Randy was the first to move; oddly enough, he went for his suitcase and not for Meg. Returning with sandals on his feet, he danced the towel and dress into a ball and then nudged the pile of fabric into a far corner of the bathroom.
"Okay, Meg. Sit up here." He patted the surface of the counter. "Turn sideways and lean against the mirror, so you don't fall. Careful." He tried to palm Meg around the ribs gently, to ease her up onto the counter, but she whined and winced no matter how he touched her, finally folding forward over her knees, eyes staring blankly out into the room.
The first whimper brought Joe out of his stupor in the doorway; the second brought him in to the bathroom and directly to Meg's side. "Meg...hey. I'm here. You opened the door." The relief in his voice was palpable, but his mind was racing. 'She looks grey. She's going to pass out. How much blood was that? She's drunk. What did he do to her? I'm going to kill him."
"You should leave, Joe." Meg's body didn't move, but her eyes slid directly to him.
"Wha-Meg, no. I'm here." He touched her hand, and she immediately pulled it away from him.
"I'm fine. I don't need you."
Randy shook his head. "Meg, you need to stop. I'm going to call Dave and get your luggage. Then, ice, extra washcloths and towels, and something for you to drink. Don't argue with me, and stop arguing with Joe." He looked over to his now-crestfallen friend. "Joe...she's drunk, she's hurt, she's hurt, and when you put all that together...she doesn't know what she's saying. Or doing. Don't take it like that." Randy rubbed Meg's available arm to get her attention. "And you – ease up on him. Don't do that shit. He's trying to help you. You do need him."
Meg tensed, closed her eyes, and seemed to pull further into herself. 'I don't need someone else to hurt me. Just leave now. Leave me alone.'
Randy stepped around Joe. "Look...I don't know what else to do. Just keep an eye on her, keep her awake. I'll try to be quick. Maybe you can get her cleaned up? I'm going to try to get Dave to come back with me – what else are we gonna do for her back?"
"I don't know," Joe whispered. "But you were wrong. She told me to leave her alone."
"Fucking stop it. Stay in there and fix it." Randy grabbed his phone and was out the door before Joe could say anything to stop him, leaving him next to her as she perched on the bathroom counter. 'Should I even be telling you that, Joe? I should stay. You should stay. Should either one of us leave? Does it even matter? She's so gone right now...I'm gonna get help. What'd he do to you, Meggie?'
Meg's head rested on her knees, lips parted, breath still coming in dry, quick pants. Blood still ran, albeit slowly, from under the larger pieces of glass between her shoulders, and he had to fight the urge to touch her, pull them out, press them in, scream, anything to make it stop. 'She's breathing. She's okay. Just keep her breathing.' She didn't respond, but didn't move away from him, either.
"Meg? Meg, come on. Please. I'm trying. I know I fucked up, but I'm trying. I'm sorry. Not that I kissed you, that I was so fucking stupid after it. You don't even need to hear this right now, you don't owe me anything, and I'm fucking up again." He threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to slow down. "Please...just...tell me what you need me to do. I don't know what to do."
A dry, rasping laugh escaped Meg's throat, though her eyes never opened. "Shit. Me either." She forced her head to tilt to the side to look at him, squinting into the bright white of the room. "Light?" Joe paused for a second before understanding and dimming down the switch.
"Mmm. Better." Meg's breathing was no more even, but her face relaxed. 'Randy said don't argue.' She managed half a smile before her lip stung where Jackson's palm connected with her, and winced.
"What? What happened?" Before Joe could help himself, he was looming over Meg, brushing the snarls of hair away from her face, trying unsuccessfully to urge her into an upright position. She recoiled into the mirror, ducking her face behind her hands as much as was possible. 'Joe, stop. You're scaring her. Could you be any worse at this?' He snatched his hands away from her and squeezed his eyes shut.
"No. It's okay." Meg was quiet, but even. "I'm sorry." Her hands had dropped. "I know it's you."
Joe looked up, shocked. "Meg, no...don't apologize." 'Whatever you do, dumbass, don't touch her again. Don't move unless she asks you.' Meg shifted uncomfortably. "Just...tell me what to do. I promise, I'll help. Don't apologize, just let me help."
She twisted on the counter, fully this time, ignoring the pain between her shoulders, forcing her eyes open in the dim light. "Don't promise." Her voice was cold.
"I'm not him. I fucked up, but I never lied to you."
She blinked a few times, as though she had to be sure of who she was seeing in front of her, and then crept her outer hand across to the edge of the counter, tracing her fingers over his, intuitively finding his hand. 'And you're here now. And I missed you. And I need to stop taking it out on you.'
Joe watched her fingers trail over his, barely breathing, willing himself not to make yet another mistake. "Meg, all I want is-"
"Can you undo this shit in my hair? It hurts."
Joe eased onto the counter behind her, not moving his hand from under hers. 'She still feels like snow, and right now that's terrifying.' His new vantage point afforded him a complete view of her back, glass still protruding like slivers of mercury, blood in various states of wet and dry. With his free hand, he probed for hairpins, tossing them into the sink in front of her as he found them. Meg's updo slowly came apart, falling lightly around her face and neck as Joe pried snarls apart from tangles, rubbing as he went, avoiding bruises, carefully lifting pieces of the broken mirror out of her hair, and considering the problem of her makeup.
"You know, you didn't need this shit to look nice."
"I didn't look nice anyway."
Joe sighed, and looked around for a washcloth. "Can I get it off you, then?"
Meg yanked her hand away from his, and tried to push forward on the counter. 'Leave me alone...I want my dress...where is Randy...' Logical thought left her entirely, and she began to panic.
"Wait, what did I do?" Joe backed away from her again. 'Think, think, what did...oh Jesus Christ, Joe, really? Really?' Mentally, he kicked himself. "Meg, no, stop, that's not what I meant. Meg, stop!" Joe hadn't meant to yell, but it worked – Meg froze mid-scuttle. "Stop. I meant your makeup. I was looking for a washcloth for your makeup. To take it off."
Her entire body shivered; her voice was barely above a whisper. "Sor-sorry."
"Meg, what did he do to you?"
She closed her eyes, waited, thought, felt everything a second time – every thrust, tear, slap, punch – all in an instant, and couldn't explain to Joe what it meant. In that moment, Meg was deeply glad he stayed behind her when he backed away. She wasn't sure she could have met his eyes without betraying herself. "Everything." Unconsciously, she tightened her thighs against each other, a movement not lost on Joe. He felt a cold net of rage settle over him, and prayed for one more elevator ride that night – not for her, but for him. "Everything. Sex is always like this with him. And the glass...he's still..." She trailed off, unsure of how to say what she meant.
"Tell me."
"He's still in me."
Joe didn't speak; anything he could have said in response would have come out as a howl Meg would have been only too glad to join him in. Instead, he moved back to the counter, guided her into a forward lean, and covered as much of her back as he could with towels.
"Where's your bourbon?" Meg broke the silence, mumbling into her knees, grateful for any topic that wasn't aimed at her.
Joe quirked his head. "How'd you know?"
"Randy likes tequila. You like bourbon. And you're close enough I smell it."
Joe edged just far enough away from the counter to pick up his bottle of Van Winkle from outside the bathroom. "Randy would kill me for this, but here. Be numb. Then, the glass." Meg drank greedily, praying for relief, oblivion, anything to erase the night from her memory, then leaned forward over herself on the counter. Joe, after a drink of his own, stood behind Meg, unsure of how to start.
Reading his mind, Meg muttered down into her knees. "Don't think. Just do it."
"I can't hurt you, Meg." Joe lifted his hand tentatively, touching one of the embedded shards, but recoiled when she twitched reflexively. "I...Meg, this isn't going to-" 'This is going to hurt. I'm sorry.'
"Joe, you promised." Meg was quiet, soft, not slurring, but with a voice on the edge of surrender. "You said you promised."
He looked down at her shoulders, then up at the ceiling, hoping for guidance, inspiration, intervention – nothing came. Carefully, he wrapped his left arm around her, and Meg clung to him, tucking her head into the crook of his elbow. "Okay. Okay. I'm so sorry. Just...I don't know..." Joe counted eight pieces that had to come out, excluding other cuts that would need closure. 'Start by starting. Pick one and pull. She can't do it herself.' Opting for one of the larger shards, he carefully closed two fingers around it, barely lifted, and pulled firmly out. Meg clenched around his arm, then relaxed. 'Relaxed too much. Wake up, stay with me...' Joe tried to catch her eyes in the mirror, but she was too far compressed into his arm. "Meg? Baby? Come on, stay with me. Talk to me. Keep talking to me. Tell me what to do. Tell me anything."
Meg rode Joe's voice back into reality, willing herself to come out of the haze she started to slip into. "Tell you...wh...what?" She tried to curl tighter around him, but didn't have the energy.
Joe just shook his head. He had to make this quick; she wasn't going to hold up long. "Okay, hon. Okay. I'm going to finish this as fast as I can. No more glass, okay? Then it's all over. Just keep talking to me. Tell me about Saint Julian. Or tell me about your name." Working around her bra, Joe slipped another two pieces of glass out while he spoke. 'Three down, five to go. She just needs to stay awake.'
"Julian...patron of...hospital workers...carnival wor...workers...travelers...wanderers. And murderers. If I...In case I'm a bad medic."
Joe couldn't resist the full-out laugh; it was music to Meg and she smiled into his arm. "So he's got your bases covered? Hospitals, traveling, wandering – that's only when Randy drives – carnivals – yeah, that's backstage – and just in case you really have an off day, murdering is on the list. How'd you find this guy?"
"A prof...this nun...at college. Ethics. She..." Meg started to trail off when Joe slipped a particularly long, thin sliver of glass out of her shoulder. It ran deep, and was lower down than the rest, parallel to her shoulder blade.
"She what, baby? Keep telling me, I'm listening. The nun who taught ethics in college, go on." 'Keep going, Meg, you're killing it. Two pieces to go and we're done. He's gone.'
"She...she...I don't..." Joe rolled a short, stumpy piece of glass out of her skin.
"Last one, Meg. Stay with me."
"She...my name. Long story. The meh...meh...thing...was a gift."
The last piece was nearly impossible to grasp. It was in deep, curved, and had almost nothing exposed. "This last one is going to be a bitch, Meg. I won't lie." He rested his head on the top of her shoulder and looked down. Her back was a smeared, red canvas. 'And I helped do this to you.'
"Keep going."
"Why was the medallion a gift?" He pressed along the edge of the mirror under her skin, trying to find the bottom of the shard. She groaned as he went. "Meg, focus. Tell me why it was a gift."
"Because...my name…"
Joe found the bottom of the broken glass, and pressed upward along the curve, trying to work it out from the bottom. There was nothing for him to grip at the top unless he managed to get more of the piece to present itself, his fingers were too large. "Your name is Meg, right? What does that have to do with Julian?"
"Magdalena. Religious parents."
"That explains your credit cards. So it's Meg for short?"
Meg suddenly felt heavier against his arm. "Meg?" He worked faster, forcing the piece of glass, dragging it out of her back. "Meg, wake up. Come on, Meg, wake up. Finish your story, talk to me." She was breathing, but she didn't move. Carefully, he pulled her backwards against his chest, pressed a towel between them to staunch her bleeding, and waited. "Come on, baby," he whispered, "Wake up. Come back." Cradling her, he reached for a washcloth, wet it over the hair clips in the sink, and began gently daubing at her makeup.