Welcome purelyfictionalstories and YinandYang1234! Glad you've hopped on board, and please, please, message me if there's anything you want to know, want to ask, or think I could be doing better. I love hearing from my readers! Also, if you haven't, please check out Analeptic - it'll help Malum make a bit more sense.

To everyone who's stuck with me this far, I thank you. I know I can be a bear to deal with, especially when updates take for-ev-er. Though, just ask nattie – I spent a whole day just dealing with Randy's shirt!

Speaking of nattiebroskette: She's just posted Chapter NINETY-TWO of her story Shielded...please go read. It's lovely. She's lovely. LOVELY!

Onward!

Randy expected to be given some time off in order to complete the movie; he didn't expect the extended period of time off he was given that included a demand for rehab for his back. However, in order for him to be given the time he needed, he had to agree to a face turn. It wasn't where he thought his character should go, but Meg could only make so much progress on his back without the proper equipment, and he needed time to fully engage in the rehab process – which meant no hotel beds, no taking bumps, no throwing other people around day in and day out. 'And I can't take you with me, can I? Even if you had your ID, wouldn't you need a passport? Don't those take forever to get? Whose fucking idea was it to film this in Canada? How do I even explain that you're back in the picture, that I want you to do my rehab, that I want...how do I explain?'

Meg traveled further and further north with Randy and Dave, each stop bringing them closer and closer to good-bye until finally, it loomed over their heads, two shows away. She would be staying at Dave's apartment on the outskirts of Seattle while Randy was filming in Vancouver; Dave would continue traveling with the company.

If anyone backstage knew Meg was around, they didn't say anything – they were all too busy enjoying the new and improved Mr. Orton. Despite Randy's displeasure over his character's turn, he was more pleasant to talk to, easier to work with, and overall a kinder, gentler person to be around. A strange, centered calm settled over him when the company announced Joe's return date as December 20. 'Past a few of the pay dates, but that's better. I'd rather tag him at a house show. Less trouble for breaking script there. Or just fucking him up backstage. Whatever.'

Randy tried to prepare Meg for his staged takedown before his pre-planned time off; the show at the First Niagara Center would also be his last before he left to begin work on the movie and on his back. 'And of course, our last show together has to be across the country from where you and Ineed to end up. Just so, y'know, you can drive across the fucking nation by yourself.' He knew she was used to the type of worked match he was going to pull off, the staging, the way the chairs were rigged, the way everyone was supposed to check their impacts, but he also knew she was going to see it through the lens of the beatings Jackson had laid on her. His back still wasn't up to work-speed, but he had to take shots and make it look convincing. That wasn't the difficult part; everything really was painful. Randy noticed he was being called more often for drug screenings; not complete fools, the company was looking for signs he had slipped and was self-medicating for his injury. 'I don't need to, you idiots. I have Meg. But you don't need to know that.'

In the hours and minutes before he went on, Randy was on edge – the last thing Meg would see would be him getting an ass-kicking, probably bleeding, definitely on a backboard – all things which would legitimately aggravate his injury, and then she'd be driving, ending up alone in Dave's apartment, while he'd be on a plane and then across an international border for nearly a month. 'I don't think we're even going to see each other before...we're not. I go to the arena, she packs and leaves. I just have to trust that she's really going to go to Seattle. That she won't run.' There was always Skype, but it wasn't as though she could just walk into the next room and snap him with a rubber band, or throw an ice cube at him.

- "Meg, I'm going to fucking wreckyou! I swear, you're – I'm gonna – fuck!"

Randy dumped piles of ice chips and slush out of his right boot, positive there was no way he'd get it dry before his match. His foot had to be re-taped because it was soaked, his toes were cold, and the icy mess just kept pouring out of his boot, seemingly infinite. The mass of slushwas soft enough that he'd committed his right foot to a full dunk inside before he realized what was going on; the ensuing reflexive kick sent his boot flying against the wall, causing the contents to explode everywhere. What didn't explode required him to fetch the boot and shake, and shake, and shake it to get it out. All the while, the ice and slush in his left boot continued to melt, soaking it completely.

Meg sauntered up to the doorway of the locker room, looking positively satisfied with herself, hands clasped behind her back around the handle of a gigantic craft-paper bag. "Something wrong in here? I swore I heard someone yelling, but it sounded like a girl. Maybe I should check the women's locker room."

The men in the locker room howled with laughter; Randy felt his face flush as he scooped a handful of boot-slush from the floor and flung it at Meg, missing wildly. He flecked her shirt with small bits of icy runoff, but mostly coated the wall next to her.

"I'm gonna throw the boot next! What the fuck were you thinking? I'm up second and these are soaked! What the fuck am I supposed to do now?" The locker room immediately went from amused to silent; Randy was clearly furious with Meg for her prank. He reached for his left boot, pouring a ridiculous amount of ice and water out of it. "And this one too? Meg, are you out of your fucking mind? I'm fucked! I can't go out there in these!" He threw the boot at the door frame; more water splattered out of it as it hit dangerously close to her face. Meg waved off the men who had stood up to get between her and Randy.

"Right, dumbass," she laughed, "You can't go out there in those beat-ass, soggy boots that chew your feet apart. But you can go out there in these." She walked into the locker room, deftly avoiding the puddles from his boots, and swung the paper bag onto the floor in front of her. Slowly, Meg pulled out a giant box wrapped in dark red paper and tied with a simple, dark grey bow, presenting it to Randy. "Happy birthday, asshole. And work on your aim while you're at it." She winked at him, flicked a small piece of slush from her shirt, and slipped from the room.

Randy had almost forgotten about his birthday; Sam hadn't called, not that he expected her to after the divorce. His...almost girlfriend? Girl he had been seeing more frequently than was usual for him? Girl he fucked on the regular? Hadn't called or texted yet, either. The whole thing was starting to sour his mood. 'Leave it to Meg to come through for me. And I almost took her head off for it, because I'm a dick. Good job, Orton.'

"Well? The box?" John's voice carried from the back of the room. "Gonna open it, or what?"

Gently pulling the ribbon apart, following the seams of the paper, Randy unwrapped the package to reveal – to several appreciative low whistles – a pair of custom boots, outwardly appearing almost exactly as his old ones were, except new, clean, bright, with proper padding, lifts, supports, eyelets that made sense and weren't tearing loose...everything he should have had, to keep him safe and functional, and everything he had never bothered adding to his gear out of apathy, irritation, frustration...'And since she knows how I work, she really knows how these need to be for my lifts, to keep my ankles under me, to balance out my back...' Randy couldn't suppress a smile as he thumbed the edges of the soles. 'Meg...this was your whole stipend, you idiot. But thank you. Remind me to thank you.'

He stayed in that night, turning down offer after offer to go out for dancing, drinks, strippers, clubs, and headed straight to his hotel room, phone in hand, having decided he would both thank Meg and exact his revenge at the same time. "Goes around, comes around," he chuckled, as he pressed Send on his phone.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Meg flew down the hallway, skidding past his room, then doubling back to pound on his door. "Are you okay? Can you let me in? Nevermind, don't get up, I'll be right back, I'll get the key from the desk!" Before she could run from his room, Randy allowed the door to creak open, and Meg shoved into Randy's pitch-black bedroom in a total panic.

"Randy? Where are you? I can't believe it – those boots were custom! Which ankle is it? High sprain or low? Where are you? Where are the fucking lights? Jesus Christ, I can't see a fucking thing in here and you're -"

Randy took that moment to slam the door shut and grab Meg from behind. She shrieked as he swung her around in the air twice before he dropped her to the floor and ran like hell to the other side of the room, where he turned a table lamp on and fell against the wall, laughing hysterically.

"You asshole! I thought you were hurt! That was your birthday present! Oh my God, you had me so scared! Don't you ever do that to me again!" Meg tried her best to look angry, but the corner of her mouth twitched once, twice, and then had to concede defeat from her position: on her ass, on the floor. "Fine," she laughed, "Fine, fine. You win this round. Your text message beats my ice boots. But did you like them?"

"Meg, they were perfect. I can't believe how comfortable they were. Best match of my life."

"It was a fucking three-minute -"

"Shut up and open the tequila. I had you come over for birthday shots and cheesy movies."

"Fine, but you're ordering a pizza, too."

Meg bit at the edges of her nails, alternating between that and fiddling with the phone Dave bought for her. She knew the match wouldn't be pretty, but she hadn't expected it to go the way it did, either. 'They stayed off his back at least. Sorta. Not that pounding on his head is any better. Colby was always really careful with that, so I know everything's okay...but this isn't okay.' Meg had tried to call Randy an hour after the match; he hadn't answered. She knew nothing could be too wrong, or Dave would have called, so she assumed Randy was in the shower and packed her car. After her second call went unanswered, she lit a cigarette and dragged her fingernails down the car doors, smoking until she was down to the filter before deciding to start her drive. 'It's late, but it's not like I can sleep. I sleep, I wake up screaming. I'm too worried about him right now, anyway.' Meg had no way of knowing Dave had pocketed Randy's phone and set it to mute. Randy had no way of knowing, either, asleep in the passenger seat of the SUV as Dave drove to the hotel.

An hour and a half later, Meg was cagey, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, leg aching, collarbone irritated under the pressure of the seatbelt, shifting left to right to try to take the tension out of her ribs. She finally slammed the car across three lanes of highway and up a lengthy off-ramp, ignoring the screeching brakes and blaring car horns behind her. 'Call, Meg. Make sure this isn't one of your more idiotic ideas.'

Dave's personal phone rang; bleary-eyed due to the late hour, he rubbed his eyes and saw it was Meg. Pawing at the screen to answer the call, her voice poured out of the speaker before he could even get a greeting out.

"Dave, you're gonna kill me, but I'm headed to the airport. I know I can't get on a plane – I know I can't even get through security, and I don't know what plane he's on, or even what time he's going, but you do, and I just want to be sure he's okay, and it's such a bad idea, but I wanted to call you first and not just show up there and start wandering around and -"

"Meg, stop driving. Right now."

"Dave, you're not listening to me!"

"And you're not listening to me. Do you hear yourself right now? You're driving to where? To do what? You don't know where the airport is, and you don't know where Randy is, and just the fact you called me means that you're not sure about this."

Meg was suddenly, violently, inexplicably angry. She slammed the car onto the shoulder of the ramp, gravel spraying everywhere, unsure of why she felt on the verge of tears. 'I called him to make sure this was a good idea. He's telling me it isn't a good idea. Accept it. Why can't you accept it?' Her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel; she had no need to press the brake pedal as the car was in park, but she was trying to drive her foot through the floorboard, ignoring her shin's screams to stop the pressure. 'Because you don't want it. You want something else. What do you want?'

"No, dumbfuck, I called you because I need directions and I don't know how to use this phone's GPS to get them. I don't remember how." Frantic, Meg let go of the steering wheel, dug through the glove box, and balanced her phone, lighter, and cigarettes between her hands and around the steering wheel, trying to light a Parliament as she spoke. 'Randy would kill me. Never drive like this, Meg. This is how...accidents...happen...' Meg shuddered slightly and dropped her lighter. 'Breathe, Meg. Cherry. Cigarette's gonna go out.' Trying to steady her nerves and not caring about the fee she'd incur for smoking out the rental car, she inhaled deeply. "Are you going to help me, or do I have to make an ass of myself to him directly?"

"Meg, what are you actually trying to tell me?"

"Dave, I don't fucking want to be alone! I don't want to see anyone from the company, but I don't want to be in your apartment by myself, and I don't want him to leave. I can't see anyone, I don't have anyone, but I had him. All we did was talk, and it was nice, and now I don't even have that. So I'm going to a completely strange city to, what, just wait for...something?"

'She's going to hate me for this, but I need her to keep driving.' "Meg...he's already on the plane. Just get going. You can talk to him once he lands and gets some sleep. You, too, for that matter. You're going across the fucking country. Get yourself to a hotel. I'm going to be checking on you. Get back on the road and get going. Leave him alone. Randy will call you once he's in Vancouver and settled, okay?"

Meg could feel tears start to course down her face, but nothing in her voice broke in the ways her eyes did. "Fine, Dave. I'm driving now. I'll talk to you later." She pressed the red button on the screen to end the call, and after staring blankly at the phone, slammed it against the dashboard again and again until its circuits begged mercy and shut themselves off. Staring at the now-black screen, Meg tossed the phone into the back seat. She finished the car's climb up the ramp and headed down the other end of it, back onto the highway. Her tears continued for miles, soundlessly, her cigarette burning itself out in her hand.

Throwing his towels down onto the floor, Randy limped out of the bathroom, showered, buried in sweats and a hoodie, looking thoroughly unhappy with the idea of a long flight to Vancouver. "Who was that?"

"Oh, just the apartment complex. Double-checking the details."

"This late at night?" Randy's tone was decidedly skeptical; a phone call from an apartment complex manager well after midnight didn't make any sense.

"The manager's a personal friend; he knows how important Meg is to me. He wants this to be absolutely perfect. Get some sleep. Your flight is at six in the morning, so you know you're getting up in not-enough-hours."

Randy made a non-committal grunt and inched toward the bed, his back screaming at him every step of the way. 'Something isn't adding up. I should call Meg. She's probably driving right now, and it sucks to drive alone.'

It was then that he realized he couldn't find his phone, and systematically tore apart his bags looking for it, refusing to sleep, the expression on his face a combination of pain and fear. Dave stayed awake watching him the entire time, deciding to sneak the missing phone back into Randy's luggage in the morning.

Refusing to stop driving, Meg's mind wandered to Randy's movie. She couldn't help but be jealous; she had looked up several of his co-stars while she had waited at slow gas pumps, and they were all – compared to her – beautiful, talented, and rich. 'Wonder how many times he gets to kiss them? Why are you even thinking like that? Stop it. Randy doesn't even look at you like that. And how would he? You're like the dorky little sister.' She floored the car, trying to get away from herself.

Meg didn't stop at a hotel that night, or the next, or the next. Sleeping in her car was chancy, she knew, but she stuck to the well-Iit parking lots of 24-7 big-box stores, in large part because the bright lights and constant traffic prevented her from ever fully drifting off. She refused to go into the stores themselves, the crowds were overwhelming in daylight, and the uncertainty of what could be in shadows at night prompted her to check and re-check the locks on the doors of her vehicle. It never occurred to her that her phone's battery would dwindle, then die, rather quickly. The phone would be silent – off – for the duration of her drive.

It took her four days to get to Seattle, and most of the fifth day trying to find Dave's apartment in the Olympic Heights area. She hadn't realized he was on the north end of the city and had driven in on the entirely wrong side of town. It was dusk by the time she parked at the complex and hauled her suitcase up to the fifth floor. The apartment was plain, barely decorated, and entirely Dave-like in its utilitarian furnishings. 'It's empty. I can think in empty. I can even think too much, in empty.'

She buried her face in the pillows of Dave's bed and screamed, again and again, until her throat was raw. Sleep finally consumed her as the horizon consumed the sun, and she stayed across the bed for hours. It wasn't til the next morning – the sixth day, by Randy's count – that Meg finally remembered to charge her phone.