Welcome Blackhat, Westie86, and jongoodwife2014! And as always, thank you to the eminently talented Nattiebroskette for 2AM help and vodka pomegranates :) Aaaand, another thank you to the lovely MetalMayhem, who in all things is my, "Would this really work?" gut check.

Randy was still trying to understand how he'd ended up in Meg's car. How he'd ended up back at his house, alone, with its empty rooms and cold walls. 'I didn't tell her I wanted to leave. She asked me to go.' Dave's words about Meg sabotaging herself echoed in Randy's head, and he sank down into his sofa, laptop in hand.

The reports continued ad nauseum. He read and re-read the police report, marveling at how Jackson could even walk far enough to get into his car given how drunk he was. He looked at each photo from the scene of the accident, but kept returning to the picture of the pen wedged into Jackson's thigh. A thick rope of blood ran from under the pen, and Randy couldn't help but compare the placement of the pen to the welt on Meg's thigh. 'She couldn't have done that to herself on purpose. Could she?' He kept reading through her files, his head spinning as he continued.

She lingered in a medically-induced coma for the first ten days of her stay at Oechsner, in their ICU – something he didn't understand about brain swelling, then reports on blood loss, spinal trauma, failing several of her responsiveness tests over the course of several days, and he had to put his laptop to the side. 'A drink. Meg would say bad news needs good alcohol.' He paced aimlessly before he seemed to remember where the bar was at in his den, and it was several minutes more before he could coordinate his thoughts and actions enough to draw a bottle out from the back of a cupboard.

Randy went back to his inbox, opting not to continue with the report from the ICU. 'I need to know what else happened. Before that, but after that.' Each of Remy's reports came with its own message; Randy clicked through each one before coming to what he hoped would offer the answers he was looking for – the root of Meg's motivation. Randy fully understood that her relationship with Jackson had been years and years of emotional upheaval, dramatic antics, and general mutual dissatisfaction, but what he couldn't wrap his head around was what had been so awful that she'd not just let him go so far that night, but that she'd allowed herself to go so far and snap so completely – that she'd killed someone. Someone she said she loved, someone she'd stood by for years, and someone she'd opened her heart and her bed to repeatedly. She'd left Joe for Jackson, but had she left Joe just to kill Jackson? Had it been spontaneous, the plan all along, an act of complete desperation, or an act of suicide that was never meant to take Jackson with her? The last notion brought the bottle of tequila quickly to Randy's mouth, and with his other hand, he opened the file.

'Patient violently uncooperative, screaming for specific persons not present in room, not available. Names previously noted in file, presumably are persons from patient's past/family. Patient attacking RNs, DOCs, CNAs, associated support staff. Security called. Patient physically restrained to bed, IM injection of 20 mg Haldol, 50mg Thorazine PRN used (typical use of 5mg Haldol/25mg IM Thorazine not attempted as ineffectual in all previous attempts). Patient placed in four-point leather restraints for safety, chest and leg strap also applied, IV started for PRN Versed 2mg for immediate sedation. Bedside supervision x2 present for all procedures.

Physical exam conducted with consent from department director as patient unwilling, unable to offer consent, is not deemed capable of offering consent and director has concluded it is not medically advisable to continue care without complete patient history.

Excluding injuries sustained in single-vehicle accident, the following has been observed via physical exam: (includes use of CT, MRI, manual/visual examination, blood and laboratory analysis, standard examination techniques, approved hospital protocol/techniques). This list is general, non-exhaustive, and does not include findings across all departments. Refer to specific departmental records for all specific systemic findings.

Right orbital fracture in early stages of healing, extends/includes bridge of nose.

Pupil responsiveness continued sluggish (not related to administration of PRN/STAT medication), can be reasonably associated with repeated head trauma, exacerbated by trauma of accident, but consistent with physical abuse.)

Hematomae/contusions across all stages of healing, across all areas of body. Includes bruising in shape of hand/palm prints, shoe/foot prints, firm edge markers consistent with use of belt/cord, possible burns (require legal/police evaluation for determination of origin, electrical/friction/chemical), consistent with physical abuse.

Abrasions across wrists and ankles consistent with ligature/use of untrained restraint. Similar ligature marks across throat, both wide and narrow. Friction abrasions present.

Blood values showing stabilization of markers consistent with improvement of dehydration, mineral levels.

Pelvic exam – trauma consistent with repeated forced sexual intercourse, object trauma. Bruising, tearing, all improved, stitching to be removed upon arrival of OBGYN, bleeding appears to be improved now 14 days post D&C waiting upon arrival of OBGYN, rectal exam showing similar improvement from trauma, stitching requires additional 72 hours before removal, general area exam notes light scarring to right buttocks in line possible use of blade object (requires analysis from legal/police), patient not removed from four-point restraint for performance of exam, no visual signs of STI, all swabs/tests still negative, still waiting for repeat analysis.

Osteo trauma excluding all vehicular accident damage includes additional broken ribs posterior/dorsal, wrist fractures/dislocations, broken L ankle, compression fracture to L tibia, repeated soft tissue (cartilage) trauma in shoulders possible repeated dislocations – DO paged for repeat exam.

Patient sedation continued. Patient generally non-verbal when conscious unless screaming for persons previously named in file, refusing to answer questions, appears possibly dissociative, though not amnesiatic, psychiatric department paged, expected patient to be non-cooperative, determination of services to be made.'

Randy read it, re-read it, traced his fingers over the screen, touching various words as he went. The injection she received, being physically restrained, then being tied to the bed, then even more chemicals through an IV to sedate her – he was reeling. That Meg was screaming, he could believe, but who was she screaming for? Then, the injuries. Everything that had been done to her, both in the exam and by Jackson. 'No wonder she fought; she didn't want any more. Couldn't take any more. Why didn't you just ask her what she wanted? She could talk; she was telling you who she wanted, she was telling you to leave her alone...there was nothing wrong with her that I couldn't have...' Randy groped for his phone, dialing Remy.

"Allo, c'est Remy."

"Remy...hey. It's Randy."

"Ah, Randy. The reports went through, correct?"

"Yeah, but...listen...she..." Randy trailed off, not sure if he should repeat what Meg said and even less sure how to ask for help in understanding.

"Mon dieu. It did happen. You changed your mind." Remy's tone was thoroughly disappointed. "Randy. Non. I told you. Read the reports."

"Remy, that's what I'm trying to tell you! I need help. I am reading them. She realized I was reading them, and she started talking about how she killed Jackson, and then she said she was expecting me to find out, and then she told me to leave. I went back to my place, I'm still reading, and holy shit...everything that happened to her...it's fucking unreal. Everything in the accident, okay, but everything in the hospital...and what Jackson did to her before...then in the hospital they did...Remy, I don't even know what half that shit means. Help me?"

"Merde, Randy...merde. Bien, bien. Where are you reading now?" Remy was quiet, but something in his voice was willing.

"What's thorazine and haldol? And versed?"

"Antipsychotic medications. The last is a powerful sedative, used for surgery."

"But she didn't have surgery when they used it, she had a physical. Why would they give that to her?"

"Because she hurt so many doctors and nurses. She screamed for you and for Dave constantly, and would attack people. I tried to tell them, the woman is not crazed, she is alone. Let her go, or let them come. They did not, and so she continued to attack. Eventually, they left her unconscious nearly all the time."

'She is alone. And she told me to leave, and I left. What the fuck was I doing?' "Jesus...okay...firm edge markers?"

"Objects. Things that are hard, ah, how to explain..." Remy trailed off. "Were that you spoke French, Randy."

"You mean, Jackson was beating her with things?"

"Oui! Oui, exactement. Things. Or throwing her against things, perhaps."

Randy dropped his head. "I didn't even read all of the files. I didn't even read all of this file."

"What else to say...he was...she suffered so much trauma from the accident that the hospital-"

"Remy." Randy's voice was gutted. "Remy, just...I..."

"So she told you she caused the accident?"

"How the fuck are you so calm? How? She killed someone! He nearly killed her! She nearly killed herself!"

"Oui. And in moments of desperation, desperate things happen." He shrugged, the phone rustling against his chin. "She suffered under his love. Why, I do not know; perhaps you know. And I do not think she wanted to die, truly, else why would she call for you?"

"She...she had the pen...she wrote my phone number...then she said she caused the accident...so she stabbed him...that caused the wreck?"

"Most likely, oui. The number was smeared when we took her out; it had to be written there before she wrecked. Oechsner simply did not have a good solution for helping her. Tulane would have been better, but she did not want to stay."

Randy held his phone, silent, his hands shaking, not knowing what to do with the information Remy was giving him. "Then why...how did...why didn't the police..."

"They assumed the pen was a part of the accident. You must have missed the photograph of the ice scraper though Jackson's leg." Remy laughed dryly. "I did as well, until her behavior became so erratic and you told me more about Jackson. Everything we knew was a guess. And after the accident, to pursue anything further would have been worthless effort for the police, especially given how badly she was injured by him before."

"Remy, what do I do?"

"Randy...you do what your heart tells you. You must decide what you can forgive and what you cannot. If you can forgive. The rest comes after, if she is willing. And if it even matters."

"Remy...I don't know what to do."

"Take your time, Randy. Read. Think. Read again. She will understand. In her own way, I think she was telling you to take your time. Adieu."

Meg, having had several long hours to sit in silence and contemplate her options, finally realized she had none left. That settled, she set about signing the paperwork Sarah left that morning, her phone never far from her side. When it rang, Meg pounced on it without looking, praying that it would be Randy. She nearly drove her pen through the packet of papers after hearing who greeted her.

"Babygirl...it's Joe. Can we talk?"

Meg didn't know what to do or say, and just looked at her phone stupidly. "Joe?" She inhaled, shakily, and put the pen down, Jackson making sure to knock it from the counter to the floor just to irritate her further.

"What...you're...did you..."

"Meg, just talk to me. I couldn't, before. I wasn't ready, I was stupid...I don't know. I don't know what I was doing. I gave up on you, I didn't let you explain, and I at least owed you that much. You don't owe me anything, you don't owe me an explanation, I don't deserve...Meg, I'm sorry. I'm just sorry."

"What, so your fiancee is off-again?" Meg couldn't help her anger. 'Everything fell apart on me. You fell apart on me. I'm supposed to be okay with this?'

"No, Meg. She's...we're...still together. But it's not like what I had with you. I'm not going to lie and say I'm happy with her, because I'm not. And...and I don't know what happened to us. And I want to know, because...Meg...I made the wrong decision."

"Did Randy put you up to this?" Anger, still, but Meg was verging on incredulous.

"No...why? Did something happen? Are you okay?" The concern in his voice was unnervingly legitimate, and Meg didn't know how to respond.

"Joe...I can't do this right now."

"Then just let me talk, Meg. Please?" Behind him, his wallet was in a shambles across his bed, his keys and car long gone. Joe's fiancee had been gone since brunch, taking his black card with her. She'd sent a text to say she was fine, shopping, having fun with the girls, and not to wait up for her. It was there he'd nearly thrown his phone across the room. 'Don't wait up for you? It's eleven in the morning! How the fuck late are you going to be out? Are you coming back?' He called her, but it went to voicemail each time. The longer Joe sat at home, alone, the worse his mood became, the hotter his temper grew, and the heavier his heart felt. He'd wandered back to the drawer where he kept Meg's – his – shirts, without realizing it, and was folding and re-folding her favorite as he spoke to her.

"Joe..." Meg's voice was exhausted, and she fell heavily back onto her sofa.

"I kept all your shirts, babygirl. Well, my shirts, but the ones you slept in. They still smell like you, Meg. Roses. I miss you. Do I even have the right, anymore?" He fell equally heavily back onto his bed, credit cards clattering around him. "Why did I fuck up, Meg?"

"Joe, stop," Meg whispered, "Please."

"I'm sorry. I just – baby, I don't know what to do. When you left, I died. Everything died. I didn't understand what you were doing, Meg. I still don't. And then she showed up -"

"And you needed the company?"

"Meg, no. It wasn't like that. She didn't come near me til right before the surgery. I don't know how she found out you were gone. Dave swore up and down he didn't tell her; I doubt Randy did. He hated her. She was just...she filled the space, you know? You left. You were the one constant thing I had, and then she was trying to be there for me. It was stupid. So fucking stupid."

"Then what is it you want? For me to say I'm sorry you feel sorry for yourself, is that it?" Meg was beyond irritated with the whole thing. "You're just...late, Joe. On the whole thing."

"Meg, I don't know what I'm doing! I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I can't tell you anything other than how I feel, because I don't know anything about you right now. I'm sorry it sounds like it's all about me...how do I make it about us?"

'Us! Wait...us?' "Joe...what us? There is no us anymore, remember? You ended that. You've got a fiancee."

"And that's a mistake."

"Oh for fuck's sake. Joe...what do you want from me?"

"Just talk to me, Meg. Tell me everything. Or tell me I fucked up too bad, and I -" He caught himself short, sighed heavily, and started over. "I had a conversation with Randy a long time ago where I promised him, if you ever told me to just leave you alone, I'd respect that. He also told me, if I had questions, I had to learn how to actually ask you for what I wanted to know. So...if you want me to leave you alone, Meg, I will. If not, then I'm asking you, tell me what happened."

'Finally...and isn't this what I wanted all along? Just a chance to talk?' "Joe, you're not going to...fuck. I don't even know where to start."

"At the beginning, babydoll. I have all the time you need." He banged around his bar, finally coming up with the bourbon that reminded him so clearly of caramel and Meg, and then settled back into his bed. "I want to know, Meg. Everything."

Without a clear path to start on – and a warning that it would all be out of order, circular, broken – Meg started a stilted explanation of her past months away from Joe. The nights above the bar, and then the nights above her own body, watching Jackson pound on her, pound into her, praying for it all to end but knowing that if she strung him along then he'd be that much farther away from Joe. Gently occasionally, Joe asked questions, but left her largely to her own storytelling, letting her pour out as much as she could between sobs or long pauses. 'She went through all that so I didn't go through all that. She's either as crazy as I thought, or she loved me as much as I thought, or both. Maybe both. And what do I do if it's both?'

The flinch in Meg's voice was massive when she got to the night of the crash. Joe hushed and hummed her through the few sentences she was able to choke out, and found himself wishing he was there to hold her. 'She needed me. The whole time I should have been answering the phone, or looking for her, and I was letting that asshole do it. Just fucking up, Joe. Mistake after mistake. Not anymore.'

Joe listened to her talk for hours, hearing sleep creeping in between her words, and then smiled as she drifted off while mid-sentence. 'Just like we used to. God, I missed this. I missed her.' He swirled his bottle of bourbon, gritting his teeth when he heard his fiancee slam her car door outside. 'And if I play it right, I can still have the best of both worlds.'

"Meg? Meg! It's Sarah!" She pounded on the door like she wanted to pound through it. "You okay? I saw your boo-thing take off with some suitcases. Girl, you better not be dead in there. He's hot, but he's not all that."

Meg jolted her up from the sofa, where she had fallen asleep with her phone tucked under her chin. "I'm not getting any space to think today, am I, Cosmic Being?" She picked up the stack of forms from the counter and limped to the door, opening it to reveal Sarah in the hallway, a bottle of Jack in hand and her cat trailing around her feet.

"Here's the paperwork, Sarah. Sorry about the wait."

Sarah let herself in unceremoniously and dropped down on Meg's sofa, the cat prancing in behind her. "You're forgiven on the condition that you tell me boo-thing's name and what the hell is going on with you."

Meg shut the door and sat down cautiously on the opposite end of the sofa, surprised when Sarah's cat let itself up into her lap. "If I tell you what's going on with Randy-"

"Ironic; hot and horny?" She smirked.

"-If I tell you what's going on, are you going to kick me out?"

"Drugs or guns?"

"No. One dead body, but he's buried four states away and it's a long story."

"You can stay. I put the glasses in the cupboard to the left of the stove; the Jack isn't going to pour itself."

Nearly three hours later, and the story had moved from Meg's apartment to Sarah's, the cat in tow, solely because Sarah had more alcohol at her place. Both had laughed, cried, Sarah had made a few more-than-specific threats against Joe, and Meg found herself relieved at not losing her apartment and warming to the idea of having a friend who was altogether comfortable with the notion of self-destruction as a solution to life's little problems.

"So, he...all that...for that long? Fuck. Fuck me." Sarah was incredulous. She reached over and squeezed Meg's knee supportively. "You know what? Fuck him."

Meg snorted, then laughed until tears were streaming down her face. "Ran-Randy says that all the-the time!" She could barely catch her breath. "I just...oh, Sarah, I fucked up. Every decision I make, I fuck up. It's like I need to stop making decisions. I'm renewing my license and getting a job and forgetting any of this, any of them, ever happened."

Sarah reached up and ruffled Meg's hair affectionately. "Don't be a dumbass. Get your license and all that, but save all the other shit for when you've got a bank account that can support irrational thinking." She winked, then threw a blanket at Meg. "Meanwhile, tuck up. The cat's not letting you leave, and neither am I."

"Sarah, you don't have to-"

"Ohh, no. Nope. You had all that fine man-ass walk out on you today; you're staying where I can keep an eye on you. Besides, you haven't told me the important part, yet."

"What's that?"

"Who's better in bed." Sarah's completely earnest tone had Meg in stitches all over again, and it wasn't long before they were sharing lo mein and bickering good-naturedly over which movies to DVR for later.

'This isn't so bad. It's been a long time since I just...had a friend.' Meg was comfortable in Sarah's presence; the unease of being so readily accepted was fast replaced by a sisterly affection toward the woman, who felt less like a stranger and more like family by the minute.

Dave was beginning to think the world had fallen off its axis. Meg, who had previously avoided his phone calls like the plague, now answered every time he rang. She had a mailing address, an ID, a renewed license to practice as an LPN, and a decent job at a small, local clinic providing walk-in care. Joe, meanwhile, had distanced himself from his fiancee. He opted to leave her at home while he moved his rehab to the road with the company. Dave, though by no means a physical therapist, found himself spending more and more time with Joe, working him through exercises, stretching, and long conversations about functional and dysfunctional relationships – and which category Joe fell into.

The only outlier for Dave was Randy. Usually, with enough harassing and haranguing, he could get Randy to answer the phone. Where he'd been livid before was now just a rough, hot coal of resentment and Dave believed that with enough time it'd flame itself out. Now, it seemed, there was suddenly only an icy wall of silence with no explanation of the change in communicative temperature. At first it was an annoyance, then a reason for tepid concern, and then Dave's nerves settled into a tangled ball of fear and frustration. Meg offered no answers beyond polite assurances that he was fine, and those quickly flipped into wholesale topic changes.

"Meg, what if I don't believe that he's fine?"

"Then I don't know what to tell you. I haven't seen him for a while, he's busy with rehab." 'I assume, anyway. I'm busy, he's done with me. It was going to happen once he knew.' "Anyhoo, Dave, how's stuff with you?"

"It's good. Joe's been asking about you lately. You guys talking again?"

"Yeah...actually, yeah. I'm surprised he said anything. It's good, though. It's nice to have everything be civil again. Can't say he's leaving his fiancee any time soon, but at least I don't have to worry about him slashing my tires or anything."

"So you and Randy cooled it off, then?" Meg's fall from Joe to Randy was so uncontrolled and complete that for her to not know or offer anything about Randy's situation but be happily talking to Joe struck Dave as well past odd and firmly into the realm of, 'Something's really wrong here.'

"How's stuff at work? You keeping up on supplies, or did they finally hire you an assistant for that?" Meg's tone was dry, and Dave knew better than to push. He'd just continue to call Randy and hope for the best, if there was any of that left to spare.

The last time Randy had been outside was when Meg had asked him to leave her apartment. Since then, he refused to leave his house, answer the phone, or generally communicate with the outside world. He'd nearly drank his bar dry, hadn't showered, couldn't remember the last time he'd changed his clothing, and food had become an afterthought. Talent relations had called, asking him to show up to the next pay show, and Randy had to grit his teeth and agree to go. 'I can't go. I can't deal with being here, why would I want to go there? I need to call her. What do I even say to her? Hi, Meg, I miss you, I love you, how the fuck do you kill someone, please don't be suicidal, by the way can you promise you won't ever stab me?' Randy rolled his eyes and leaned against the table in his dining room, not sure when he'd wandered in. The curtains in his house were perpetually open, letting in the moonlight Meg loved so dearly, and it was in that moonlight that Randy first tipped one chair, then threw another, then another, until there was nothing left to break in the room.

"Meg, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?" Randy walked from the room, not bothering to look behind him at the disaster he'd created. "What, now?"

Randy slept on and off that night, napped more than anything, really, and did his best to ignore his back. 'Fuck therapy. If Meg was here she would –' and then he forced himself to stop. For the next few weeks, it seemed he could wrap less and less together in his mind. The same Meg who snapped him with rubber bands, loosened salt shaker tops in catering, worked her hands along the muscles along his spine until he thought he could die from the joy of feeling those thin, icy fingers creeping over his skin – was also the same Meg who ran from him and from Joe, set herself up over a bar in New Orleans, drank to the point of alcoholism, let her Jackson rape, beat, torture her, for months, and then stabbed him in the hopes of causing a car crash that would kill him, her, or both of them.

That line of thinking, at least, stopped the terrors from crawling into the recesses of his mind. Pro versus con, yes versus no, why versus not – all stopped Randy from living Meg's nightmare over and over again with her. Each night he attempted and achieved sleep brought a slightly new flavor of hell with it. Some evenings, he watched Jackson as he beat Meg, unable to open any windows or go through any doors, unable to reach her to stop it, and she screamed for him until there was too much blood for her to speak. Other times, he watched the car as it hurtled down the highway, seeing Meg's head slam through the side window again and again. Then, there were the dreams of Oechsner, Meg reaching for him, begging him to stop them, not to let them touch her, drug her, to stop them from taking any more from her. Meg, nearly buried in IV lines, strapped to her hospital bed, would howl at Randy, asking him why they wouldn't listen to him, didn't he love her, wouldn't he make them stop, telling him she'd do anything if he'd just make the doctors stop – and they never did.

When he was particularly drunk, the darkest corners of Randy's mind gave him Meg, already beaten, already wrecked from the crash, collarbone protruding, leg crushed, old glass from the hotel mirror still in her back, but somehow in Randy's house, in his bedroom, tied to his bed, Jackson's hands around her throat, tearing at her hair. He watched Meg's wrists bleed from the binds Jackson used, heard her begging him to stop, get off of her, get out of her, promising him she'd be good, she'd listen, do whatever he wanted if he'd just stop hurting her, not to do this in front of Randy, and the whole time Jackson – mangled from the crash – just stared at Randy. The nightmare of Jackson plowing into Meg, punching or slapping at her as he pleased, daring Randy to come closer and try to stop him, telling Meg that if she just said how much she loved it, how much she wanted it, then he would let her go and it would all be over – it felt endless to Randy when he was trapped in the dream. No matter how close he came to grabbing her, to pulling Jackson off of her, they were always farther away. The harder Meg cried, the more she begged for respite, the more violent Jackson became. On those nights, he woke screaming, in a cold sweat, pawing blindly for his phone, but never able to bring himself to call her. 'Meg, what would I tell you? That I'm afraid of you? That I'm afraid for you? That I don't even know if I'm afraid at all, or if I should be?'

The days that stretched endlessly compressed abruptly, and Randy found his aimless wandering through his house replaced by aimless wandering backstage at corporate's latest pay show, which was at least in St. Louis. Talent Relations had taken one in-person look at him, directed him to put on a suit, and then immediately set to hand-wringing about whether or not he could even hold up through a two-minute segment without collapsing under the weight of whatever was on his mind. In the end, they opted to replace his segment with the re-introduction of what they delicately referred to as a Legend, instead of simply sending him home, leaving Randy with that much more time to shuffle around. He nodded politely at his friends and co-workers backstage, poked food around a plate in catering, and did his damnedest to avoid Dave, who he knew would be looking for him.

It wasn't long before his plan failed, and he found himself being backed into a triage bay by Dave, who for all his gruffness wore his concern openly across his face.

"Were you going to tell me you were working on a slow suicide, or were you just going to let me discover the body? You look like shit, Randy. What the hell is going on with you?"

"Dave, I'm not in the mood for this."

"You're never in the mood for anything. I thought you and Meg were keeping an eye on each other?" Randy flinched visibly, and Dave knew he was on to something. "Randy...you have to tell me what's going on. Meg makes it sound like everything's fine, but looking at you – really looking at you – shit's going on. I need to know, and you need to tell me – what happened?"

"I haven't seen Meg in a while. That's all. She's...got some shit she's...working out." 'And so do I, because of her.' "And...I got a hold of her medical reports from the accident." Randy mumbled as his eyes fell, and Dave watched something inside of him crumble.

"Okay...okay, look. After the show, we need to sit down and talk. And during the show, I need you to stay away from Joe."

"He's here?" Randy bristled, and Dave could see the tension explode over him.

"They're faking some kind of satellite hook-up, something about an interview. I wanted you to know ahead of time, since you for-real look like you're in a mood. I don't want you doing anything stupid. Please? I don't want to have to explain anything to Meg."

"She's talking to you?"

"She's not talking to you?" Dave was incredulous.

Somewhere down the hall, a rack of chairs crashed and a chorus of voices called for medical. "Look...okay, look." He glanced around the triage bay, then over to the door, then back to Randy. "Stay in here. Please? Just stay in here. I have to go. Your segment got nixed anyway, you don't have anywhere to be."

Randy chuckled wryly. "Good news travels fast?"

"That's not how I meant it. And we need to talk. Stay in here." Dave jogged out the door as fast as his thick legs would carry him, leaving the triage door cracked behind him, and Randy eased himself up onto the exam table. Boredom eventually got the better of him, and he eased from the room into the hallway, only to bolt back into the triage bay and hold himself against the door, barely daring to breathe.

Coming down the hall at a snail's pace, chatting idly into his phone, was Joe. He nodded and smiled at people as he passed them in the hallway before deciding to lean against the wall directly outside of triage and continue his conversation.

Randy didn't care who Joe was talking to; it was the topic that brought him to seething: Meg.

"It's good, man. Shit's good. You'd be surprised, actually. If I just let my fiancee do what she wants, she's gone most of the day. Then I can talk to my girl." Silence, a broad smile on Joe's face, more silence. "No, man. My girl. Not my fiancee. You remember that crazy bitch I told you about? Yeah, that one."

Randy felt his teeth clench, which rapidly developed into a fierce ache in his jaw. He held perfectly still, his eyes locked onto Joe, who seemed oblivious to his presence. "Yeah, that one. Meg. The one that ran off. I got shitfaced and called her. Turns out, she ran off to New Orleans and was letting her ex do her. I know, I know – no, but listen! Listen. So I guess Meg got into all kinds of shit while she was down there, he was knocking her around, she ended up in some kind of car wreck that she said she caused, but who knows how true that is, this girls drinks like a motherfucker...anyway, so I called her up, and she's – get this – she's lonely."

'Say it like that again. Say it, Joe. Make it sound like it's all her fault.' Randy's vision was starting to be ringed by a violently-bright white halo.

"So we're talking more. It's funny. I mean, don't get me wrong, I missed her. She's a great girl. Smart, pretty, all that – but once she lost her shit like that, it was like, naw, man. I'm done. I don't need that drama. At least my fiancee is predictable bullshit, you know? Buy her some shoes, she shuts the fuck up for a while. But this one...I'm pretty sure if I keep playing nice, I can get her back into bed. She's a train wreck. Needy. Needy and lonely."

The halo grew harder, harsher, and a thrillingly high-pitched squeal began to bore into Randy's ears. He wasn't sure where the noise was coming from, but the pain was almost delightful. 'Wreck. Wreck you. I'm going to wreck you.'

"Right! Yeah, see, now you remember. Meg. That one. Yeah – the one I told you about where she'd do that kinda swirl thing with her hips if you got her up in your lap when you're fucking her? Yeah, that thing. Mm-hmm. She's by herself, probably in some shitty apartment – no, I'm sure, by herself, I ask her every time I call – so I'm just gonna start bringing her out to shows. My fiancee stays out all night anyway, so I can just dump Meg in a different hotel and then do what I want. If that's all I have to spend on her, then fuck it. It's still cheaper than a pair of shoes, am I right?" The laughter that followed was sickening. "Fuck, I don't know, if I ask her to let me, she'd probably let me. Not like I have to tell her. Look, man, I gotta go. Yeah, yeah, I'll let him know."

Joe slipped his phone back into his pocket, smiling. "Shitty thing is, I actually do miss her. Oh well." He spotted Dave further down the hall, trying to wrap a grumbling stagehand's ankle, and waved in his general direction before walking towards him. "Hey, ol' man! Can we set up a stretch-out when you're done?"

Randy, so far beyond furious that the squeal had become a staticky hiss, could feel his heart pounding in his head. 'The fuck? The fuck was all that? He's talking to Meg? He's talking about Meg?' His hands had clenched so tightly together that his fingertips were leaving bruises in his palms. He chanced sticking his head far enough out of the doorway to watch Joe, who finished his chat with Dave and then checked his phone again. Pointing to his phone and then pointing down a hallway, Joe sauntered away from the crowds of people.

Unseen by Dave, Randy slunk from the door and went in the opposite direction Joe had gone, knowing the arena like the back of his hand. 'I cut right at this hallway, and I end up in front of you. Even if I don't, I end up closer than you think. And then you can tell me all about what Meg can do with her hips, if I let you keep your teeth that long.'

Joe, with his back to one open end of the hall, was smiling warmly at his phone. 'Maybe it's more genuine than I think. I really need to get my shit straight on this, because I'm gonna get myself in trouble.' Meg was giggling her way through a story about her exploits with the copy machine while at work. She was trying to scrape toner out from the edges of her fingernails when Joe's phone hit the concrete floor. The call cut to static, came back in, and then Meg knew with certainty she was hearing him fighting with someone – and it sounded like Randy.

"Tell me again that she's a train wreck!" Randy had wrapped Joe's hair around his fist, and was using it as a handle to snap his head back and forth, slamming his face into the cinderblock walls on every other word. Joe felt something under his right eye snap, and his vision blurred and swam sickeningly. Randy swept Joe's legs out from under him and threw him toward the ground, feeling his own spine slip and give way with the effort. He simply rode the wave of pain to the floor, adjusting his fall to land on Joe, grabbing him by the hair again and slamming the back of his head repeatedly against the floor. "Tell me again that she's just some crazy bitch!"

Joe realized it was Randy on top of him, and couldn't resist laughing, even with a mouth full of blood. It also served as a wonderful excuse to spit in his face, which slowed Randy enough to allow Joe to connect on several punches and gain some control of the fight. "The fuck is wrong with you? You jealous? She still not giving it up to you? Because I guarantee I can hit that whenever I want!" Clawing away from Randy and dragging him to stand, Joe managed several shots with his knee to Randy's chest and stomach before throwing him backward.

Randy went flying back, but kicked a leg out as he went, catching Joe in the side, dangerously close to the site of his surgery. His eye was starting to swell from Joe's punch, and with Joe doubled over from the kick, Randy lunged at him again, taking him to the ground for a second time.

Meg, still listening to the altercation on the phone, was disgusted at Joe's words, but also frozen by the violence of Randy's attack. She could hear what sounded like punches and kicks, both men swearing they'd kill the other one, and constantly – her name. Joe was saying he could have her anytime and daring Randy to stop him from doing what he wanted with Meg, Randy daring Joe to try, saying she deserved better, she would never go back to him, she wasn't broken or crazy. Finally, Meg started to yell into her phone for them to stop, but she doubted they'd be able to hear her. In a panic, she called Dave, guessing that if the two men were together it was likely at the pay show.

"Medi-"

"Dave, you have to find Randy and Joe! Now! They're fighting!"

He stuffed his phone in a side pocket of his pants, needing only to follow the echoing cracks and thuds in order to find both men, arriving just in time to see Randy bending Joe dangerously backwards over an equipment crate, one hand around his throat, the other reared back to continue a chain of punches. Joe managed to bring a knee directly into Randy's crotch thanks to Dave's distracting presence, and Randy gasped and fell backward. His hands didn't know where to grab first for relief, and Joe took the opportunity to lunge forward at Randy again, grinding his forearm into his throat and slamming his head backward against the floor. Dave had to scramble to get between the two men, using a sloppy sliding tackle to kick his way into the space. Joe and Randy both continued to reach around Dave to attack each other, but Dave's bulk made it difficult for either to make contact with the other.

Forcing them apart, Dave dug for his phone, breathing heavily and staring agog at the bloody, mangled pulp that both Joe and Randy's faces were comprised of. "Meg! Meg. You've got to-"

"I'm coming. Just make sure I have a way in."

"Go around to the back of the arena. We're by the A-section. If these two fools let me get up, I'll prop a door."