Meg stood, shivering in the humidity, at the screen of an ATM four blocks from the hospital, completely confused by the array of buttons in front of her. She had walked up to the machine at least three times; it didn't get any less confusing after each approach. Frustrated, she threw herself down in a metal chair at a nearby sidewalk cafe and immediately regretted the decision; spikes of pain shot up her spine. Trying to keep her composure and not hurl the table over, she wrapped her fingers around its edge and squeezed her eyes shut. A waitress approached her, cautiously, and asked if she would be ordering.

Meg thought, carefully, making sure words would come to her in the correct order. 'She's not going to do anything. This is how it's supposed to work.'

"Water, please. And something light. Croissant?" She tried to sound hopeful, casually pleasant. "And...may I have something to write with, s'il vous plait?"

The waitress eyed her distrustfully; Meg knew her hair must have been a sight. "It's been a long day. I'm sorry." She tried for apologetic in her tone, as well. 'Don't scare the girl, Meg. You need help. And food. Act normal.'

The waitress wrote down the order, slowly, and left her pen at the table. Meg made a stack of napkins in front of her; it was the best she could do for paper. Eyeing the ATM suspiciously from across the sidewalk, Meg rubbed her temples and struggled through trying to remember the order in which she was supposed to press the buttons. "I know I used to know this. I remember the card number. Start there." She reached for the pen, closed her fingers around it -

- pulled back as hard as she could with the pen and slammed it down into his thigh, then lunged for the steering wheel and yanked it as far to the right as she could -

Meg slammed the pen back down onto the table and stared at her hand. "Okay," she breathed, "Okay, Meg, calm the fuck down." The waitress chose that moment to slide the croissant and glass of water across the table, causing Meg to startle.

"Mon dieu, madame, are you alright?"

"Yeah. No. Yeah, I mean, yeah. I'm fine. Just a really long day. Thank you. Merci." Meg looked at the pen, unsure of how to continue. "Really, thank you. I'm fine."

The waitress shrugged, having seen stranger things in New Orleans, and moved along to other tables, leaving Meg to puzzle over how to write out Jackson's credit card number for one more hit before it was deactivated, owner deceased.

It took her several hours, and several more false starts, before Meg figured out that if she wrapped the pen in a napkin, and just didn't look, she could pick it up and write in short spurts on the stack of napkins in front of her. She managed Jackson's card number, and then some of the steps needed to use the ATM, before the effort exhausted her and the memories of the crash were overwhelming.

'Okay. One last try. If you can't handle it, then...whatever. Start walking. Eventually, you'll find the bar. Even if you don't, it doesn't matter. Jackson's gone, that was the whole point.'

Blessedly, the ATM cooperated, accepting her manually keyed card number and spitting out stacks of twenties into her hands. "There. Thank you, that was step one. Now...I need to remember how to get a cab." Meg, muttering to herself, went back to the cafe, left a twenty on her table and then tentatively, waved a hand toward the road. Describing her old bar as best she could, she hoped and prayed the cab driver would understand where she was trying to go. He accelerated aggressively to cut back into traffic, and Meg was pushed back into her seat -

- backed out wildly, banging Meg around the interior of the car, attracting far too much attention -

- she dug her fingers into the cushions of the seat, the doorwalls, anything to try to still her banging around in the cab, refusing to open her eyes, but it wasn't until the driver settled into a constant speed and rate of forward motion that Meg felt safe enough to look around. Some things were familiar; others weren't. Her head felt like it was wrapped in gossamer; everything had a slight dusty shimmer to it, as though the powdered glass from the car crash had never fully cleared from her vision.

Randy pressed the gas pedal down further than he should have, knowing full well he was testing his luck without knowing where the local speed traps were. 'It doesn't matter. I just need to get to Tampa ahead of her. Talk to Joe. What am I supposed to tell him? Leave her shit on the porch and don't answer the door? Take her back and please still be in love with her? Let's have a threesome, I promise not to look?' Shaking his head, Randy rubbed his eyes, and refocused on the road. He was exhausted, but was determined not to stop more often than he had to. 'I don't know how much of a lead she had on me. I just have to get there.'

He regretted his decision to drive; the panhandle was a completely soul-sucking geographical void, but it was too late to change his mind. He had checked flight departures while he was at the hospital – anything that was leaving 'soon' had a four-hour wait time, not counting any unexpected delays, plus security and fan-related drama. It was easier just to rent a car and get started, especially when he doubted Meg had the available funds to buy a plane ticket.

Back at the bar, Meg begged the cab driver to wait and leave the meter running. She took what felt like hours to climb the stairs, her leg screaming at her to stop even though she had no other way to access her room. She picked up as much of her clothing as didn't remind her of Jackson, threw her suitcase down the stairs – 'There's no way I can balance it down, anyway,' - left two week's worth of rent on the backbar, and rolled her luggage out to the cab. The driver was kind enough to help her lift her things into the trunk, and then then turned to ask her where she needed to go next.

Meg was sweating and shaking from the physical effort of climbing the stairs and packing, and the emotional effort of sorting Jackson-tainted from not-Jackson-tainted clothing had drained her in a completely different way. She started short, closed her mouth, then looked blankly ahead.

"Madame? You are alright, n'est-ce pas? Where shall we go next?"

"Oui. We can go...well...I need to rent a car. You...can take me to the best place to do that? Your choice." Her voice was as vacant as her face.

The cab driver looked her over thoughtfully, then turned the meter off.

"Madame..." He sounded thoroughly convinced his passenger was not entirely well, and took pity on her. "There is a nearby rental company," he began, slowly, "In case you do not have your wallet, this company will...assist you. I assure you."

Meg snapped back into reality. 'Jesus, Meg. Even the complete stranger knows you're fucked up. Get it together.'

"Sir...merci, sir. Thank you." Meg pressed several bills into his hands, not knowing or caring how far over the fare she had gone. She had the ATM figured out; she guessed she had at least a day until Jackson's cards were shut down.

Walking into the ramshackle rental building, Meg crossed her fingers that this would all work out – all she needed was one car that could get her and her suitcase to Tampa. Seeing Joe, she figured, would solve everything else. She could tell him she was sorry, she never meant to scare him, that she had never stopped loving him, that she had always done everything, made every decision, because she loved him – and most importantly, tell him that Jackson was gone. The glittery, gossamer feeling refused to let go. Meg had no idea if she remembered how to drive a car, but that could be figured out as she went. She just had to go.

"You know what, baby...I was a complete asshole. I don't know what I was doing."

"Shh. It's okay. All that matters is we're okay now."

Sticky jasmine perfume filled Joe's bedroom as his now-on-again fiancee climbed into bed next to him, makeup painted firmly on her face, the straps on her negligee beginning to slip precariously down her shoulders. "Everyone has moments, right? I stepped out, you stepped out...we're all good now, it's fine. We're back the way we belong."

Joe felt his fiancee press into his hips, her legs trying desperately to pry between his. "Baby...you know it's too soon for me to do that...move up a little. There are other things." A sly smile crossed his face as his fiancee crawled up their bed, settling herself astride his shoulders, lifting the hem of her negligee up in front of his face. "I want whatever you want, Joe. Make me feel good." His hands slid up her back as he pulled her over his mouth, all other thoughts pushed from his mind for the moment. 'It's good to have you back. What the fuck was I thinking?'

Randy forced back another yawn, watching the sun creep over the horizon. He leaned against the exterior of his car, parked along the shoulder, and tried to stretch his legs as best he could. He had a few hundred miles to go, no real need to stop for gasoline, and as long as he could keep himself awake, could likely make it to Joe's house before Meg did. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket for the umpteenth time during his trip and knew without looking that it would be Dave. Sighing, he knew he couldn't duck the calls forever. 'Better get the ass chewing done and over with. Here we go.'

"Dave, before you get started - "

"No, you stop right there. What the fuck are you thinking? We talked about this! We said we would look for her when we went to New Orleans! Remember? We? And now you're out there doing whatever the fuck, alone!"

"Dave...I couldn't wait. This couldn't wait. One hospital said she was being transferred, another hospital couldn't hold her, and now she's gone again."

"Wait, what? Gone? Start over." Dave immediately shifted from angry to worried; his diatribe could wait until he knew what happened to Meg. Randy rehashed what he could remember from Tulane, Meg's decision to leave AMA, her vague comments about having somewhere to go, and what little he knew about Joe reconciling with his ex.

"Yeah, the last part is true. It's all over backstage. Everyone here is ready to kill him, babymama or not. In your absence, I...may have made sure that specific people knew why Meg left. The legal issues with Jackson, the car accident, things like that. The powers that be – higher-ups in corporate – know she ran in order to protect the company from legal action. I framed it as, "Too much panic to act rationally, but WWE's best interests at heart, trying to protect the talent, blah, blah, blah."

"So you put all of her business out there, just like that. Great. She's going to be so fucking thrilled when she gets back." Randy's sarcasm could have melted his phone.

"She's not coming back, Randy. At least, not back to work here. Get it through your head. The concepts of her "business" and her "employment" don't exist anymore, and if this saves your ass, then so much the better. You were starting to get some very strange looks. It's not out to 'everyone,' it's out to 'the right ones.' You want to protect her, but you need to understand you can't protect her if you don't have at least some help."

Randy was silent, but had to admit Dave had a point. Everything had careened nearly out of control; Dave had found a way to put the cars back on the rails. Thankfully.

"Okay. Fine. Let's say you have a point." Randy's tone was sulky; he drew lines in the dirt with the toes of his sandals.

"You're welcome. So what's your next move?"

"I'm on my way to Joe's house. That's the only place I can think that Meg would go. She doesn't have her own house or apartment. She didn't try to meet up at a show. She hasn't called me, and you didn't say she called you. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Oh no. Oh...oh shit."

"Yeah, exactly. It's not like she knows or anything. She's gonna walk into a bomb."

"Okay...uh...okay...I'm going to come down there. I can get on a plane. Now that corporate knows, they're not going to want the bad publicity. They'll let me go deal with her."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Dave. A breakup at home is not bad publicity. I can handle this."

"A breakup when corporate has gone to very expensive lengths to hush-hush the fact an ex-employee nearly got herself killed in a car crash that shut down a major interstate in order to protect a major talent and a publicly-traded company after the threat of a lawsuit for slander? That's pretty bad publicity. We have no idea what condition Meg is in, mentally or physically. And she has nowhere left to go once Joe tells her to fuck off. Which you already know he will."

Randy was silent; Dave could hear breathing on the other end of the line, but not much else.

"Randy? Don't get any bright ideas. Not. One. Wait for me to get down there, even if you see Meg. Don't do a fucking thing. I mean it."

"Dave?"

"What?"

"I'm not promising anything." Randy ended the call and got back in his car, unsure what to do with himself. He slid the gear shift back and forth, uncertain if he was really ready to start driving. He turned the car off, punched the steering wheel, got back out of the car, kicked at its tires, ratcheted Meg's medallion around and around his neck on its chain – 'Meg, what do I do? I know what you would do, if this was me acting like a dumbfuck, but it's you. And you don't act like this. It was always me doing stupid shit.' He sat down in the dust, away from the road, and leaned against the car to think, completely losing track of time.

- Randy tore through the backstage area like a force of nature, taking down whole racks of chairs, amps, stacks of folding tables, coiled pyro wiring – it didn't matter what the object was, as long as it landed with a bang and, preferably, broke upon impact. Most of the staff pressed themselves into walls, unsure if this was part of a filmed segment or just another one of Randy's storms after his split with Sam. Reality was getting harder and harder to tell from fiction for the staff caught in his wake, and truth be told, most of them were getting sick of it.

He continued down the hallway, half-staggering, half-lunging, not caring who saw him or who he nearly knocked down, until Meg popped from a doorway and slammed a hand into his chest. She had to grab his zip-up and launch herself into a backwards run to keep from falling over from the impact – and the fact he didn't slow down or stop – but she kept herself attached to him, every step of the way.

"You going to keep throwing shit? I'd rather you spend your paycheck on buying me drinks instead of replacing plywood tables, but whatever floats your boat."

"Shut up, Meg. And let go." Randy pried her hand loose, but Meg simply latched her other hand into his zip-up and started giggling when he pried that hand off. She grabbed back on again, smiling innocently, still jogging backwards.

"You're not getting rid of me. And calm the fuck down."

"What are you, part cat? Let go."

They went through their swat-and-latch dance down the length of the entire hallway, Meg diffusing the entire situation with her antics, moving from giggling to outright hysterical laughter, Randy forgetting entirely about the tables and wiring, now focused on the squirming, dancing nymph attached to his front, starting to laugh himself, until Meg ran out of hallway and executed a quick spin to lead him back the way they came, both of them breathless. Randy finally smiled and yanked her forward into his chest in as much of a hug as he dared allow himself.

"Okay, okay, you win. I quit breaking stuff if you quit yanking my shit around. It's Polo."

"Deal, but come see me after the show. You were in a mood, so now I have the right to worry."

"Nobody worries about me, Meg. I'm not-"

"Randy, shut the fuck up."

"That's 'Sir' to you, intern."

"Well, then let go of me, sir, before I kick you in the balls and mess up your Polo."

They continued laughing, Randy slouching against a wall while Meg plopped in the middle of the hallway, half-crosslegged, not caring whose passage she blocked as long as there was peace for the moment. -

Looking back, Randy could remember Meg pressing her face against him just slightly longer than was necessary when he held her, her relief was obvious, but so was a vague touch of...enjoyment?

He banged his head against the side of the car. "Jesus, Orton. You're reading way too far into shit that happened way too long ago. Get over it. Get over everything. Go make sure she's okay. Get her into a hotel or something until Dave gets here, and then let him take care of it."

Slowly, he eased himself off the ground and into the car, turned the engine over and began to drive. 'Even if I get there before you, which is iffy now – I have no idea what to do. I can't talk him out of anything. Or into anything. Do I even want to? You were so happy, Meg. What are you now?'

Meg, for her part, was brimming with anticipation. "Just a few hours, baby," she whispered to herself, "Just a few more, and then I can explain everything. I can tell you how sorry I am." She leaned down to rub her shin; the ache was probably never going to go away. The fracture was too complete, too severe – but the driving wasn't helping, either. "Never mind tell you. I can show you. Joe...you have no idea. I miss you so much. I love you. Always, always."

Highway signs turned into city lights turned into local street markers; Meg could almost feel herself vibrating as she tried to look for the right subdivision, right neighborhood. "I know I remember the gate passcode, I know what the house looks like...I can park this somewhere else; the gate attendant will remember me. And I'm in my clothes; Marco always used to tease me about my shirts at the gatehouse." Meg kept talking to herself, as though she could simply imagine the perfect experience into existence just by speaking it.

Parking a block away, Meg tried to clean up as best as she could. She dug rose oil out of the bottom of her suitcase, spent extra time working a brush through her hair, found a pair of jeans she knew Joe would like and a black blouse that was passable for 'neat, clean, and Tampa.' She wanted the scars covered until she had a chance to explain them. Smelling, and feeling, a bit more like herself, she limped from the driver's seat and up the block, trying to drive a normal posture and gait back into her body by sheer force of will. 'I'm in here somewhere. I'm not Jackson's anymore. I'm just Meg. I'm going home. Everything I need is here with Joe.' Gaining access was easy; everyone remembered her, was glad to see her, smiled and hugged her.

Meg saw a car she didn't recognize in the driveway at Joe's house; thinking it was a friend, cleaning service, anything other than what it was – she dragged herself to the door, pressing the doorbell.

She wasn't prepared – and who could be? – for who answered the door, half-clad in a silk robe, clearly just having been woken from a midday nap: Joe's fiancee, rubbing her eyes, Joe walking to the door behind her, jasmine perfume flooding out on a cloud of cold, perfectly-conditioned air.

Both women stood completely still, looking at each other, Meg not understanding why that particular woman was in front of her, simply tilted her head to the side and began to blink; Joe's fiancee was too tired to understand who exactly was in front of her. Joe, moving as quickly as his healing incision would allow him, edged to the door and closed it firmly in Meg's face after holding up one finger in a gesture for her to wait.

"Baby, do me a favor and go wait in the bedroom, okay? This is just gonna take a minute. I have to give that box back to her, and then she's gone."

"Oh, that's your ex?"

"Yeah. Meg."

At that, Joe's fiancee started to giggle, and then outright began laughing, all trace of sleep gone from her face. "Oh, wow, sweetheart...you owe me more than one apology for that. Down. Grade. You really did hit your head that night."

"No shit, sweetheart. I never said I didn't fuck up."

"You know, I can hear you." Meg called from the other side of the door.

Joe sighed and kissed his fiancee on the top of the head. "Just go. This will take all of five minutes. I promise."

She licked the side of his neck. "Get it done in less than five, and I'll make it worthwhile."

"Deal."

Out on the porch, Meg's mind was simultaneously in overdrive and blank. As to practical considerations, she now apparently had a 'box' to carry back to her rental car, and was trying to force herself to remember not only what she had left at Joe's house, but if it was heavy. She wondered if she could manage carrying a box on her own. She couldn't understand why Randy and Dave hadn't told her about Joe's fiancee. She couldn't understand why Joe wouldn't at least let her try to explain before pronouncing everything over and done – she knew she had fucked up, fucked up in a completely epic way – but Joe always let her talk to him, explain, he had never just walked away from her, or said cruel things.

'And what did Jackson say, Meg, that you were worthless, nobody could want you?'

Slowly, Joe opened the door – and only enough to let himself out, nudging the box along with his foot. "I can't pick it up. Hernia surgery." He gave the box one final push toward her, and while it didn't appear heavy, Meg also knew how much stronger than her he was. "Anyway. There's not a lot to discuss, Meg. You took off on me. You know I don't do drama." He leaned into the doorframe, looking her up and down. "And Jesus Christ, you look like a fucking train wreck."

"Joe, I meant what I said, I wasn't going to let Jackson-"

"You weren't going to commit to us, you mean. You wanted an out? You got one. I got my shit back together. I moved on. You need to move on too, Meg. I'm sorry, I renewed my engagement, I'm with someone who wants to actually be with me. Whatever you do from here, it's not going to be with me."

"Will you at least let me-"

"No, Meg. Grab your stuff, time to go." Joe inched the box toward her with his foot again and backed into the doorway. "You said it when we hooked up – I had a concussion, I wasn't thinking right. It never should have happened."

"Hooked up? Joe, it wasn't - I'm sorry -"

"Me too. Here's your stuff. You can call Dave or whoever from the clubhouse." Joe moved fully past the door, closing it as he went, and walked towards the bedroom he now shared with his fiancee.

His fiancee was wrapped in silk sheets instead of her silk robe. "You were cutting it close, baby. But I think you clocked in under five minutes."

"Well. Then c'mere and give me my reward."

His fiancee was only too eager to climb between his legs and erase any lingering memory of Meg from his mind.

Meg stood on Joe's porch, unsure of whether to knock again and tell Joe the joke wasn't funny, or to pick up the box, if she could, and start walking. She looked down at the box and tested it with her foot. It was heavy, to be sure, but not impossible. 'The old me could do this, no problem. If I can make it to the clubhouse, I can maybe get someone else to carry it to my car. That's just down the street. Cry later, walk now. Figure it out.' Meg bent, slowly, carefully, working her fingers under the box, crouching, feeling her entire body scream from the compressed posture she temporarily adopted. As she lifted, her leg nearly went out from under her, and her collarbone felt as though it was about to twist apart. 'Fuck this. Fuck all of this. I did this for you, Joe. And the sick thing is, I still love you. I wish you would just let me explain.'

Tilting herself against the rail of Joe's front steps, she used it to brace herself as she limped onto the walkway in front of his house, wobbling precariously as she adjusted to balance on her own, urging herself to make it the few hundred feet to the clubhouse, if only so she could set the box down and lose consciousness in the comfort of an air-conditioned room rather than out on the street.