Don't get me wrong, I've got no ill-will for you.
It'd just been so long, I thought I'd always know you.
But you're so far gone, up where the air gets thin—
You cut the kite strings.

Rayna walked into her hotel room and sat down on the couch. Her head was pounding, the same way it had been all night. Sighing, she pressed her fingertips to her temples and began to massage the skin there. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the couch. She pressed her temples harder, the pain not an unwelcome distraction from her thoughts.

Six months. That's how long Deacon had been out of rehab. Things had been going well—Rayna introduced Deacon to Coleman, and they'd quickly developed a bond, and the whole sponsor thing really seemed to be working. He wasn't going to meetings regularly, but he'd avoided alcohol and bars and things seemed to be looking up. Deacon had apologized for that night in his apartment—he'd been near tears—and Rayna had cradled his head in her arms and told him it was okay.

For a while, it was okay.

And then, with the anniversary of Vince's death approaching, he started staying out later and later, started having drinks here and there, until it suddenly wasn't.

It was the night of a showcase for new artists that Edgehill was hosting. She was at rehearsal for an hour before she went looking for him.

She found him face down on the bed in his hotel room, an empty bottle of alcohol next to him.

"Babe?" She said, stepping towards him, "Babe, please don't do this again. We've got a gig." Her voice cut through the room, but he didn't stir, "Come on, please get up." She reached for his arm again, momentarily startling him from his slumber, and he lifted his elbow hard and fast, striking her in the face. Her hand flew up to cover her face as she stumbled back, trying to regain her balance; she barely caught herself before she hit the floor. She retracted her hand from her face and saw blood, red and bright, the pain came a moment later.

She glanced at Deacon, but he was face down on the bed again, not moving. She stumbled towards the door, the tears in her eyes blurring her vision. She reached for the door and missed the handle, leaving a smear of blood on the white paint of the door. She stared at it momentarily, horrified, and then reached for the handle again. She made her way back to her room, the blood smear on the door flashing behind her eyes as she walked.

Deacon would see it later and search his body for an open wound.

Bucky arrived at Rayna's room exactly six minutes after she'd phoned him, her muffled voice coming down the line, "Bucky?" was all she'd said.

"I'll be right there."

Bucky found her in the bathroom. By now, the bleeding had subsided, but on the bathroom counter remained a once-white washcloth now stained with her blood.

"Rayna." Bucky's voice was gentle, "What happened?" He asked, leaning up against the bathroom counter. His gaze was soft as he looked at her face, trying not to react. Her eye was already starting to turn dark, black and blue splotches forming under her right eye.

She didn't look at him, her eyes just focused on the washcloth. Suddenly, the urge to get the blood out of the cloth became urgent to her. She grabbed it, turned the faucet on, and started scrubbing the material together under the hot water. The water became too hot, and her hands began turning red, but she didn't care. She watched as the blood seeped out of the rag into the white sink, mesmerized as it swirled down the drain. She washed until only a faint pink remained on the cloth, and the tears came when she realized she would never be able to get all the blood out, not with only water.

Bucky stood watching her, and when she started to cry, he reached over and turned the faucet off, gently took the cloth from her hands and placed it on the counter. Then, he grabbed her by the shoulder, and pulled her into a hug.

She sank into him as he flattened his palm against her back, his hand moving in soothing circles. "Shhh." He whispered, and when her tears finally subsided he asked again. "What happened?"

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, "Deacon." She edged the word out, and nearly winced when she spoke; she hadn't expected it to hurt so much to say it.

Rayna felt Bucky stiffen at her word, and she quickly pulled away from him so she could see him. She saw his jaw set, and watched rage settle on to his face, his eyes dark.

"No, no, no, no, no." She said, her words rushed as she read his thoughts. "It wasn't like that."

"Rayna." Bucky's voice was still gentle, but firm—a warning.

"I know what you're thinking, Buck. But, I promise you. He didn't hit me." At his skeptical look, she continued, "He did, but he didn't. It was an accident. He was passed out, and I was trying to wake him up. He rolled over and his elbow caught me in the face." She touched his shoulder, "I promise, Buck."

Bucky eyed her, trying to decide whether or not to believe her. Making the decision, he brushed his finger lightly over her cheek, his finger passing just underneath the darkening bruise under her eye.

He nodded once. "Okay." He dropped his hand, "I'll get your makeup team in here, see what they can do."

Rayna nodded once, and offered him a small smile—it wasn't much, but he returned it, and then left the bathroom, shaking his head slightly as he left. When she was alone, she splashed cold water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror until she heard her makeup team file into the room.

The show had gone fine, nothing to write home about one way or the other, but she was thankful now to be in her room. Rayna pushed herself up from the couch and headed into the bathroom. She glanced at herself in the mirror and shook her head. It was amazing what a little makeup could do. Leaning forward, she stared at the spot under her eye—you couldn't even see a hint of a bruise. She ran a cotton swab over her face, removing her makeup, saving her eye for last. She watched as the makeup disappeared, replaced with a thick black-blue mark—without thinking, she pressed the skin and winced.

A knock at the door startled her, and when she made her way to the door and looked through the peephole, her stomach tied itself in knots. She opened the door, careful to hide the right side of her face.

"Hi." Deacon was standing there, his shirt rumpled, his hair wild, his eyes red. He was sober, but just barely.

"Hi." She returned.

"Can I come in?" Deacon's voice was quiet, but Rayna hesitated. When she didn't answer, he spoke again, "Please?"

"Fine." She held the door open, but turned away from him so he couldn't see her face. She stared out the window, keeping the right side of her face as far away from him as possible. She heard the door click and felt him step next to her.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'm so sorry I missed the showcase… I know… Rayna, please look at me." She didn't move, "Please. I'm so sorry, I know I let the band down, I know I let you down and I just… please look at me." His voice was filled with desperation, and she could hear that he was on the verge of tears. "Please." The knot in her stomach tightened.

Finally, she turned to look at him.

"I'm sorry," He said again, looking at her, "I'm…" He suddenly stopped.

She watched the emotions as they played across his face—confusion, followed by shock, followed by anger.

"What—what happened?" He asked, his voice panicked.

She crossed her arms over her chest, "Nothing."

"Ray, that's not nothing. You have a black eye!" She saw his eyes dart to the bathroom, where the washcloth was still next to the sink, "Shit, Rayna, were you bleeding?"

"I'm fine." She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

He stepped towards her, and she took a step back. "You're not fine, what happened?"

For a moment, she considered lying to him, but there was no angle she could see where that would work.

She inhaled, choosing her words very carefully. "I went looking for you before the showcase, and I found you in your room." She couldn't look at him before, but now she couldn't take her eyes off of him, "You were passed out, and I… I tried to wake you up."

"Wait." Deacon interrupted her, "Are you saying… you're saying that…" His face contorted, "I did this to you." It wasn't a question.

"It was an accident, Deacon, I was trying to wake you up, and I pulled on your arm and you threw your elbow back and…" She watched as horror settled on his face, and she rushed to speak, "You didn't do it on purpose, it wasn't… you didn't hit me." She finished.

"Oh god." Deacon put his hands on his knees and bent over, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." His head snapped up, "The blood. Oh my god, it was your blood." He stood up, then, and looked at her, "I…" He trailed off.

"It's okay, it's okay." Rayna stepped toward him.

He put his arm out and stumbled back—the couch hit his knees and he sank on to it. "It's not okay, Rayna. How can you tell me it's okay?" He was crying now, "I gave you a black eye! I… I made you bleed!" His voice broke. "I can't even say I'm sorry—god, I am sorry, but how is that something I can apologize for?" He ran his hand down his face, "Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry," He put his head in his hands, and his words were muffled, "I'm a monster. I'm a fucking monster."

Rayna went to him then, sat next to him on the couch. She reached for him, but when she placed her hand on his shoulder he recoiled from her touch. She folded her hands in her lap. "You're not a monster, Deacon." She sighed, "You're not."

He looked at her, "How can you even say that? Look what I did to you, look what I did to your beautiful face, Ray." He laughed, but it held no mirth, "God, you're the only woman I've ever loved, and look what I done to you. I can never forgive myself for this. Not ever. You must hate me."

"Deacon, you're not a monster. You're sick, babe." She reached her hand out to him again, and this time he accepted her touch. "And I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I don't feel like I know who you are when you're like this—you're not the man I know you are when you're like this. But hate? No. Not even close." She brushed the hair back from his forehead, "But you are sick, and you do need help."

He nodded, and started to cry again—the sobs shook his body, and Rayna brought him into her arms, his head resting on her chest. "I'll do whatever you want, baby." His words were quiet, and she had to hold her breath to hear them, "I'll go to rehab again, I'll do whatever you want." She smoothed his hair, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry." He whispered against her chest.

"Shhhh." She said, but he kept whispering variations of 'sorry' until he fell asleep against her, his breath soft and hot against her skin.

After he was asleep, Rayna whispered "It's okay" over and over again until she nearly believed that it was, and then she cried.

In the morning she made the call, and she thought maybe it would be.