Many thanks to my loyal readers, loyal reviewers, everyone who's followed and favorited, all my lovely lurkers (please do review; it's like catnip for me, and I do try to send messages and notes)
And for those of you who were wondering if I fell off the face of the earth – my job has a ridiculous schedule and I get stuck working sixteen-hour days. If I don't update for a few days, I will typically do a multi-chapter dump. Just stick with me, it's about to get crazy in here.
"Earnings reports are great for accountants. Why they send this shit to me is a mystery." Joe flipped the pages of the fiscal report as though he was shaking a fan.
Meg smiled. "Because you're a fiscally responsible independent contractor with the WWE, and you want to be aware of what's going on in the company? Here, let me look at it."
"She cooks, she cleans, she's great in bed, and she's a closet accountant, too." Joe tossed Meg the booklet, smiling as she caught it out of the air and propped her feet up on the exam table in the triage bay. Even Dave couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Er, Dave, you didn't hear that." Joe's cheeks reddened slightly; he had the damnedest time keeping bedroom jokes to an appropriate place and time.
"No kidding, Joe. I already know she can't cook for shit." Meg glowered, and Dave choked his laughter down after his statement. He knew full-well that Meg was more than capable in the kitchen.
Without reading it further, Meg whipped the booklet at Dave's head, narrowly missing him. "Jerk. Anyway," she bounced up out of her seat and kissed Joe on the cheek, "I've got to hit the stockroom before we get started. You be careful out there, okay? I don't want to see you back here unless it's to tell me you want company for your post-show shower." The door clicked gently shut behind her as she left.
Dave, meanwhile, had picked up the booklet from the floor and was scanning it, his frown deepening after every page. Joe had picked up on his expression and sat silently, waiting.
"You know...these numbers are bad. Really bad. If Meg actually looked at it, she would have told you the same thing."
"Bad in what way? My checks are still clearing, so are yours."
"Yeah, but the network numbers aren't what the company thought they would be. Subscriptions are low. And you saw how many people got themselves 'future-endeavored' in the past few weeks. It's rough out there if corporate is trying to save money through contract cutting."
"So...what are you trying to say?" Joe was thoroughly confused. "It's not like I'm going to be hurting for cash any time soon. Meg's not exactly a high-maintenance girlfriend, either. She gets pissy when she asks me for change for the vending machines. Shit, she hits thrift stores in between shows even if I tell her I'll spring for actual new clothes for her."
"No, it's not that." Dave rubbed the back of his neck, stared at the pattern on the floor tile, sighed heavily, and then repeated the motions while he thought. "I've...been here long enough to know that when cuts come…"
"Nah," Joe waved his hands dismissively, "NXT is solid right now, TnA is losing its ass, and we're drawing talent in from Japan, ROH, you name it. We're gonna be fine. Once we get network licensing in the UK, we're set. The numbers will pick up."
"Well, look at you. Allow me to give you more credit than I previously did." Dave crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow; apparently Joe had been giving the matter some thought.
"See? Big man not dumb." Joe winked at the medic, stretched a bit, and ambled out of the room to prep for his promo. "I'll catch up with you later. If you see Meg before I do, ask her to wait here for me? The locker area gets too chaotic."
"No problem. Keep it safe out there."
Joe nodded and jogged off, leaving Dave holding his shareholder's booklet. "You know, Joe, what I was trying to say," Dave announced to the empty air, "Was that when cuts come, they come deep. Hold close what you hold dear."
Weeks passed in silence from corporate, in bliss between Meg and Joe. With a bridge across their last chasm, it was becoming more and more impossible for them to keep their hands off of each other. Both had agreed they should be discreet at shows, if for no other reason than professional propriety. Meg didn't want to be accused of favoritism, and Joe didn't want her falling victim to rumors about getting her job on her back. The more time passed, however, the more they both found it difficult to keep their word. At one point, after a particularly athletic match, Meg slid the sign on the triage bay door to "In Use," bolted it, and told Joe to lay back on the exam table. Her rationale was, if he was sweaty, she may as well be sweaty, too – they could conserve on shower water that way.
Meg was also experiencing a problem of an entirely different variety – she had actual feelings, deep feelings, for Joe, and while she never struggled for words, she didn't know how to verbalize the things her body already knew how to say. She saw him and the world fell away. He touched her and the breath flew from her body. When he was gone, her mind jumbled, her body ached, her focus dissolved. Luckily for them both, those times of absence were exceedingly rare and typically for a short-lived charity event.
On those nights, Meg would stay with Randy, not leaving the hotel room, cuddling a pint of ice cream and a book, barely focusing on the latter and letting the former melt into soup. Her mind drifted to fingers, kisses, nips and tongues, until her phone blared and she pounced on it, desperate to hear Joe's voice. Their conversations were always a series of giggles, whispers, tiny escaped moans, breathy sighs, until finally Meg fell asleep. Then, Randy would lift her phone from her hand, dimming the screen, knowing Joe had gone back to the event floor and leaving Meg alone with her thoughts and a dial tone. Every time, Randy would smile and lay a blanket over her, happy to see her happy, and not regretting in the least the grief he had given her at the outset of their relationship.
Together, they felt invincible. Meg had gone with Joe to Tampa, hesitantly the first time, each invitation becoming easier, simpler, until she could finally claim drawers and closet racks of her own without feeling as though she was intruding.
'Intruding into what, Meg? You are my what.' Joe always managed to blend his doses of annoyance with amusement until they were palatable to them both. Meg wished she could drag the confidence she felt in all other aspects of her life into her relationship; it was the one place she felt in constant dread of breathing the wrong way and tumbling her house of cards.
She adopted his city, ran on the beach with him, made love with him in the sand just outside his home, cooked dinner for him on the rare nights he let her near the kitchen, felt positively domesticated and absolutely blissful. Joe understood Meg felt she came from nowhere, but she nightly regaled him with stories of the dozens of places she had lived, to the point he could taste the food, feel the rain, hear the music, and practically be there with her. He wanted to tell her to come home, be home – stay with him, he was in love, and yet – he was afraid. Meg never pushed him for anything. Everything was at his pace – how and when she was involved in his life, his family, his world, and he loved her for it – but there was that damned word again. He knew she had new and old wounds, and he knew they held fragile scars.
Eventually, Joe decided the best course of action was to go to the one person who would understand love perfectly, despite having a love/hate relationship with him: Randy. Phone in one hand, bottles of tequila and bourbon in the other, Joe sent a text to Randy after kissing Meg goodbye after a show. She was leaving on a triage call with Dave and expected to be gone for hours – something about an orbital bone and a knee impact.
"Hey asshole. Any chance you want to listen to me whine?"
"Depends. You bringing a cheese plate?"
"Oldest joke in the book, dude. Tequila's on me, though."
"Room 1486. It better be as good as last time. Minus the disaster."
Joe threw on a pair of track pants and a decently-shabby shirt for his short trek down the hall, bottles clinking together gently as he moved. Randy swung the door open as Joe approached, prompting him to roll his eyes.
"What, can you smell it?"
"You're not exactly quiet coming down the hall. You stomp when something's on your mind." He waited for Joe to open his bottle before offering the neck of his up. "But, whatever's on your mind, cheers!" He tapped the bottles together, and drank greedily.
"Cheers...for what?"
"You getting a push, Meg finally being happy, my storyline not sucking ass for once," Randy paused for another drink, "And, for you being smart enough to come to me for advice on...whatever you need advice on. So, fire away. The guru. Is. Hee-yah!" Randy waved his hands, mocking John, laughing wryly to himself.
"Yeah, someone's been drinking just a bit before I got here. What's up with you?" Joe squinted at Randy, trying to make sense of his behavior.
"Generally good mood, for all of the aforementioned reasons."
"Liar. Randy, I've known you long enough to smell your bullshit a mile away."
"Fine." Randy settled heavily on the end of his bed. "You and I have...had issues. But it's all brotherly shit. I trust you. All of the shit I just said is true, and it is good. But...the financials came out today, and man, it's not looking good. Not at all. Nope. Nuh-uh."
"So you're in trouble?"
"Not me, no, but a lot of the newer guys are. You know how it is when you first come up. You see dollar signs, you go a little crazy."
Joe felt a metallic twinge fling itself up his spine. "What are you getting at?"
"I dunno. Probably nothing. Just that I know some people are gonna be in trouble, and money's gonna be tight for everyone. I don't want people coming to us like we're the almighty Bank of the WWE, or asking us to make sure they keep their jobs, and then thinking we're assholes for saying no. I had the asshole rep, I don't want it back." 'Meg would be smiling right now. All the shit she dug me out of...she's the reason I don't have that rep anymore.'
At that, Joe felt that metallic twinge again. "Let's just see how it all plays out. Don't waste good booze on bad ideas that haven't happened yet. Besides, I need you just sober enough to help me think." Joe clapped Randy on the back, trying to be encouraging. "I need help with Meg."
"What's our lady up to this time?" Randy took another giant swallow of tequila, and Joe winced.
"Our? I never said I was sharing."
"Whatever. She was mine first, remember? Shoveling me out of my bullshit and all that?" Randy winked.
"Yeah, yeah. But seriously...I don't know how to..." Joe paused, chewed over the words, rolled shapes in his mouth with his tongue, and tried to push Randy's oddly possessive statement from his mind. "Shit, I can't even figure it out now."
"You love her." Randy's words were simple.
"Yeah. But you make it sound easy."
"Well...it is, and it isn't. She's going to be scared shitless. Meg's first impulse is always to run. She's always beat herself up, never thinks she's good enough, blames herself...lemme shut up."
"No, you need to tell me," Joe pressed, "Because I don't know how to ask her, and when I try I fuck up, and I don't get the answers I need because I don't ask the questions I want to."
"No, I don't need to tell you." Randy's tone was immediately hostile. "She needs to tell you, and you need to figure out how to talk. That's your problem, and you shouldn't be dropping the L-word until you know how to talk to her. That's not fair to either one of you."
"Fucking logical drunk." Joe snorted, shaking his head and smiling.
Shrugging, Randy looked at Joe with equal measures amusement and pity. "So you tell her halfway."
"The fuck does that mean?" Joe looked thoroughly confused.
"You tell her you don't want to screw up being in love with her by not knowing how to be in love with her. The talking parts, the understanding parts, whatever. But tell her your own way. Or, shit, I don't even know if that would work."
"Hey, Randy?" Joe tried a complete 180, "Why does she always come down so hard on herself? I always have to tell her it's okay, she's okay, everything's fine, stop worrying...and I get where I wish she'd just do it already, so I don't have to keep telling her all the time."
Randy looked up at him without moving his head, an expression that usually meant something dangerous was about to follow. "You try a decade-plus of Jackson keeping the floor moving underneath you, and tell me how you feel. Never knowing which end was up. Never having one place to live, or money to pay for it. How the fuck is it that I know this shit, and you, Mr. I'm In Love With Her, you don't know this shit?" 'Oh, come on, Orton. You know why you know. How much time do you spend with her? Try, "Every free second," for starters. At least til you came along, Joe.'
Joe wilted, and then, in its own drunkenly logical sort of way, an idea occurred to him. "Maybe...maybe she didn't want me to know because she didn't want it to be a part of us. Like a clean slate kind of deal? A do-over? Where her past didn't follow her around anymore, maybe? It's hard not to feel what you feel, but if she just didn't tell me certain things, it's like they never happened."
Randy snorted. "Yeah, until it all falls down. She's going to feel what she feels until all the reasons shake out. Like I said, she didn't have the worst past in the world, but it wasn't easy, either. And you better get right with that before you start throwing all your 'I love you' shit around, because she's going to run like fuck-all-else once you do. If you're not ready to grab her and pin her down and fight the hardest fight you can imagine-"
"- How'd you get to know her?" Joe cut it, not sure where Randy was going, or even if he was talking to him anymore, and not himself.
"Because I just ask shit. Am I not the most direct person you know?" A smug look crossed Randy's drunkenly-thick face. 'Not gonna ask how I get away with it? Good. Meg just...trusts me.'
"True."
"And I better not ever again hear you say that it gets old having to tell her it's going to be okay. Ever. Or I'm gonna make good on that punch you in the nuts deal."
"You know I said that to get a rise out of you." Trying for humor, Joe felt like he had to give Randy a reason to calm down, like some sort of nerve had been struck.
Flatly, Randy fired back. "Rise granted."
Testing his theory, Joe pushed a bit harder at Randy, trying to figure out what it was that hadn't been said. "You sure you don't have a thing for Meg?"
Quietly, and with a large measure of resignation, Randy drank deeply before replying. "Oh, I do. You got me, there. But I know better. She's yours. And by the time I realized it, I was with someone else. Not much to do about it."
It was Joe's turn to offer up a dangerous look. "Not much to do at all. Right."
"Relax, tiger. She's off-limits. I get it."
Knowing there was no safe place to go with that line of conversation, Joe switched his train of thought. "So I have to tell Meg I'm in love with her by telling her I don't want to mess up being in love with her by not knowing her well enough to be in love with her, even though we sleep together, she stays at my house – shit, she's basically moved in...this sounds like a bad idea."
"Then you just have to tell her and hope that the rest of it comes together. You're never going to have a 'best time' to tell her you love her. You're just going to have a 'close enough to right' and then you've got to swing for the fences. If it works, it works. If not, then I hope the sex was good, because she's gone." 'I'm an asshole, but I hope she's gone. Doesn't mean anything for me, but I don't want her to be anything for you.'
"So reassuring. I knew I could count on you." Joe rolled his eyes and huffed; Randy was giving him all manner of advice that was equally useful and useless.
"Shut the fuck up and start drinking."
"I have time." Joe shrugged, as though he could schedule his drunkenness around Meg's predictability. "She'll call when she's on her way back, and she won't mind if I'm with you. Shit, she'll come by for a shot or two herself."
Randy smiled, trying his best not to look overly-enthused at the idea. 'There's my girl. Gotta make sure it's shots of my tequila, though. That bourbon is...okay...but mine is better.'
The next morning found Meg and Joe both swatting for their phones, trying desperately to answer their text alerts, both puzzling at why they'd receive messages at the same time at a ridiculously early hour.
"Shareholder, contractor, and employee emergency meeting? The fuck is all this?" Joe growled at his phone. "Whatever. C'mere, babygirl. As long as we're awake..."