, I was – if you – I should have asked -"

"Shut up, Randy. I'm teasing. I told you I'd work on your back. Doesn't mean I'm not ordering dinner first. I'm starving, and you're thinning out like you're on a cut cycle. Accidental or intentional?"

He shrugged as best he could from the position, and listened as she ordered both chicken marsala and pasta puttanesca, plus extra plates. Meg side-eyed him before scuttling into the bathroom and shutting the door so he couldn't hear the rest of her call. After a few minutes she emerged, a smug look on her face, and dropped herself heavily on the edge of the bed. "Forty-five minutes for food, which is good, because guess what you're doing before I work on your back?"

Randy groaned. "Meg, c'mon. Do you know how hard it was to get my shirt off?"

"Probably very, which is why you should have waited for me instead of being a stubborn asshole."

"I was being helpful," he pouted, "And you're just unappreciative." He moved his left arm just enough to try for a swat at her, with Meg seeing his tattoos for the first time in over a week. She cringed slightly and waited, pleasantly surprised when nothing happened, and continued to stare at them. Randy noticed, but said nothing about it. "So, what did you want me to do before room service got here?"

"Hm?" Meg shook her head, trying to focus on him and not his arms. "Honestly? I don't remember. It sucks being flaky like this. I can't remember anything, anymore. I mean, look at my fucking phone and that whole mess. It's so dumb. I'm so dumb."

Randy felt his heart sink. Part of his plan in bringing Meg here was to put her back in that bubble of safety he felt he built for her when they were in Tampa, and he was failing, quickly. 'You can't fix her, but you're supposed to help her...what helps right now? Think.' He reached across the bed and grabbed a handful of her shirt, pulling harder than he needed to, given that she was more lost in her own thoughts than she was paying attention to him. She half-yelped in surprise and toppled sideways, landing on her left side and wincing. 'Fucking brilliant, Orton. Way to pay attention.' Meg stayed there, still, nearly nose-to-nose with him. Randy shifted only enough to lay a hand on her hip, hoping he wasn't overstepping.

"Meg, you're not dumb. Something happened to you. You have to understand that. You just don't remember what." 'If I get this out of the way now, we have three days to...whatever. So, let's go.'

"And do you know?" Meg's eyes were suddenly unreadable, and Randy began to regret bringing up the topic.

"No. But...when you were in the accident, an EMT called me. He said you wrote my phone number on your leg." Meg offered up a half smile, and Randy continued. "You remember?" Meg shrugged, nodded, and put her hand over Randy's on her hip.

"I thought I was going to die. I wanted someone to come and claim the-"

"-Anyway," Randy continued, cutting Meg off, "He still calls me and checks up on you, makes sure you're doing okay. You make an impression on people, Meg, you know that?" He slid his hand out from under Meg's and up to her shoulder, rubbing small circles there with his thumb, knowing he about to upset her. "The last time he – Remy – called, he said some of the accident records were available."

Meg immediately perked up. "Then I want to -"

"No. You're not going to." 'Wait. When did she write my number down? Was she awake after the accident happened? It couldn't have been before the accident, unless...'

"Randy, that isn't fair." Meg's eyes switched from interested to hurt.

"No, hold on a second. Let me finish. Please?" Meg pursed her lips, but nodded. "You – even though we both know you don't remember all of it – know more about what happened to you than I do. I'm starting from way behind you. Can I ask him for your records? Not so you don't see them, but so I can?"

"I- I don't-" Meg's voice was starting to waver, and Randy knew it was time to move on. 'Enough for her, for right now. I still have things to kick around.'

"Just think about it. I'm not going to do anything until...unless you say so. Except shower. I'm sick of the perfume. And the lipstick." He smiled and squeezed her shoulder, earning a watery laugh from Meg. The pain in Randy's back was starting to radiate down his legs, in part from the position he was laying in, in part from how wrecked his spine was. He made his way to the bathroom, thankful that the shower was a walk-in wall-jet model. He made it out just in time to see Meg, newly in a t-shirt and thin pajama pants, splitting out dinner between their two plates, a bottle of wine open and breathing on the table, and several others sitting beside it.

"Feeling any better? I thought about it, the shower was the thing I wanted to ask you about before dinner. I did remember." 'And I'm making myself let everything else go. I didn't see anything wrong on your arms, I didn't hear them, I feel normal for now. I'm not there yet, all the way, but you're here, and this is okay.'

"Actually, yeah. I feel better. And I'm glad you remembered." Randy smiled and tried to step forward, but his back chose that moment to catch him in his lie, his legs starting to buckle as his hands snapped up to his back for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. Meg caught his weight as best she could and guided him toward the nearest chair at the table.

"Still not a good liar. Have dinner – you were always a sucker for Italian. I'll pour us some wine and work on your back after."

"Wine?" 'Didn't she do this with Joe? Joe talked way too much about what happened after. She remembered I like Italian? What is this about?'

"My treat. You have no idea what damage I did to Jackson's credit cards." Meg winked.

They ate and drank in a comfortable silence, the tension of their previous conversation seemingly forgotten, and Meg helped Randy over to the bed once they were done. Both were pleasantly heady from the wine, and Meg was far closer to Randy than she needed to be. 'Watch it, Meg. A bottle of wine and a back massage are a bad combination. Or a good combination.' Meg leaned in towards him and breathed deeply. "Much better. Less 'Eau de Movie Star' and more 'Parfum de Orton'."

"Floral was never my thing." 'When did wine make me sloshed? She keeps touching me. This is nice.'

"You're gonna be bummed, then. The only oil I have with me is my rose scented stuff. I can do your back without it, but it isn't going to feel as good."

"That's different, though. That's not floral, that's you. And I want it to feel good."'For fuck's sake, Orton, shut up. Shut up now.'

Meg gave a smile that approached devious and passed a small bit of the oil between her palms. "It's not like my hands are going to warm it before I start, so...sorry when this is freezing." True to form, Meg was like ice, and Randy's entire body startled when she first settled her fingers and then the flats of her hands against his back and began to work.

"Why didn't you use this last time? It's...really..." He trailed off, content.

Meg, far past relaxed and well into blissful, made a non-committal noise and topped off her wine glass. After a slight pause to drink, she moved from his right side on the bed to straddle his left leg. "Is this okay? I have a better angle." She pressed the heels of her hands deeply into Randy's back and leaned over him, sliding up the length of his spine and back down, stopping when she hit the cottony edge of his sleepwear. "Did you want me to grab a towel?" Meg started to lift off of him. "You're gonna have this all over your pants. Here, hang on, I'll-"

"Nah, Meg...stay." Randy didn't want her to move; he was reveling in the fact that she was in a wonderfully loose headspace where nothing seemed to be bothering her and the idea of touch was both appealing and enjoyable to her. 'Does she know how she feels? This is killing me. I shouldn't say – think that.'

Meg drank deeply from her wine glass and settled back over his leg, adjusting her hips over him. "I'm too heavy, then? I'll move." Randy, now thoroughly confused, looked back over his shoulder at Meg. Her head was tilted at a Cheshire-Cat angle, the smirk on her face daring him to challenge her. 'Meg, you are thoroughly potted. Do one of three things: Drink more and get him to drink more with you so this is equally amusing for you both, or make this the massage it should have been the first time, or just go the fuck to sleep.'

"Meg, I can't reach my wine glass from here. And you're not going anywhere." Randy slipped one arm out from under his head, and Meg watched as he reached back and closed his fingers around a handful of the fabric of her pajama pants. "There. What'd you used to call that? A wardrobe malfunction?" He chuckled. "Now you're stuck."

"Oh, I have so many possible solutions for that..." Meg shimmied over him, feeling the waistband of her pants slip slightly, and laughed. Randy felt a wash of relief come over him when the sound came easily to Meg, didn't seem like something she had to dig from the bottoms of her bones. A wash of something else, too, deeper within himself as she moved, but he forced it down.

Leaning up, Meg began the process of rolling the heels of her hands up and down his back all over again. Randy could feel her hair occasionally drag across his back when she leaned far enough over him; her breath was warm and sweet against his skin as she worked. "Any better? A lot of your problem is stress. The longer you lay here, I can feel things move that I'm not even really working on."

'I bet, Meg...' "Well...like what, that you're not working on?"

Meg, taking advantage of his shift in attention, shoved herself backwards off his leg, nearly sliding off the foot of the bed. "Gotcha! And my pants didn't even have to come off." Meg winked, and Randy couldn't suppress the groan that welled out of him. "I'm going to open a second bottle. You sit up, and I'll show you what I mean. Your lower back is fine, but I chased the mess up to your shoulders. That's the 'moving' I'm talking about." Meg rambled as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and swayed to the table, laughing softly as she first tried to coordinate her feet for walking, then her hands for a corkscrew, waistband still slipping. 'And they're still not talking to you, Meg. He brought up the accident, you're touching him, his arms are right there, and everything's-'

She was jarred from her thoughts as Randy walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and closing his hands over hers in a show of support for her efforts with the corkscrew. "Need any help? You looked like you were getting beat by a wine bottle." 'You're lucky, Orton. A lesser man couldn't will that away. Not that you wanted to. Are you hearing yourself? Go drink more.' He leaned down over her shoulder, trying to see what she had selected. "Then again...I don't know shit about wine, other than the first one you picked was great."

'Meg, don't do this, don't do this, stop, you're really making a big-' Meg leaned against him, tilting her head up and back, not realizing how close his face was to hers, grazing his cheek as she moved, her voice gentle in his ear. "Pinot noir first, zinfandel second. There's a pinot grigiot in there somewhere, and I'm saving the dessert bottle for last." Her voice was light, and Randy felt himself feather apart listening to her, feeling what he swore were her eyelashes against his cheek.

Working her hands under his, she managed to get the cork out of the bottle, then spun in his arms to face him, wine in hand. "We both still have a glass each to finish. This can breathe for a while. C'mere, sit down, drink – you need to catch up to me – and I'll work out your shoulders til you lay back down." She pushed back against him, trying to nudge him toward the bed.

"Then what?"

"Then I finish you off." Meg blinked, hard, and then ducked her head down in a fit of giggles. "Oh my God, Meg," she squeaked at herself, "That sounded so wrong." She had to gasp to catch her breath, and when she looked up, her cheeks were pink and Randy was working hard to suppress a wicked grin, though it wasn't directed at her face. "What I mean is, then I -" She followed his gaze down, to her hips, where the lilac edge of her panties had begun to peek over the top of her pajama pants following her twist against his body. "Oh, please. They're nothing to write home about." Meg started a one-handed adjustment on her waistband, but Randy's hands gently lifted her fingers away.

"They're...pretty. Leave it. Get your wine glass." Randy's voice was low, almost sweet, the way honey would sound if it could have a choice in the matter. Meg, somewhere between intrigued and confused, simply reached behind her for what was left of her pinot noir and followed him to the bed.

"Shoulders. I was finishing your shoulders. Sitting, so you can finish your wine. So, sit."

Randy eased onto the foot of the bed, giving her ample space to kneel behind him, watching her movements in the mirror over the dresser across from the bed.

"Enjoying the show?" Meg nudged Randy, and slowly finished her glass of wine before setting it to the side and moving to touch him. When she did, she leaned deeply into his shoulders, teasing at various knots and trigger points, using the mirror to gauge his reactions. Randy finished his wine with equal degrees thoughtfulness and agacerie, and considered what would – or could – happen after a second bottle.

'It's already open. And she said something about dessert. Oh, what the fuck. It's innocent.' "Can I pour the next one, or is there a right and wrong way to do this?"

"Right? In the glass. Wrong? When you spill it," Meg teased. Randy feigned hurt feelings, falling dramatically backward onto the bed and flipping Meg over with him. He dared roll her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her and settling his hands over her lower back.

"Do you know how much I missed just having you around?" The sincerity in his voice was startling even to him.

"Not nearly as much as I did, Ran. Trust me. It's nice to just feel...safe. To feel anything." Meg's smile was small as she propped herself up on his chest, and Randy hated the look that loomed behind her eyes like fog. "And I'm glad tonight is a freebie. We still have three days for anything we want."

"And what is it you want?" Meg ducked her head; Randy had to bring a hand up under her chin to get her to make eye contact with him again. "Really, Meg. Anything. Or nothing at all, both are good."

"Right now? More wine. To finish your back. Probably a few things I shouldn't want."

'Oh, really. You too? Me, too.' "And if I asked?"

Meg smiled, slid off of Randy, and refilled their glasses. "Then I'd finish my wine, work on your shoulders, and ignore the question."

Randy rolled his eyes and half-growled at Meg, his feint at annoyance more amusing than anything else. She returned with two glasses of zinfandel, passing one to him while she sipped at hers. "Whatcha think?"

"I'm supposed to think? You didn't tell me dinner involved a quiz."

"I mean," Meg's tone teasingly exasperated, "Do you like it, or is it not your thing?"

"There's something...raspberry? In it. I think. Is that normal, or is that one too many shots to the head?"

Meg checked the bottle, giving Randy another look at the edge of her panties. Her waistband had tilted further askew over her hip, and he could now see that the side-panels were some sort of lace, while the front and back were made of something that looked soft. 'It's not satin – it doesn't have that stripper, fakey shiny look. But it looks soft. Cotton? Lace and cotton?'

"Well, fuck me."

Randy's mind slammed the brakes on, went reeling, couldn't process what she had said as a request, statement, or question. He shook his head, looked into his wine glass, and then back up at Meg.

"You were right. Notes of raspberry." She paused, bemused. "What's the look for? You're that surprised you guessed right?"

Randy gave a dry chuckle, and began to backpedal up the bed toward the pillows. "Yeah...I'm...something like that. Grab the wine and the corkscrew, and come up here?"

Meg showed no hesitation. "Thought you'd never ask." She circled the bed and got in next to him, unabashedly pushing his arm over her shoulders. 'God, Meg, you're drunk. You're not used to wine. You're not used to him.' Randy, for his part, pulled her in closer and leaned down over her head, murmuring into her hair.

'I should have done this first. They shouldn't have been first.'

"Hmm?"

"Nothing, Meggie. Nothing. Pour again? And tell me about your drive." 'So that I don't have to tell you what I said. Please, don't. Because if you ask again, I might.'

Meg leaned into him, telling him about the scenery, some of the more interesting characters she had met at gas stations and truck stops, her trading the security of a hotel for sleeping in parking lots – and it was there Randy bristled. Meg felt the tension come back into his arms, and she squeezed herself against him to be reassuring.

"Well, I made it, didn't I?"

"Nine lives. Maybe you are half-cat, Meg."

Meg paused, befuddled, then tittered, giggled, laughed outright, taking Randy along for the ride on wave after wave of outright amusement. "I can't believe you remember that! You were so mad I was messing up your pullover when I was yanking on it."

"It was a zip-up, but same difference." He stretched out on the bed, languid, at peace with the world, and more importantly, with himself.

"You are such a girl. You really had to point out the difference?" Meg snorted. "And congrats to us, we just killed off bottle number two. Keep going?"

'I'm not sure I want this to stop, Meg.' "Promise I won't end up with a hangover?" Meg nodded. "Then let's keep going. See what happens."

Eventually, wine spent and sleep crawling over them like ripples of smoke, Randy and Meg settled into their bed, neither bothering to comment on the fact they were sharing sheets. 'It feels fine. It feels better than fine. I'm safe and he's here.' Without a single word of discussion, Meg nestled into Randy's shoulder while he folded himself around her, an arm draped protectively over her middle. However, his position was brief.

"Wait, Meg," Randy got out of bed and tucked the quilt tightly around her, moving to the other side of the bed. "I want the door side. Just because. Plus...you can see over the balcony, this way." Meg shifted, readjusted, buried herself against him, and sighed with such drunken contentedness Randy felt it overtake him. 'Tonight was basically perfect. She ate, she's relaxed, we both probably drank too much, and all she needs now is sleep. Tomorrow, breakfast and then whatever.'

He stayed awake for hours, watching her sleep, enjoying the light, floating feeling the wine had bathed him in. It wasn't until Meg started to twitch, then dig her nails into his arms, that he tightened his grip on her protectively. She opened her eyes, somewhat tipsy, vaguely aware of where she was, fingertips probing to see who, exactly, was holding her. Meg forced herself to stifle a screech when the skulls on Randy's arms began baring their teeth at her in the thin starlight filtering in from the windows. With shaky hands, she pushed herself over in his arms, leaving the images behind her and pressing her face into his chest.

He pushed her back only enough to try for a look at her eyes, to make sure she hadn't gone vacant on him, and the cool air that cut in between their bodies tore a shiver out of them both. Meg looked up at him, then back down to her hands. She could see Jackson's blood coating them, in part from stabbing him with the pen, in part from when his chest had dripped down onto her after the car had stopped tumbling and come to rest in the median. Slowly, she brought her palms up between her face and Randy's, her entire body starting to vibrate with the effort of what she was about to ask.

'Meg, you swore you wouldn't do this. They weren't saying anything. What are you doing? Are you even sure this...no, Meg. You're not. Just ask. You have to ask.'

Meg's voice was terrified and shaky when she finally spoke. "Ran...is there anything on my hands?"

Gently, slowly, he tilted them back and forth in front of him. "Meggie...no. Nothing's there. Honest."

She sighed, quietly relieved, and wrapped her arms over the back of his neck, again hiding her face in his chest, pulling her legs up against him. He could feel her lips brushing his skin as she whispered to Jackson, to herself, to Joe, and he stopped trying to make sense of it. 'She's working it out. And we've got all day. Three days. No need to push.'

---

(Veneration – Day 1)

Meg stretched languidly, reaching out in front of her but finding only cool sheets where she expected to find Randy. Unfazed, she rolled onto her back, enjoying the sunlight in the room, the wide, soft expanse of the mattress, and the downy silence in the room. 'He'll be back. I should shower.' Yawning, allowing herself one last stretch, Meg righted herself in the bed and tested her legs against the ground before ambling off toward the bathroom. 'Don't get flaky, Meg. In and out.'

Randy returned midway through her shower, bagels and coffee in hand. 'I wonder if she'll remember that day with the coffee. Maybe.' Hearing the water running when he walked in, he considered the merits and drawbacks of knocking on the bathroom door, not wanting to rush her, but not wanting her breakfast to get cold, either. Shrugging and knocking, he called through the door that he was back. Meg was unnervingly silent; the longer he stood at the door listening, the more he was convinced he didn't hear her moving through the water – nothing splashed, nothing dripped out of sequence – it all just sounded as though it was running. 'We're about to start a no-closed-doors policy. This shit is out of hand.' Taking a deep breath, he tested the doorknob, which was unlocked. Cautiously opening the door, Randy closed his eyes and leaned into the bathroom. The room was thick with steam, and smelled of both roses and his soap.

"Meg? Meggie, I'm back. Breakfast." He knew he was loud enough to be heard over the water, even if he wasn't calling directly into the room.

She was still quiet. Randy turned his head just enough to half-peer into the bathroom, scanning across the tiles, finally parsing Meg's figure out of the steamy fog, deep in the corner of the shower, her back to the door. She was resting her forehead against one arm, the other up over her head along the wall, fingers tracing the tiles, water cascading down her back, the edge of the scar on her ribs just barely visible. The rise in the outer walls and position of the entrance to the walk-in blocked Randy's view of anything beyond her lower back, but just seeing her standing there both assured him she was fine and pulled the floor away from him. He didn't realize he was still watching Meg until she turned her head slightly and began to look at him.

"You okay, Ran?" Her voice was barely audible over the water; she hadn't moved from the corner at all and he wasn't sure he'd heard her or simply heard what he wanted to. He offered up an embarrassed smile and half-waved at her before ducking out of the room. A few minutes later, dressed but still toweling her hair dry, Meg stepped out, a thoroughly amused look on her face.

"You never answered my question," she teased, bumping him with her hip, "And you have cream cheese..here, c'mere." Meg thumbed the corner of his mouth clean, licked her thumb, and dug her bagel out of the paper bag on the table before settling next to him on the bed, her skin surprisingly warm against his. "Ooh. Cinnamon raisin." Randy nudged her coffee at her, and Meg's facial expression became positively blissful as she took her first sip. "And mocha...caramel..." He could see a vague thought cross her mind, and then be dismissed just as quickly as it had slipped in. She smiled, though, and he was happy with that. And the way she licked her thumb.

"Plans for the day?"

"No, I asked if you were okay. But yeah, plans are good too."

"Nope. You?"

"I was thinking I'd ask for a laptop from the resort. They've probably got business loaners. Then, look for some apartments, call Dave and get that shit sorted out, re-file for the license for my LPN, get the paperwork for a state ID started, and see if I can't write a resume. I'm sure you've got things to do, anyway." Meg punctuated her sentence with a firm bite of bagel, chewing thoughtfully before sipping her coffee and placing it on the floor near the bed.

Randy, for his part, looked stunned. "Wow...uh...yeah, I can go back down to the desk and see if they can...I mean...I didn't know you wanted to stay up here...a laptop...sure, if you want..."

Meg's face was a mask of seriousness far longer than she expected to be able to hold it before she broke into hysterical laughter. "Oh my God! That was the best! Like I'm really gonna stay up here? Ran, you're only here another week, week and a half, tops. I'm not staying here alone. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm not staying here. Jesus, really?" She fell back onto the bed, gasping for air between spasms of giggles. Randy, amused and glad to see some of Meg's personality showing, grabbed a pillow and smacked her with it gently. It was enough to prompt a similar assault from Meg, even though she knew she'd lose miserably. After a few solid swipes, she held her hands up for mercy; her ribs and arms couldn't hold up against him.

"You win! Seriously, you win! I'm done. But, really...what do you want to do? I'm game for anything – just remember, you probably don't want to be seen taking vacation days with me."

"Fuck the media, Meg."

"You can fuck whoever you want. Finish your bagel and go shower, that rose stuff dries sticky."

---

In the shower, Randy stood in the same corner Meg stood in, tracing his fingers over the tiles, feeling the rose oil roll off of his skin under the hot water. His mind wandered; her skin had been pale and glossy under the water, and the steam obscured the small scars on her back between her shoulderblades. Randy's mind drifted back to the night Meg had struggled to his hotel room after Jackson threw her into the mirror; there was nothing he could do to Jackson now. Joe was another story. 'Why did I leave her with Joe? I could have told him to go get Dave.' His fingernails dug into the grout between the tiles, and the grit was satisfying.

The night after Meg had first slept with Joe, he had crowed about it to anyone who would listen. He went from reserved and demure about their relationship to something akin to a live-audio Penthouse Letter essentially overnight – but was careful to be properly respectful around Meg and Dave. The men and women of the roster largely ignored Joe – everyone liked Meg too much to pay much attention to what he had to say – but the more Randy heard, the angrier he became, and when he finally called him out on it, Joe's response left a lot to be desired: 'You don't know her like you think you do. I know you're not fucking her, so you wouldn't know anything about this.'

Randy forced Joe from his mind, and found the space filled suddenly by another image of Meg in the shower, water coursing down toward the trench of her back, dragging her dark red hair down around her shoulders in swirling edges and tendrils, then to her licking her thumb during breakfast. His thoughts shifted from what he would do to Joe in December to what he might do with the sylph currently in the bedroom, and the possibilities seemed suddenly endless. 'If anyone knew...oh well. I don't even think I know.' Turning off the water, he bothered only with boxers before stepping into the bedroom, finding a note in place of Meg on the bed.

"Out by the bay. Back soon. -M"

Leaning out over the balcony, Randy could see Meg out in the distance – further away than he expected her to be for the short shower he'd taken – wrapped in his hoodie, holding her coffee, occasionally looking back over he shoulder at the resort as though she was checking for something. He stayed there, watching her, until she turned behind a distant cluster of reeds. Still aware that Joe was nagging at the back of his mind, he decided to do something productive about the whole tangled mess, and grabbed his phone.

"'Allo? C'est Remy."

"Remy, hey. It's Randy. Listen, about those reports..."

---

When Meg returned, nearly two hours later, she mentally cursed at herself for letting so much time slip away, even though it was with the next night in mind. Randy was asleep on the bed, SportsCenter in an endless loop on the TV. She shut the door quietly and leaned against the dresser across from the bed, slowly taking him in. Feet that would never not show wear and tear from the ring, one ankle that tilted dangerously inward when he was relaxed – a sure sign he was fully asleep, and not simply holding still for his ego's benefit from her appraisal – each striation on the muscles in his legs visible as her eyes slid upward to the hem-edge of his boxers. One arm was behind his head, propping him further forward on his pillow; the other rested across his stomach, casting shadows that made the depth between each muscle in his abdomen seem all the more pronounced. And of course, the tattoos. It was there that Meg shivered, and not just from the chill that had crept in with her from the beach.

Her goal was to scout possible locations for a campfire; while getting their luggage the night before, Meg had noticed a sign at the front desk informing guests that small fires were permitted at intervals on the beach. Knowing that neither of them had any interest in being spotted, photographed, or otherwise bothered, she'd tried to go as far afield as she could without actually leaving the property. Finding a secluded spot behind a bed of reeds, Meg sat to rest her leg – walking in the thick sand had exhausted the little goodwill her bones had left to offer her – and to admire the view.

The view led to her being lost in her thoughts, in particular those related to last night. Meg had come dangerously close to crossing several lines, but rather than be irritated with herself, she found herself considering the possibilities. Each trail she allowed her mind to wander down, each rabbit hole she teased through, ended the same way – seeing, then hearing, those laughing skulls in front of her, telling her what she already knew: There was no way, Meg. You killed someone you said you loved, after you walked away from someone you said you loved. What will you do to Randy if you love him any more than you already do?

Without the tattoos in front of her on the beach, the voices and images were more of an annoyance and frustration than a complete terror, but here in the room, they were louder, closer, more aggressive – nearly touching her as they floated past, pens swirling behind them. 'Meg, why did you look? Looking at him was one thing, but looking at him there, like that...you knew what would happen.' She started to slide away, head down, trying to carefully return to the door and leave, but she misjudged the distance to the edge of the dresser as she moved and half-fell back over the edge of it, banging into the wall. Randy stirred, then fixed a bleary look on her and offered up a half-smile.

"Hey, you're back. C'mere." He sat up, reaching for her, not noticing or understanding the look on her face. Meg recoiled as far as she could with the wall behind her, and started to panic – Randy had started to lean forward, expecting her to come to him, looking groggy and confused that she hadn't simply slipped her shoes off and climbed up next to him. "Meggie? You okay? Something happen?"

Meg had stopped moving, stopped looking, felt as though she'd stopped breathing. 'Meg, stop it. Just stop it. It's not real.' She forced her head up to look at him, and made her eyes look anywhere but at his arms.

"Sorry, Ran. Sorry. I blanked out. Here, I'm coming." She slipped off her – his – hoodie, kicked her shoes over to the door, and crept toward the bed.

"Kiddo, what happens when you do that?" Randy lifted up the quilt and swept Meg under it; he could feel the chill from the outside air radiating off of her body. Slowly, still half-asleep, he rolled over toward her, draping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her toward him. Meg forced herself to keep her eyes closed, to ignore his tattoos and their close proximity to her face. Secretly, she could hear their teeth chattering.

"I...Ran, it's hard to explain." Meg leaned her head back into his chest, enjoying the feeling of him behind her. Reflexively, he draped one of his legs over hers and urged her even further back against him.

"Try, Meggie. I need to understand." He brushed his fingers through her wind-blown hair, gently unsnarling the ends and trying to be subtly encouraging. The scent of sea-salt and roses was intoxicating, and she hadn't had a cigarette for days. "Please? Meg...I want to help."

"Then...just treat me like I was, Randy. Not like I am." 'That's the only thing I haven't tried.'

Randy was silent, holding her, breathing her scent in, and thinking. "Okay. Then, nap now. Later, we're going swimming. Remember that time at...where were we...in Dallas, the American Airlines Center? That sounds right. Remember when we all were there for a pay show, and you and Dave ended up at our hotel afterward because everyone got drunk poolside and between the heat and the stress, they all were passing out left and right? You and Dave hauled, like, two dozen people back up to their rooms..." Randy went on and on, meandering through tiny details, the minutiae of the night, every small thing she and Dave had done, until he was sure Meg had fallen asleep next to him.

Carefully sliding himself away from her, Randy called the front desk and arranged for the pool to be closed and cleared far after-hours. 'I'm not exactly an A-lister, but I don't feel like dealing with people, and Meg...yeah. No.' His quiet phone call complete, lunch a distant consideration and dinner a more practical one, he arranged for room service to deliver dinner a few hours later, and returned to bed. Meg stirred slightly when he sank in next to her, but didn't wake. Instead, she unconsciously reached for him, and he was only too happy to wrap her in his arms. 'I don't have to be fake with you. I can be a jackass, and that's okay, but I can be...soft? Soft. And that's not a joke to you. I don't have to stay one thing. I can make mistakes. I can breathe.'

---

Burgers and beer delivered, Meg practically drooling with delight, they ate in bed and bickered good-naturedly over football and basketball results. Randy was almost sad to bring up going to the pool, but, he reasoned, if Meg wanted to be treated like normal, then it was back to all their old games. He was prepared for her to balk; when he brought the idea up earlier, her thoughts were elsewhere and she hadn't protested. Now, fully awake, Meg looked as though he'd gone out of his mind.

"Randy...I don't have anything to swim in, and even if I did...no. I'm not...I look...just no."

"I didn't say you had to swim, I said we're going to the pool. I can swim, you can watch. And if I drown, you're a pro at CPR."

"If you drown, we're past the point of needing CPR." Meg sighed, then smiled and shrugged. "Let me get my phone and the instructions; maybe I can figure some of this out."

"What, not going to stare at me?" Randy grinned and flexed dramatically. "I've been told I'm attractive..."

"If your ego gets any bigger, you won't actually fit in the pool. Just saying."

---

A short elevator ride later, Meg's arms full of magazines from the small hotel concession area, she and Randy jostled and teased their way onto the indoor pool deck, with Randy shutting and locking the door behind them.

"What's that about?" Meg scooted two deck chairs together and piled her various amusements onto one; the other she covered with a towel and stretched out on.

"Locking it? I asked them to clear it. I don't want anyone bothering us. And how the fuck are you wearing sweats in here? It's got to be ninety. I'd be dying."

"Because I'm anemic. This is comfortable, and besides, I'm not getting in. And Randy?" She waited to be sure he was looking at her before continuing. "Thank you. It's really too much, and you already...you didn't have to go to all the trouble of-"

"Shut up before I cannonball you." Randy smiled, sauntered to the deep end of the pool, and slipped over the edge under the water, coming back up halfway across the pool.

Meg huffed good-naturedly, and settled into her deck chair, watching Randy swim laps. She feigned interest in the directions in her cell phone booklet, but her eyes spent more time raised over its edge, watching the occupant of the pool. When he was close to her, she could see the droplets of water that coursed along his chest. At a greater distance, Meg was able to watch the flex and bow of the muscles in his shoulders, shiver when the sinews of his thighs came into view as he flipped under for another lap in her direction. 'Stop it, Meg. You can't think like that. You know he knows. He asked about the records, so if he doesn't know, he's going to find out. Once he knows, it's done, so don't bother getting started. And he's not up for anyone's sloppy seconds.'

Randy, meanwhile, was swimming and plotting; each lap not facing Meg was accompanied by a terrific grin. After nearly an hour in the pool, he managed to coax Meg over to the edge of the water to dip her feet in. She refused to cuff her pants, which he expected – 'She's worried about what her leg looks like.' - but it didn't matter, for what he was planning. She swirled her toes in the water and talked to him while idly paging through a magazine. Randy hovered near the edge of the pool, slightly over an arms' length away, then suddenly clutched at his side and gasped. Meg was on her feet in an instant.

"Ran, focus. Try to come closer, aim for my hands. What happened?" She was leaning out over the surface of the water, trying to get his attention and keep him talking.

"I...Meg...it hurts...help..." He gasped again, loudly, and allowed himself to sink a bit. 'This is so wrong, but it's so worth it...if she doesn't drown me herself.'

"Randy...come on, reach for my hands. You're almost there." Meg was scanning the pool deck, looking for anything that resembled a safety device, but there was nothing. 'Wonderful. Remind me to write a love letter to corporate.' She edged out further, trying not to lose her balance even though her shin was howling at her to stop using it as leverage.

'Now or never,' Randy thought, and he made a lunge for Meg's hands. His smile gave him away, and though Meg tried to snatch her arms back, she was so woefully off-balance that she couldn't correct her position, and it took barely any touch at all from Randy before she went hurtling into the pool, fully clothed. He held down her by the shoulders, swung her under the water out to the middle of the pool, and then popped her up several feet away from him, paddling as fast as he could to get out of her reach.

Meg came up, gasping, swinging, trying to get her bearings, get her hair out of her face, find Randy, try to organize whether or not she saw a smile or something else on his face before she fell in – 'And did I fall? Did he pull me? Is he okay?' And then she saw him, a good ten feet away, trying to block a giant smile behind his hand, and Meg knew she'd been had. She broke into a windmilling fit, splashing him as much as she could with her less-than-cooperative arm, and was near breathless from laughing. Edging closer to him, she hurled water in his direction, she attempted a pounce and half connected, knocking him lower but not quite under.

"What have I told you about scaring me like that?" Meg grabbed him by the back of the head and unceremoniously dunked him, allowing him to pop up almost immediately rather than risk the consequences. "And I'm soaked, and...you!" She splashed him again, smiling the entire time.

"Then I guess we stay til you dry out." Randy scooped her up and gently placed her back on the edge of the pool, backing away slowly. "You're not mad?"

Meg paused for a second, letting a slow frown settle on her face, her head slowly sinking. Randy, suddenly concerned, came closer to her. "Listen, Meg, I was just playing around, I didn't mean to-"

She vaulted herself off the deck and landed her knees onto his shoulders, effectively sinking him by surprise, soaking herself in the process as she went under with him, but enjoying the fact that their score was now tied. She swam across the pool to the opposite deck and hoisted herself out, her clothing heavy with water. "Back to normal, right?"

Randy, still coughing up water while laughing, managed to hack out a gleeful, "Yes, we are," in response.

They slept soundly that night, Meg blissfully free from nightmares.

---

(We Knew Not Whether We Were In Heaven Or On Earth)

The apex of their time together, Meg wanted their second night to go off perfectly, and as a complete surprise to Randy. She left him to his own devices in the late morning, stealing down to his SUV and – having finally solved the mystery of GPS on her phone – navigated to a nearby grocery store. Miscalculating the lunch rush, it took her longer to get back to the resort than she expected, which left her and Randy both on edge. He began to worry something had happened to Meg, Meg began to be irritated by traffic and the sheer nonsense of it all.

Luckily, tequila was a wonderful solvent for problems such as theirs, and after a few shots each, they both wondered what all of their fussing was about.

"Eventually," Meg feigned irritation, "You're going to trust me again."

"C'mon, Meg. I always trusted you. It doesn't mean that I never worried about you. It's not the same thing."

"Trust me to put together a surprise for you?"

"Depends. What does it involve?" Randy tossed back another shot and passed the bottle to Meg.

"It hinges on you being sober enough to walk and not burst into flames. That's all I'll say."

"Sounds dangerous. I'm in."

"Save the enthusiasm for after dinner, MacGyver."

The cold weather catching up to Meg, she managed to cobble together an outfit that would carry her through their nighttime beach excursion, and only told Randy that he should choose something warm and meet her in the lobby with a blanket. While he sifted through sweatpants and track pants, Meg slipped down to the SUV and double-checked the contents of her two paper bags – one, with two bottles of wine and ingredients for S'mores, the other a smaller paper bag with matches, a yellow bottle of lighter fluid, and wrapped bundle of kindling from the hardware store that was kitty-corner to the grocery store. 'That didn't help me getting back on time, but oh well. Not taking any chances on this not working.' She lifted the bags and trotted back to the lobby, hoping she hadn't left Randy waiting long.

Her timing was perfect; he was stepping out of the elevator just as she was stepping through the doors, but she saw a look of annoyance cross his face. It wasn't directed at her, so she began to scan the lobby. A small crowd had gathered near the front desk and swiftly moved toward him, pens, paper, glossies, and magazines all in hand. More than a few women were in the crowd, and Meg sighed and shook her head, turning to go back to the parking garage and wait. 'Randy saw me; he can figure it out. Maybe we can drive back around to the Marina and do this over there. It'd take balls for people to actually follow us.'

"Meg, hold up!" Randy's voice cut across the lobby, startling her into freezing where she stood. Randy was polite enough to sign a few of the papers being waved at him, but nudged his way past the crowd and over to Meg, making a show of wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Meg could hear a few of the women in the crowd mutter things like, "bitch," but tried to pay it no mind. Randy calmly pulled her closer and ushered her out the doors into the cool night air.

"I sure as shit hope you wanted to go this way."

Meg was uneasily quiet as they walked, and it seemed she wasn't guiding Randy so much as just moving loosely forward with him. 'I'm losing her,' Randy thought, dryly, 'And this was her surprise, and that mess in the lobby ruined it.' He cut in front of her and brought her to a gentle stop, taking the bags from her hand.

"Meggie? Hey. Look at me. Eventually you get used to that shit. Don't worry about it. I walked out with you, right?" He tried to catch her eyes, eventually crouching in front of her to try to pull her from her reverie. "Right? So now I need you to tell me where we're going, before we walk into the bay."

"He never took me out anywhere. And it's not like that was a huge-assed crowd. This...I shouldn't think like that. It doesn't matter." Meg waved her hand in front of her face as though she were clearing extraneous thoughts from the air. "Anyway. Here. Here we go. Back past those reeds. I just wanted something fun to do." She lifted the bags and kept walking.

It was Randy's turn to be sullen. 'I felt like I was taking you out. I guess. Maybe I'm reading too much into it? It's just friendly fucking around? Right. You said treat you like you were before, and before...we were friends. So we're friends now. Orton, you're so dumb. Meg's not like that with you. It's not like she's over him.'

"Hey? Ran? What's wrong?" Meg slipped her hand into his and gave it a small squeeze. "I'm sorry I brought up Joe. What I meant was, you'd think I wouldn't be bothered by crowds, if he ever took me out. I was just going to wait in the SUV, and see if you wanted to drive around to the Marina. But...like you said. Fuck him. The more I think about that..." Meg paused, then squeezed Randy's hand again. "I don't...it still hurts, but I don't need him. If he can do that to me, then he can do worse to me, too. He's past."

The smile that crept across Randy's face was broadly gleeful, and he lifted his arm up over Meg's shoulders, pulling her in close to him. "I'm glad, Meg. Whatever's next...is. But I'm glad he's past." Randy tilted to look down at the top of her head, then cleared his throat, prompting Meg to look up at him. "But, uh, promise me something?"

"What's that?"

"Can he stay past?"

Meg could hear the skulls in her head, teeth chattering, whispering loudly all at once. 'Don't get any ideas, whore. He's not asking because he wants you. He's asking because he's tired of cleaning up after you.' She shivered, but tucked in further under his arm. "Yeah. Yeah, Randy. He's going to stay past."

They disappeared behind the cluster of reeds Meg had nosed around the day before; Randy was amused and surprised to find she had set up the wood for their bonfire when she had been out earlier. A small bit of kindling and lighter fluid later, and Meg threw a match into what became a lovely, warm fire. She helped Randy spread out their blanket, and then dumped the second bag out, delighted at the look that danced across his face when he surveyed the items Meg had purchased earlier.

"S'mores! And wine!" He lifted her into a hug, careful of her ribs, but still as excited as a child at summer camp. "Is it the same wine we had before? That shit was good. And you remembered-"

"- I remembered you said they were better with peanut butter, so I bought Reeses instead of plain chocolate. I might not remember how to work a phone, but...some things stuck upstairs." Meg tapped at her temple.

"Have I told you how much I missed you?"

"Twice, now." Meg smiled and handed him a stick. "Go nuke a marshmallow. I want to see you do this without setting shit on fire."

"That comes later. I brought the rest of the tequila."

Fueled by sugar and alcohol, they eventually ended up wandering far afield from their blanket and chasing each other around the surf, Randy eventually slinging a handful of seaweed into Meg's hair that brought her to a shrieking halt, forcing her up to the blanket to pick it out while he caught his breath by the water's edge. With his back to her, he didn't see the cadre of people, mostly female, who had marched up to their blanket, taking Meg by surprise. The brunette in the lead spoke first, her friends only too glad to duck behind her.

"So, are you, like, with him? Or are you an assistant or something? Because we want his room number and if you could help us out with that, it would be really nice."

Meg, made more of alcohol than common sense at that moment, felt fire in her throat and a strange, hot, humming between her thighs. "He's here on vacation. With me. And it's my room. So, no. Not happening."

"Bitch. I'll just go ask him. What do you have that I don't?"

"You're going to have third-degree burns when I plant you face-first in my campfire. So get the fuck on, trick." Without thinking, her fingers traveled to the lighter fluid and traced the edges of the bottle, but she stopped shy of picking it up.

Randy, now fully aware of the group, was speeding toward the blanket, unsure of how Meg was handling herself. Had he seen the entirely terrified look on the faces of the women, he would have worried less. He arrived just in time to see Meg stand, smooth and fluid, as though nothing were wrong with her now – or ever had been.

"Everything okay here?" Randy's voice was edgy, tipsy; he was just as pickled as Meg.

"Yeah, Ran," Meg looked over her shoulder at him, "Barbie and I were just having a conversation about how it's a bad idea to talk to strangers." She fired a withering smirk at the group, most of which had dispersed, leaving the brunette and only two of her close friends as support.

Shrilly, the brunette fired one last attempt into the night air while backing away from the scene. "Your girlfriend is a fucking psycho! Jesus Christ! If you want a real night out, we're on the third floor. If you want her to cut your dick off, you're on your own. Deuces."

"Don't wait up for me. I'm in the middle of a real night out. Goodnight, ladies." With that, Randy pulled Meg back against him, pasting an equally malevolent smile across his face.

Waiting until the women had backed away fully, Randy slowly spun Meg around and looked at her, eyes wide. "That...was fucking amazing."

"Shit, I'm just flattered she thought we were dating."

Randy pulled a long drink from the bottle of tequila, in part to keep his mouth from running away with him, and then passed the bottle to Meg. 'No, that's a compliment to me.' "I mean," he continued, wiping his mouth, "You were...incredible. You went hardcore on her. Meg is back!"

"I think I said I was going to set her on fire. Probably not my finest moment."

"Nah, Meg-"

"Let me guess: Fuck her?"

Randy roared with amusement and pulled her down onto the blanket with him, causing Meg to break into hysteria herself.

"No, actually, don't fuck her. Anything but that. Then I have to track her down, apologize, and give her our room number!" Meg was on the verge of tears from her laughter; she could barely catch her breath, and Randy's sudden closeness did nothing to still the foreign, pleasant feeling still vibrating through her core. 'Oh, Lord. Please tell me this wasn't here the whole time. Please tell me I didn't ignore this the whole, entire time.'

---

The fire burned itself down to embers, and after killing off both the tequila and the wine, Meg and Randy staggered back to the resort's doors, shaking sand and in Meg's case, seaweed, from themselves the entire way.

"Decent surprise?"

"Meg, you can surprise me like that whenever you want."

"Just remember: you gave me permission to use sneak tactics."

Collapsing on their bed, it occurred to Meg how cold her hands and feet were from being outside. She considered the consequences, then pounced full-bore onto him, grabbing his waist firmly under his shirt and wrapping her legs around his. He startled, then began a gentle struggle of trying to unlatch her from him, but for every limb he got undone, she managed to find new skin to torment. Deciding might would make right, or at least peace, he flipped her underneath him, limiting her range of motion.

"Listen here, ice princess..."

"And what're you gonna do about it?" The look on Meg's face was pure dare. 'Please? Do something about it?'

Randy's face went from playful to serious, a thousand options running free-range behind his eyes. "Meg...be careful what you ask for..."

She smiled gently, and stroked the back of her hand across his cheek, down the line of his jaw, tracing her thumb over his lips, riding a warm wave of affection and inebriation. "I know, Ran. I know. Go to sleep, before I get us both in trouble."

"Stay?" His voice caught somewhere between asking and telling as he rolled off of her.

"For you? Anything." Meg sat on the edge of the bed and slid her jeans off, then her shirt, finally deciding she didn't care what he saw. 'You're going to see it all, and worse. You want those files, and whether I say yes or no...when I say yes...you're going to know everything. I want to enjoy this, whatever it is, while I have it. I know what I am – and pretty soon, you'll know it, too.' The skulls smiled, nodded, and were silent. Meg was grateful for the respite from their acid commentary, deciding that simply agreeing with them might be the path of least resistance.

Randy, leaning on one elbow, shocked into stillness, looked at Meg's back with equal amounts awe and lust. Her skin had finally, through decent sleep and regular meals, lost its pallor and was back to its alabaster glow. The thin, glossy scars left from the night Jackson had put her into the hotel mirror were still visible, but had faded and looked like lines of icy frost. Her bra, dark, worn, soft, was downy under Randy's fingers, and it was only when Meg shivered that he realized he was touching her.

"S-sorry. I don't know why I -"

"It's okay." Meg shifted, pulling her legs up onto the bed but not under the blankets. Randy wasn't sure where to put his hands, his eyes, his mind, and feared asking Meg what she was doing was going to break the spell.

"Hey, Ran?"

He still didn't dare speak, was half-afraid even to breathe. "Hm?"

"Look. Go ahead, look. It's okay." She sat up, half-reclined, showing him everything and nothing. Her right leg crossed her left, the wide, dark mauve line of Oechsner's haphazard incision visible, standing out against her skin like a vein in marble. She moved her arms to allow him a view of her ribs; he could still count every one. Her left side, though mostly obscured by shadow, had the same mauve stripe cutting down it, this time punctuated by dots indicating the presence of screws or clusters of wires. A small shake of her hair, and her left collarbone, looking much like her ribs, slid into view. A horizontal line slicing her skin this time, instead of vertical, the same clusters of dots followed along it.

The closer Randy looked, the more he convinced himself he saw other things – slight crooks in her fingers that weren't there before, ribs that now dented or bent at odd angles but weren't on the same side as her incision, whisper-thin scars on the backs of her wrists that looked like something had been tied there...he was sure if he pored over her, he could find a thousand outward physical insults. 'And what about what I don't see?' Involuntarily, he reached for Meg again, but her hand caught his before he could touch her. He shook her off, harder than he meant, and reached for her again, this time winding one arm around her back and the other around her waist before she could protest. He pulled her in fiercely, sliding a hand up to the back of her head and pressing her into him.

That now-familiar humming was back between Meg's legs, overflowing her, filling her body, spilling from her fingertips, flooding over the bed, and she didn't know what to do with it or with herself. Never with Jackson, and even with Joe, there was never an intensity like this. Jackson had always been about control; Joe about rescuing something that neither one of them could name, but whatever was building between her and Randy was a different beast entirely. 'He's not trying to save me from anything. I think he's proud I lived.' She smiled against Randy's chest and gently crept her hands up to the back of his neck, massaging gently until she was sure he was asleep and she was prepared to follow him. 'And if we – I – could just stay here. Tomorrow...plans.'

---

(Last Dance)

They both knew they were awake, and they were equally aware they were refusing to move. Meg basked in the skin to skin contact Randy was allowing her; at some point during the night he had stripped down to his boxers and while she hadn't been aware of when he'd done it, she was delighted with the results. He was laying half-over her, pressing her into the bed, tracing the line of her shoulderblade with his thumb; she was lazily rubbing her foot up and down the inside of his calf. Both were wondering what the other was thinking, and neither dared to ask.

Randy rolled the heel of his hand firmly into Meg's back, amazed at how cold she was even with him half on top of her, and debated pulling the sheets fully up over them. Discarding the idea as quickly as it came to him, he instead turned further onto his side and drew his leg up between hers. There, he found the singular spot of warmth on Meg's body, and she rolled back into him, threading her legs around his. Randy burrowed his head into the nape of her neck, and let his mind wander.

---

-"What's on your mind, Meg? You think any harder and the hamster is gonna explode."

Meg shrugged, went back to flipping her phone end for end over her fingers, her face blank. "Just sit. Er, lay. You have ten minutes left with the ice."

The silence in the room was oppressive. Randy was used to Meg's moods, but this was different. He knew Jackson had been calling more often, this time to lay down another ultimatum about Meg needing to leave her position and come back to him.'And because it's Meg, she's trying to make everyone happy. Too bad she doesn't get it – nothing makes Jackson happy.'

"Let's try again. Whatcha thinking about, Meg?" He snatched her phone out of her hands and winced, jarring his back in the process. Meg simply snatched her phone back, rearranged his ice packs, and returned to sitting on the counter.

"Ran...it's okay. Jackson being Jackson. You know how it is, you had one." Meg smiled half-heartedly and squeezed Randy's shoulder, hoping for sympathy in her reference to Sam. "Speaking of relationships, how's things with your girlfriend?" She tossed her phone on the counter, dangerously close to the sink.

"Nice topic change. And, shitty. She hates the travel schedule, she hates the women in the company, she...yeah. I told her it'd take a while to get used to it, but she wants me home all the time. I can't be here and be off."

"You've been with her a while. It's not like this shit's news to her. Show her a picture of me, she'll calm down."

Randy lifted up and shot her a confused look, causing his ice to drop again. Meg sighed, dropped down from the counter, and sat next to Randy on the table as she worked to cover his back. "Stop moving, you're going to make it worse. And I mean, I look like shit on a good day. Sweaty, no makeup, out of shape. Tell her you hang out with me and Dave. She'll stop complaining." Meg smiled and nudged Randy with her elbow. "Unless she's really got issues. If she trips out over you hanging out with a chick who smells like Bactroban, then you're on your own."

"You smell like roses," Randy mumbled into his elbow. "And you don't need makeup."

"Hm?" Meg looked up from his lower back; Randy was so much taller than she was that she truly couldn't hear him from the distance he was at.

"Nothing. And since we're talking, your turn. What's up with your lover-boy?"

"Enh...he's...Jackson." Meg shrugged. "What else can I say? He knows I'm staying with the company. I love my job, even if it's not the world's most secure. I told him I'd try to stay stateside more, but that wasn't enough. He just wants me out, period. I didn't get my license just to sit on my ass. If I go home, I don't think he'd want me working, at all. It's just..."

"So what's gonna make him happy?"

"Kidnapping me and locking me in a closet." Meg swatted Randy in the back of the head with a towel before folding it and beginning to blot condensation from his skin. "God, you freeze up way too easily. Remind me to notch you down to fifteen instead of twenty."

"You better not be serious about that closet thing."

"Only halfway. He really does want me to come home. There's no way to make us both happy, so I'm staying here and hoping he gets over it. Usually...he does. If not, he'll show up here and we'll argue about it."

Randy reached awkwardly backward and hooked Meg by the beltloops, pulling her up towards his head and spinning her in the process. "You tell me if he gets too-"

"Oh, stop. What's he gonna do, realistically?" Meg pushed at Randy's shoulder. "Hey, here's an idea. Let's introduce Jackson to your girlfriend. She'd never want to leave, and he'd never let her go!" She smiled, half-apologetically, and moved back down to the ice she'd left on his back, continuing her work.-

---

Meg stretched gently next to Randy, feeling the thickness of his leg between hers, and worked feverishly to force down the thoughts that sprang into her mind. His hand had slipped down from her shoulder and was now drawing lines up and down her arm. As he passed back and forth, she traced her fingers around the edges of the rose inked into his forearm, then dared herself to draw a fingertip line through just one of the skulls framing the flower. When nothing happened, she tested herself again, rubbing her thumb across his arm. Frozen, waiting, Meg felt the room stop moving around her...but again, nothing. 'Whatever it was...maybe...because I said I'll leave Randy alone, it's going to leave me alone.' She smiled, and drew the back of his hand under her face, enjoying the rough feel of his skin. 'He's here. It's enough for now. It's enough at all.'

They stayed in bed for hours, ignoring hunger, without sound, absorbed in each others' touch. Randy was the first to break their silence, not because he wanted to end their moment in bed, but because he wanted to offer Meg one last thing before he had to leave. Slowly, he slid his hand out from where she had placed it under her and leaned up, brushing her hair from the side of her face, his breath gentle on her cheek. He traced the line of the scar across her ribs, fully prepared for Meg to tense or pull away from him, but she did neither. Instead, she turned in his arms and tilted her face up toward him, unaware of how close he was, nearly crashing into him as she moved.

"Sorry," she whispered, "I didn't think you were-"

Randy leaned in toward her, hotly close, for a fraction of a second, then thought he saw Meg flinch. He forced himself to stop, then closed his eyes and dropped his head to her shoulder. "No, Meg, I shouldn't. I'm sorry."

Her fingers crept up his spine, spider's legs of ice, wrapping around the base of his neck and guiding him back to look at her. "Yeah, and I started it. So...blame me." She eased herself a few inches back from him, but refused to relinquish her hold. "You okay?"

'As long as I don't move, we're both good.' "Yeah. I was gonna ask...how do you feel about dinner?"

Meg fixed him with a confused look, prompting him to smile and tug the ends of her hair. "No, I mean, going downstairs to dinner. Nice view of the bay, supposed to be pretty decent food...whatcha think?"

"I don't have anything to wear. It's dressy."

"I swear to God, Meg. Stubborn. I'll go in sweats if it makes you feel better."

"No! No. You'd wear the ratty ones with the holes in the ass. I'll figure something out." Her bra strap had slipped entirely off her right shoulder, and it was all Randy could do not to stare as it trailed down Meg's arm, curling deliciously near her elbow, folding part of the front of her bra with it. "There's a spa downstairs, right?"

"Hm? Uh, I think, why?"

"Because it's bad enough I'm going to dress like I fell out of a Goodwill. I can try to put a little makeup on, put some effort in. Act right, you know?" Her eyes were fixed on his, but somewhere else entirely.

"Meg..." Randy's tone was dangerous. "If you so much as put on chapstick, I'm ordering McDonald's and staying in the room." She laughed, but the sound was rat-chewed and stringy. "I'm serious. You don't wear any of that shit anyway; why start now?"

"Just let me win this one, okay?" Her hands trailed from his neck across the broad expanse of his shoulders, then down across his chest, and he had to close his eyes again. "Please?"

He lowered himself onto her, trapping her arms against him, urging her to lean up into him, knowing he'd already lost this fight and so many others. "Meg...just be happy, okay? Whatever you want." He felt her fingertips tense against his chest, her lips curl into a smile against the skin of his shoulder, and gave up to her.

---

Meg did sneak down to the spa while he was showering, coming back with only four small things in hand. She was in pajamas when Randy went into the bathroom; when he came out, she was dressed for dinner and leaning far over the dresser, trying desperately not to stab herself in the eye with her mascara.

"Wow. I guess I really can't go in sweats, huh?" Randy's gaze was appreciative; he had no idea where her outfit had come from, but he had a new appreciation for her ability to continually surprise him. 'I still don't think you need the makeup, but it's not like that night with Jackson. This is nice, that was over the top.'

"Oh, shut up. Dark jeans and a peasant sweater don't count as dressed-up, neither does lipstick and a little bit of dust on my eyes. And as for you," Meg turned and bumped him in the chest with the tube of mascara, "You wear what you want." She went back to dabbing at her lashes with the wand, the scent of roses thick around her.

A half-hour later, once Meg's nerves had settled, she walked in to the resort's restaurant on Randy's arm, highly aware of the attention focused on them, wishing she had a pair of heels and not just thin ballet flats, but at the same time, confident that she could handle herself. 'And if not, I can always find a campfire. Har, har, har.' Something else pulled at the edges of her mind, but Meg couldn't place it, and after two glasses of wine, she found herself no longer caring. The food was superb, a piano played distantly in the lobby, and Randy encouraged her to pick a dessert for both of them at the end.

"Seriously? I don't know how you can think about more. I could fall over, right now. I'm not used to this."

"Then I can eat it and you can look at it. Actually, here, I know. How about tiramisu?"

Meg nodded eagerly; the waiter smiled at them and disappeared, returning with two plates, a giant portion of the dessert offering, and an unopened bottle of moscato, which he was eager to inform them was courtesy of the hotel. Meg shrugged, and clinked her empty dessert wine glass against Randy's. "Perk of the job, right?"

"Not usually, but I'm not going to complain." He smiled and passed her a fork.

On the verge of thanking whatever was listening for granting them a perfect night, he became acutely aware that Meg's attention was suddenly focused over his shoulder. "Don't look now," she giggled quietly, "But Barbie's on her way over. You want to handle this one, or should I?"

Randy groaned and rolled his eyes; of course the strange woman from the beach would be making a bee-line for him in the restaurant. 'It wouldn't be us if it wasn't a disaster every time.' "I'll take care of it. She's a slow learner."

Prepared to politely tell the woman to leave them alone, he was entirely unprepared for her to help herself to a seat next to him in the booth and begin to trail her finger down his arm.

"Glad to see you survived. She's...special. Now that you've gotten dinner out of the way, let's go out for drinks."

The look on Randy's face was one of confused disgust; the woman's eyes were both predatory and crazed. He gently lifted her fingers from his arm. Undeterred, she simply slipped her hand under the tablecloth and onto his leg. Randy jumped, and backed down the length of the booth – good for getting temporarily away from her, bad for getting cornered by her.

"We went over this last night. I'm not interested, and you're intruding on my dinner."

"And you didn't say date," the woman interjected, "So obviously it's not that serious. How about I make you look good, and we go over to the bar?" Meg raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, continuing to wait for Randy's solution to the situation to materialize.

"You'll make me look great when you leave. Have a good night."

"You are not seriously going to sit here with that when I'm telling you I'll take you out tonight..." The woman was incredulous.

"Go. Now. Right now. And stop insulting her, she's ten times what you are." Randy pointed over the woman's shoulder into the dining room, thoroughly sick of dealing with the stranger and her ridiculousness. The woman looked over her shoulder, back at Randy, over to Meg, and back again. Randy's gesture never wavered, and Meg simply sipped at her wine with a half-smile on her face, rubbing her foot up and down the length of Randy's shin the entire time.

"You two are perfect for each other. Fucking crazy." She backed away from the table, adjusting her skirt downward and shaking her head in disbelief, flipping him a dramatic middle finger once she was at a distance.

"Thanks, Ran." Meg's voice was quiet, but clearly pleased.

"For what? If that was a guy, I would have knocked him on his ass. Women...all you can do is talk. Even if all I did was back her off of the table, she'd probably say I broke her arm or something."

"Well, yeah, for getting rid of her. But you didn't have to say all that. She was pretty, at least. You would look better with someone like that." Meg swirled her wine, then poured a refill.

"Meg...she's not you. I don't give a shit who she is. Period." Randy smiled, self-conscious, and forked a piece of their nearly-forgotten tiramisu off of the plate. "Back to dessert?"

Meg stole the fork from his hand, enjoying the bite and making a show out of licking the crème that was stuck to the utensil. "Of course. You have excellent taste." She winked, and passed the fork back to Randy, who was feeling that same, foreign heat Meg had experienced, building low in his stomach, spilling out of him, flooding the room. He felt blindly for his glass of wine, and nearly knocked it to the table once he located it.

"Meg...sometimes you..." He smiled nervously. "Should I have them send a bottle of this upstairs?"

"Only one? What if I don't want to share?"

Randy bit down a moan and made a mental note to ask the waiter to send up several bottles of whatever constituted 'wine like what we had with dessert,' and then reached across the table for Meg's hands. "Well...I don't want to share, either."

Dessert finished, conversation comfortably slow and their wine request placed and waiting for them in their room, Randy escorted her from the restaurant. As they walked to the elevators, he could hear her humming quietly in tune with the piano player, who was deep into something slow and melodic. 'The only part I haven't fixed, yet,' Randy thought, and while they waited for the elevator to return to the lobby, he stepped behind Meg and pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her. He began a gentle sway and prayed it was in time to the music, then decided Meg wouldn't care anyway, and pulled her tighter against him.

"My after-dinner dance?"

"Shut up, Meg." His tone was good-natured, and he pressed her arms into a cautious hug, relieved when she wrapped her arms over his and squeezed him in return.

"I'll take it. I can't dance, either." She nestled her head into his arm, pleasantly relaxed from the wine, still reeling from the compliments she felt he hadn't realized he had given her. When the elevator doors opened, he gently spun her into the car, watching the doors shut in front of them, not giving up on their swaying even though the piano's sound had long since faded. Meg closed her eyes, still unable to shake the nagging feeling that something was coiled, waiting, but desperate to simply lose herself in the moment and enjoy what he was offering her. 'Why do I feel like something's off? It's Randy. He's never...this isn't making sense. What am I missing? Why am I even thinking like that?'

Walking past the mirror outside the elevator, it finally hit Meg. 'Dinner...drinks...we danced, sorta...we're going back to our room...' She froze, almost tripping Randy in the process, and spun to face him. "Ran...is this...I mean, did you..." Meg stopped, unsure how to ask what she meant, and equally unsure it even mattered. He held her in front of the mirror, watching their reflection.

"I wanted to make it...different. I can't fix it, but I wanted to make it different."

Meg struggled to keep her smile from wavering into tears; she had spent the past three days teetering on the edge of nirvana and with tonight, she was ready to fall to her knees and weep, not just with joy but with relief. She wasn't ready to forgive herself, allow herself, let herself – but she was ready to enjoy the small moments, whatever they were. Turning, she popped up onto her toes and wrapped her arms as far up around Randy's neck as her height would allow.

"Thank you," Meg murmured into his neck, trying to will herself away from kissing him, as much as her body told her otherwise. "Thank you, because I can remember this," Meg backed away, trying to catch Randy's eyes, "And not him."

---

He gently led her to their door, letting her open it ahead of him, waiting for her to open the wine and pour their glasses, and then for her to shuffle blankets to the balcony so they could sit outside. 'There's my Meg. Balconies. Always balconies.' "Did they send the right wine? I didn't know what to ask for..."

"Ran, hush. And c'mere." Meg had slipped her flats off and padded out to the balcony, wine in tow. "It's our last night. I just want to enjoy it." She patted the space next to her on the chaise, encouraging Randy to curl in behind her. He opened the top two buttons on his shirt before stepping out into the crisp air, sitting first at the foot of the lounger.

"Meg..." His voice was hesitant, moreso than Meg could remember hearing from him in months. "Was tonight okay? I didn't want to bring him up, but I was thinking..."

She pressed a finger over his lips, then handed him a glass of wine. "Hon...it was perfect. The only thing that's going to make it better is when we fall asleep together later." She nudged him gently, her smile on the line between a promise and an invitation. They managed a bottle on the balcony before the cold was too much even for Randy, and retreated to the sanctuary of their bed, with Meg begging for five minutes to wash the eyeliner off.

"See? That's why you shouldn't wear it."

"What's that?" Meg called over the faucet in the bathroom. "Oh, hell," she continued, "While you're out there, throw me something I can sleep in?"

"Because you're in there, and I'm out here, that's why." Randy's voice barely carried from the bed, and he waved her off with a smile, sure she wouldn't press the issue. He did throw her one of his t-shirts, hoping against hope that after the previous night's escapade in her underwear, Meg wouldn't say anything.

And she didn't, emerging from the bathroom in his heathered grey tee, barely grazing her mid-thigh. Randy's breath caught in his throat; he was almost positive she wasn't wearing a bra. 'And...why? What else is she not...no. Orton, stop. It's not like that, not for you. Not with her.'

---

As they lay together, Meg occasionally rubbing a foot over his leg, Randy tracing a finger along the length of her arm, both could feel sleep start to creep around their edges like a thief, ready to take their evening away. Determined not to give in, Randy stretched and fought for a topic of conversation, settling on Meg's plans for the next day, once he left.

"I didn't have any. Honestly. I figured I'd bum around here for a few days until I decided where I wanted to go. I still have a lot to set right with Dave, too."

"Meg...any chance I could get you to stay here til I'm done with filming?" He tried to read her, feel her, for any sort of a reaction, but got nothing. "Meg?"

"Ran...are you...that's a lot. I mean, not for me. That's a lot for you." Meg shifted again, and her shirt slipped further upward. Randy gave up on control and settled for camouflage, rolling onto his stomach, allowing his mind to wander only as far as his body would let him carry on a conversation.

"I want to know you're safe, Meggie. That's all. You can go wherever you want, you know that."

"Randy...it's not about that." She pushed at his shoulder, smiling. "I just don't want you focused on me. You need to focus on yourself. And the movie. And besides, what happens when you're done filming?"

"We can worry about that when we get there. Right now, you're forty-five minutes from me, it seems like you...like it? I don't know." He dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't..."

"Ran...do you want me to stay here?" Meg's voice, suddenly serious, brought his eyes up to hers.

"Yeah, Meggie. I do."

"You win, hon. I'm here." She smiled, brushed at his cheek, and turned to refill their wine glassed, affording him a near-complete view of her ass. The shirt he'd given her was twisted around her waist, riding up well past decency, and though he knew he should look anywhere but at her, he couldn't help but stare. His eyes lit upon yet another paper-thin scar, starting at her right hip and working its way across her backside, and Randy felt his hands clench. She rolled back to face him, wine in hand. "Whatever you said to the waiter, it worked. This is amazing." She slid up the bed, effectively dragging her shirt down over her thighs, and drank deeply.

"Meg, if I did one more thing, would it be okay?"

As if reading his mind, Meg leaned in toward him, drunkenly closing the distance between them far too fast for Randy to prepare to follow through on his idea. "Randy," she breathed, entirely honey and peaches from the wine, "I want to. You know I want to." She trailed her fingernails up and down his arms. "And you know I can't."

"Meg...yes. You can." He could abide the ache in his body; the ache in his mind and heart were fast becoming a keening wail.

"You know I can't." She leaned in dangerously close to his lips, almost as if daring herself to break her own promise. "I can't explain it. Not now, at least." She backed away from him, slowly. "But...call your friend. Tell him to send you the files. That's the one thing I can do for you." Meg sighed. "Maybe that can help explain. Because...I don't know. I'm sorry, Ran." She returned to her wine, drinking as though she wanted to obliterate some part of herself.

"Meg..." His tone was more a plea than anything else, and her heart broke to hear it, but at the same time, his arms chattered at her, warning her away from him, daring her to cross the line and see what havoc they could wreak in both their lives. She forced him to his back, straddled him, knowing what she felt as she sat over him and caring while not caring while wishing she could do anything to silence the screaming in her head. For him, the heat between her legs was searing, intolerable, and he dug his fingers into her hips, trying to urge her to move, stay, finish, anything – anything that wasn't telling him 'no' again and again.

"Randy...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Maybe once you read the files, you'll know. I just...I won't break you the way I broke everyone else."

"You know you've never hurt me, Meg. Ever."

She dropped herself down over him, tangling her legs through his, wishing she had put on panties before coming to bed because she could feel a slickness between her thighs that she hadn't felt in months. 'Meg, stop. It's the wine, you're lonely, it's...something. Stop it. Stop it now.' Randy rolled over her, always careful of her side and shoulder, feeling himself settle heavily between her legs - and in the moment, not caring, wanting her to feel what he felt, hoping she was simmering, coiled, secretly ready despite being afraid – and instead, feeling her lock up underneath him, her breathing hitch in a way that indicated fear before lust.

"Randy...I'm trying to tell you I'm afraid of hurting you." The slickness continued, more now, a flowing heat that forced her to push herself up against him, and as much as she was afraid she was also hoping he would ask her to put her fears aside and allow him passage just the once.

"Then why do you keep moving?" He was over her fully, breathing his words onto her, practically begging her.

"I don't know, Randy. Because I can't stop it and I know I have to."

He sighed against her neck, feeling her entire body shiver convulsively, knowing that he had to be the one to pull back because it truly was all too much for her.

"Meg...then tell me where the middle is."

"Finish our wine. Hold me. Like last night." She slid down against him, feeling him catch against the inside of her hip, and her shirt came fully up again. Randy's moan was all the encouragement she needed, and her shirt came off, wine forgotten for the moment. "I can't," she whispered against his neck, "I can't. Please, Ran, don't ask me to. Please."

"Meg," he panted, "I won't." his breath hitched one, then twice, and he forced himself off of her, bucking his hips down into the bed, struggling for words, "You...don't have to...please...Meg..."

"Shh," She countered, "Wine. And tell me about tomorrow." She never did bother finding her shirt, and they fell asleep threaded through each other, Randy's promises to take care of everything her echoing in her mind.

---

(Panakhida)

"I don't want you to worry about me. You can't worry about me, I'm staying in the resort. You know exactly where I'm going to be since you set it up with them. They loaned me a laptop. You wrote down directions for Skype. I can see you literally every day. And night." Meg's fingers traced Randy's, tried to at least keep his hands from moving; he was fighting not to make eye contact with her and damned if she wasn't going to either force him to look or else hold him still enough to allow her to climb onto him and pin him in place where he sat.

Randy, stubborn to the last, was bouncing his leg so hard the entire SUV was rattling, and had, until Meg had begun to play with his fingers, been drumming on the steering wheel. He was wrestling with the idea of telling the film company something had come up and he couldn't go back to Vancouver, staying or going as he and Meg preferred, but in any event – not leaving her again. Things were pleasantly unsettled between them. On the razor's edge of the grey area between limits they should and should not test together, Meg had allowed him so close to her that to leave her now felt less like pulling off a bandage and more like breaking a bone – a dull, relentless ache that would gnaw at him, make him into an angry and petulant person all over again after three days of allowing himself to exhale. 'I'm not going to look at her. I can't look at her. I'm going to lose it if I look at her. I just need to go. I can't go.'

Meg let go of his hands and reached for his face, waiting to see what he would do. He still looked out his window, away from her, occasionally trying to rub her hands away on his sleeves, in part because he was trying to will the emotion out of his eyes. 'Why is this hurting him so badly? I'm right here. After all this, he has to know I'm not leaving. What else can I offer him?'

"Meg, stop." Randy pushed her hands down.

Meg let go, leaned back into the passenger seat, and waited. Minutes ticked by; the look of quiet acceptance on her face slowly shifted to one of hurt resignation. "Well. That's the first time all weekend you said that. Anyway...so you're not late...it's a long drive...I'll head back now. We can talk when you want." She turned away from him and reached to open the door, but Randy's hand was over hers before she could pull the handle.

He didn't say anything – and really, he didn't have to, he knew exactly what the problem was as well as how to fix it – as he pulled Meg across her seat and toward him. Meg, also fully aware of the problem, felt otherwise about the need to speak.

"Ran...I want to...but no. I'm sorry. You know what I do. I break people. I break everything." She slipped lower in his grasp, leaned over the gap between their seats, and wrapped herself around him, holding him so tightly she felt her collarbone crackle under her scar. Somewhere between hurt and shocked, Randy had barely managed to bring his arms up to her to reciprocate the gesture before she was backing away from him, out the door, telling him to call, telling him she'd be in their room the rest of the night. She was out of the marina parking lot before he even fully realized what she said, before he realized she was still wearing his zip-up.

The drive back to the film lot was punctuated by a few near-miss collisions and close-call sideswipes; he had to pull over more than once to try to calm his nerves or wait for the nausea to pass. 'She wants to. I can start there. No. I can start with Joe. Then, I can see what she still wants.'