Welcome ChelleLew! And as ever, THANK YOU to the eminently talented nattiebroskette, who makes steak and mango all the more delicious. If you haven't, drop EVERYTHING you're doing and go read EVERYTHING she's written. NOW!

Anyone new out there? Drop me a line! I love to hear from my lurkers, readers, reviewers - and DON'T BE SHY! I'm chattier than...well...something chatty. I love getting messages. Tell me what you're liking, what you're not, what's going on, what you want to see next (I'll take requests to a point...believe it or not, I had a Randy/Melina not too long ago that I'm...trying to make work. Melina's a thing, I guess!)

Onward!

With Sarah's car refueled and parked, Meg snuck up to her apartment and closed the door quietly, smiling as she slid down the back of it, the delightful ache in the front of her thighs making the trek down to the floor a slow one. 'I – we – did that.' She trailed her fingers up the inside of her legs, across the bottom of her bra, along the side of her neck, tracing some of the paths his fingers had taken, playing at the collar of her shirt. From the floor, Meg looked around her apartment, and turned her head in disgust. Not that it was dirty, or in poor repair, but compared to the house she'd just left, it was shabby. The furniture was cheap, the rooms were small, her clothing was worn, and she found herself twisting her collar tighter and tighter around her fingers.

Dryly, Meg whispered into the empty space in the room, not that her voice did much to fill it. "I'm never gonna fit, am I? Here, yeah. There? No. Much as I want to, no. And what is he gonna do in a place like this? His place is beautiful. Even Joe's place...and why the fuck am I even thinking about Joe?" Meg hefted herself up from the floor and over to the couch, grabbing the half-drained bottle of Jack from the counter where Sarah had left it nights ago. Taking a drink and not caring it was over an empty stomach, she dialed Randy, knowing he'd sleep through her call. Waiting til the recording toned, Meg took a shaky breath and began.

"Hey, Ran. I kinda figured you'd be sleeping off dinner, but I promised I'd call, so here I am. Everything's fine at the apartment – I'll figure out my schedule at work, get some laundry done, and let you know what's going on. Maybe...maybe we can figure something out for dinner? I don't wanna be pushy. Forget it, if that's too much. I...uh...I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Meg ended the call and tapped the phone against her forehead repeatedly, then dialed Dave, hoping he'd pick up and have an actual conversation with her.

Yawning, Dave obliged her. "Hey, Megs. You make it okay?"

"Yeah, if you don't count the complete existential crisis I had between the door, the booze, and the couch."

"Okay, Meg. Slow down, and lay off the drink. I know you didn't eat, you're going to end up too drunk to function. What's going on?" 'Well, this is great. Randy and Joe beat the shit out of each other, she breaks down, Joe says God knows what to her, she ends up sleeping with Randy, and now she's alone in her apartment drinking. This is going to end spectacularly well.'

"Dave...what am I doing? I don't belong with him. This is the whole problem. Jackson was slumming when he picked me. Joe was slumming when he picked me. Randy and I were friends, but...I don't fit. He's going to be slumming if he tries to make this into anything more than a one-time thing. He doesn't want that."

'Oh, and here we go. Button, you have been pushed.' "Holy fucking shit, Meg, is this a habit of yours? Go tactical nuclear warfare on yourself as soon as anything good happens? Fucking knock it off, or I'm going to wake his ass up, dump him at your place, and you can say that shit to his face. I want to be there to see it. You really want to watch the disaster happen, Meg? Let's do that. I am so sick of you and the way you do this to yourself. I get why you went that far with Jackson, but do you really have to cause another wreck with Randy? Is it fun for you? Because it's going to destroy him. You know what he's most afraid of? You deciding he isn't good enough, Meg. That he's going to be the failure."

Holding the phone away from her face, staring at it slack-jawed and stupid, Meg looked first at the coffee table, then the couch cushions, for answers. None were coming, and her breathing was shaky. "Dave...what the fuck?"

"You fit when you worked here. You didn't give a shit about your old shirts or where he lived then, did you?"

"No, but..."

"Go away, Meg. Call me back when you have your RN finished. That's all I'm gonna tell you. And if you fuck up anything with Randy over your bullshit insecurity, my fat ghost is going to haunt your ass, because I will die of a stroke from having to deal with him. Congratulations for having the good sense to talk it out instead of being a Big Dumb, but don't get any ideas."

The line clicked off, and Meg drank until she fell asleep, deciding she could call the clinic later and ask about her schedule.

Sarah, however, decided Meg should have only a few hours rest, and woke her by pounding on her door during her lunch break. After hitting the floor abruptly and spilling a copious amount of whiskey on herself in the process, Meg groped her way over to the door and let Sarah in without bothering to look.

"Damn, girl. Shouldn't you at least check before you open it? What if I was a killer?"

"Then you'd be doing me a favor. C'mon in."

"Whoo, you look rough. Good thing I brought food." Dangling a bag of Chinese takeout in front of her, Meg almost knocked her down in an effort to get to the box of lo mein she knew would be buried inside. Sarah, better rested and more sober, yanked back and dodged her, sending Meg directly into the wall near the stove. "Nope. Not unless I get a complete rundown on why I didn't have my car for two days. I was about ready to tell the cops to start dredging the river. You don't even get a fork until you start talking."

Meg tried to glare, but between the lack of sleep and overflow of alcohol, could only manage to stagger and aim a marginally angry pucker at Sarah, who broke down into hysterical laughter.

"Okay, okay, shit. You look so pathetic, here. That was so graceful it earned soup, at least. I still want to know what happened to my car. Do I have to steam clean the seats? Do we need an official no-sex-in-the-champagne-vehicle rule?"

It was Meg's turn to laugh hard enough to choke as she stood over her counter, spoon in hand. "Christ, Sarah. No! Worst thing I did was have a cigarette in there. I just drove to Randy's, and then it was parked til I drove it back. Gated community, or whatever they call it down here. Nobody was getting near your baby."

"Okay, that earns an egg roll. Keep going; details earn plum sauce."

"Food as bribery? You're a bitch." Meg smiled, the soup was doing her good.

"Oh, I get worse from here; I've got the takeout. You're still in the same clothes, but you don't smell like cologne, sweat, or sex. Don't tell me you were there for two days to do his dishes and balance his checkbook."

Meg choked again, feeling a bean sprout head directly up her nose. "Are you trying to practice your CPR? Fucking hell!" Coughing violently, Meg went for the whiskey, to which Sarah shrugged and pulled out a new bottle. Meg's eyes widened, and she pointed at the clock between spasms, hacks, and drinks off her own fifth.

"And? Hardest thing I do all day is sort the mail and give out dupes to the idiots who lock themselves out. Don't have to be sober to do that. So, did you get laid or not? Your plum sauce is riding on it." Sarah cocked her head to the side, a pensive look on her face. "Actually, that's a pretty good metaphor. Gotta remember that. Was your plum sauce riding on it?" She waggled her egg roll suggestively in her mouth, giving Meg little chance to stop coughing and recover, even though her ribs were beginning to ache fiercely.

"Sarah...shut...the fuck...up...gonna...kill me!" Meg was laughing so hard she was crying, and was debating whether or not she'd start an all-out food fight if she flicked soup at her friend. Erring on the side of caution, she forced herself to slow down, and recounted as much of the night as was proper to tell, even though Sarah was more than a bit curious.

"So, the real question is," Sarah asked, between slurping noodles, "Does he have a friend?"

"I just spent forty-five minutes embarrassing myself, and you wanna know if you can get in on it?"

"Well, they obviously aren't all married..." Sarah winked, and Meg rolled her eyes.

"I don't work there anymore. Dave's all of a sudden pushing me to finish my RN, for whatever that's worth. If this...mess...with Randy works out, I get the feeling that I'm gonna end up with him at some charity ball or fundraiser."

"Meaning?" Sarah poked the handle of the fork around her teeth.

"Meaning, if you can figure out the difference between a utensil and floss in a reasonable amount of time," Meg teased, pointing at the plasticware Sarah was wielding like a dental pick, "I may be able to convince him to plus-one you, if you get to know him a bit."

"Deal! But, uh...you're gonna help, right?"

"As much help as I'm gonna be; all I know is you start with the silverware on the outside."

"You're twelve steps ahead of me, then." Sarah raised her bottle of Jack and winked.

Randy, thrilled at Meg's suggestion of dinner, threw himself into his kitchen as fast as his mangled lower back would let him, ignoring Dave's warnings to slow down. Dave, sick of talking to two brick walls in one day, decided to take leave of the whole situation, though he did encourage Randy to take Meg up on the dinner offer. "Actually – that was one lie I sorta told in your favor. I used to give Joe shit that she sucked at cooking, and she used to bitch a blue streak that he barely let her in the kitchen when they were in Tampa. She cooked for him, but it wasn't ever anything much. I know you know better."

Pulling out of the driveway, Dave considered checking on Joe, then decided that could wait another day. 'Today – I want a day off. From the whole mess. And some sleep in an actual bed.'

The kitchen was exactly as Dave said he'd found it and as Randy remembered it; the further he dug into his cupboards, all he found were mismatched plates with chips and cracks. His glassware was scratched and none of the sets were complete. Trying to bend low enough to check pots and pans, he was surprised to see how few he actually owned, and wasn't honestly sure if there were enough to put together a meal. 'Is that a...metal tray? What do you even do that that? Cookies? Meg would know.' The same thought echoed around his head in regards to his bowls and kitchen tools, and he finally slammed a cupboard shut out of frustration.

'I don't even want to know how bad the fridge is.' Carefully, slowly, despite not wanting to know how sad his domestic life had become, he cracked the door open. The fridge was kind enough to only smell like a combination of stale air and pizza, and Randy assumed Dave had cleaned some of the worst-spoiled offenders out before he left. Pizza boxes, a singular six-pack of beer, and bottled water were its sole contents. He rested his head against his arm as he held the door open. "And this is how I'm going to rehab my back. I'm going to starve to death in my empty house."

Slowly, Randy shut the door to the fridge, and leaned against the cold metal. "Sam, I never liked stainless. You knew that. Funny how every nice plate and bowl left, but I got stuck with the fucking ugly fridge."

-"So, lemme get this right. She sent you to a giant-ass grocery store, by yourself, and then got pissed off that you didn't manage to come back with..groceries?" Meg pulled her candy bar away from her teeth, caramel trailing in thin strings from her lips, passing it to Randy as she debated smacking the cigarette from his hand. In the end, she opted against it, only because the stress was wearing so plainly on his face and she didn't want to waste the intimidation he'd used to wrangle it from a stagehand. For his part, Randy managed to put a solid third of the confection in his mouth, biting down solidly before passing it back to Meg.

"Yeanh, amnh," He worked the nougat and caramel into a shape he could talk around, "Then she acted like she didn't understand why I couldn't actually...shop. What the fuck did she think was going to happen if she sent me into a store in the middle of the day to pick up shit for dinner? I could prance in and grab a couple steaks? Plus, she wanted all this random shit, and I didn't know what half of it was. On top of that, she can't cook, so there was no point. I was trying to make her happy, but goddamn if it didn't feel like a setup."

"Okay, first, don't ever pretend to prance again," Meg made a half-assed attempt at swatting at his arm. "And second, yeah," Meg's voice quieted considerably, "She should have sent your PA, or someone. You can't just run out in public like it's no big deal. You get mobbed. What did she think would happen? You could run through the store okay no hassle, and the bonus would be cutting in line?"

"She's dumb, sometimes." Randy pulled the end of the candy bar back from Meg's hand, killing off the rest of it without asking, eying the threads of caramel still stuck to her lips, debating whether or not to touch her and brush them off.

"She's dumb all the time, Ran. It's Sam. I put up with her because you love her, and then there's your little girl, and you know how I feel about that. But...she plays with you to hurt you. What if someone at the store took it too far? What if someone followed you? Did you have your kiddo with you?"

"That weekend? Yeah. I didn't even think like that, because she was with Sam. But...yeah." Randy looked more irritated than anything, and Meg scrambled through a thousand options to salvage his evening.

"Okay...okay, here. Tell you what, give me the list. I'm not shit to nobody. What did Sam want?"

"Meg, I don't fucking know. I want a cigarette. And a drink."

Meg shoved herself into his chest, suddenly feeling bigger, bolder, than she was, trying and failing to push him back, but feeling every inch of heat between them. "And that's nice. Bum one off a tech, and give me the fucking list. I didn't ask for all your problems, just your goddamn groceries."

Randy pushed her back, hard. "And what the fuck got in to you? You're gonna do what, go kick her ass?"

"I could if I wanted to, and you know it. But I respect you more than that. I'm trying to do something for you, you giant asshole, so either tell me what she wanted or stop bitching." Meg was inches from his lips, her breath sugar and more sugar, inviting; the candy put every possible holiday and vacation in her mouth.

"You're about to do something really stupid since I left without shopping, aren't you?"

"The list, asshole."

Randy quietly recounted the list to Meg, noticing that she hadn't written a single thing down, and knowing she didn't need to.

The next day, in the world's smallest hotel room, with no greater heat source than the tiny charcoal Weber she'd managed to broken-Spanish her way into sharing with some of the hotel's support staff after promising to cook for them as well, Meg dropped a Dixie plate full of amazing into his lap. Randy swore, at that moment, to blast Dave in the mouth the next time he mocked Meg's skills in the kitchen.

Perfectly medium-rare steak, salted up to the edge of good taste but not over, brilliantly charred, with diamond -shaped grill marks, snub sweet corn rolled in paprika and cilantro and some sort of crema she'd whipped together, mango salsa with God knew what else in it that was hot and sour, a salad of greens he figured he couldn't pronounce with lemon juice and Mexican oregano and some kind of olive oil on top, and by the time he was three bites in to the plate, he realized he'd not only moaned close to ten times, but Meg hadn't eaten a bite; she'd only sat there, salting half-rims on shotglasses, wedging eighths of limes onto each one, over-pouring and smiling broadly. The parade of people through the room she shared with Dave seemed endless; every time he looked up there were more hotel employees coming through with bags and armfuls of food, headed through the sliding glass doors towards the concrete patio. Someone turned up with a guitar, and there was applause and spontaneous dancing outside. Inside the room, the air conditioner strained to keep up; box fans had been propped on nearly every available flat surface.

Randy sat huddled near Dave, barely aware that he was in the shitty staff hotel instead of the posh talent-suites at the other end of town, watching the apparent party grow, Meg's arms floating from the cutting board balanced on her knees back up to the windowsill, checking the balance of the tequila bottle between her feet every now and again, pointing to other bottles lined up near the door, running the handle of the knife under the straps of her bra and tanktop, trying to keep both from sliding down her arms as she bent and swayed. The heat, the alcohol, the humidity – everything had combined to dampen her face, paste her hair in moist bands along her neck, and as the sun went down over the highway and billboards behind the hotel, Randy couldn't remember ever seeing the sky so shockingly violet. He imagined Meg would say rain was coming to break the humidity, then when it did, swing her sandals in her hands as she ran across the hot asphalt in the parking lot, Dave telling her to stop dragging grit and water back into their room and put her damned shoes on in case they had to handle a triage call.

Plate in hand, he edged through the room, moving closer to her as she hunched over the window ledge on the patio, doing her best to keep up with the men as they tried to teach her English-to-Spanglish, only to settle on something that sounded vaguely like Esperanto.

"Why'd you do all this?" He was somewhere between comatose on protein and overloaded on delight, and leaned tremendously close to her before speaking.

"Because I only ever want you to be happy, Randy. You gotta know that by now." Meg looked almost hurt, irked, that he asked, and a few of the hotel staff began to circle her, unsure if they should be protective or patient.

"Meggles, I am happy. This is amazing. All of this." He lowered himself around her in a single-armed embrace, before deciding finding Dave might be safer than waiting to see what the crowd thought of him. "You're amazing, Meg. If any of this was different...just...Meggie, I know. I know you. Thank you." He kissed the top of her head, lifted a full shotglass from the windowsill, and disappeared back toward Dave, leaving Meg to her own devices at the temporary lime bar she'd created, trying his best to look ignorant to her brimming eyes, though fully aware of them over her smile.

Dave had worked his way through his entire steak by the time Randy returned. "Tell me you didn't make her spend all this money on you."

"No. She asked what Sam told me to go buy, but-"

"You dumbass. Sam pissed you off, and Meg was gonna make it right. Plus, is it ever not a party where Meg's involved?"

Randy dropped his head. "Okay. You win. She kinda got me, on this one. I was gonna win to lose no matter what, though. She hates Sam."

"Yeah, she does. And she hates to see you sad even more. Best meal of your life, though, I bet?"

"Fucking amazing. Sam had me spend all that money on putting in a kitchen for her, and she just...stares at it. Doesn't use it, bitches about it all the time, but it's...just there. Doesn't do much for either one of us."

Dave snorted. "Meg would tear it up in there, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Don't make it any harder for me, Dave. I know." -

Looking from his fridge to his phone and back again, Randy banged one heel against the bottom of his fridge. "And now I get to tell her that even though dinner was her idea – and she knows how much I hated it that Sam always dragged my ass out for dinner – we should go out for dinner. This is great. Because the alternative is, I'm gonna call her and tell her dinner was her idea and she gets to cook for me, but she can do it here with one pan and a half-assed spoon, or I'm just gonna invite myself over to her place."

Realizing his heel was beginning to hurt, Randy looked down. A small dent was forming in the freezer drawer. "Orton, you are such a genius. Fucking Mensa member." He snatched his phone off the counter and hobbled over to his sofa, trying and mostly failing to settle himself gently into the cushions. "Here's hoping you're not at work, not mad at me for not picking up, and not gonna be annoyed with this whole dinner thing." Randy punched up Meg's number, muted the TV, and waited.

"Sarah's phone, this is Meg, how can I – wait! Shit! I mean, this is Sarah! I have Meg's phone! Hang on!"

Randy crinkled an eyebrow and fixed a positively confused look on his phone, listening to Meg bang around and try to grab her phone from Sarah, who was clearly sloshed and slurring.

"Jesus, Randy, I'm sorry. She makes an impression when she wants to. If it helps any, she came over and brought lunch for me."

"Is that the one who made the weird noise?"

"Ha. Yeah, that's Sarah, the complex manager. I think you met the first night we stayed here; she brought my lease over in the morning."

"Yep. Definitely the one with the weird noise. She's alright, but isn't it a little early to be that trashed?"

"Enh...you'd have to know her. She's keeping me company. I had a moment when I got back here, and I-"

"Meg, what happened? Are you okay?" Randy was immediately on edge; he tried to sit up from his half-reclined position on the couch and tweaked his back from the effort, wincing and giving up.

"Whoa, whoa. I have to learn how to phrase things, don't I?" Meg shook her head and stepped over Sarah, who was laying on the floor in the living room, playing with her fingers as though they were the most fascinating things in the universe. "I'm fine. It was...it's tough to explain."

"Because you have an audience?"

"That's part of it, yeah. And because I don't know how to say it without coming off like a shallow bitch."

"Well...can we talk about it over dinner?" Randy smiled at himself; he didn't know if he felt cheesy or slick, but he at least got the offer out. "And for the record, I think it's physically impossible for you to be a shallow bitch."

"Dinner sounds great, Ran. Did you have something in mind, or...?" 'Be careful, Meg. You're not gonna invite yourself over there, and you're sure as shit not having him here. Once was enough, and that only skated by because he was probably too tired to notice.'

"Well...uh...this is where it gets fucked up." Randy paused, swallowed hard, and wished he'd thought to get a bottle of water before he sat down. "When Sam left, she-"

Meg's sigh was so loud it was physically painful, and he yanked the phone away from his ear. "Goddamn, Meg. I know you don't like her, but blowing my ears out hurts me, not her." He chuckled, and continued. "She cleaned out the kitchen and I have, like, one tray for something. There's a bowl, too, I think, and there's a spoon and a set of tongs. Uh...a pot, a pan. I'm not even kidding. That's pretty much it. And I don't know what to do with that shit, and the only thing in my fridge that's edible is leftover pizza."

"So...no dinner?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I mean, I don't know what to do. I was kinda hoping you'd help decide?"

"Well...are you gonna be mad if I say I don't want to go out?"

"Thank God. Me either."

"See, and then I feel like I'm just inviting myself back over. With your back and the stairs, it doesn't make sense for you to drive out here-"

At that, Sarah chimed in from the floor. "Bitch, please. You know you're gonna take the Champagne Car."

Meg cleared her throat, but smiled at her friend. "-As I was saying, before Little Miss Helpful jumped in, there's gonna be driving either way. It's really that I'd be inviting myself out there and that's just-"

"Okay, problem solved. I'll see you at your place...later. Sneak tactics!" Randy ended the call and smiled.

"Wait, Ran! What do you want me to get? What time are you gonna – Ran? Hello?" Meg rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air. "Well, this is spectacular. Are you gonna help me haul him up here?"

"That heavy lookin' motherfucker? Bye, Felicia. Buuuut, if you deal with the phones, the mail, and the dupes for the rest of the day, I'll sober up, take the Champagnemobile, and go pick up stuff from the store for you. That way, when he shows up he's not sitting around your apartment by himself if you're out."

"Deal. Please don't buy anything ridiculous that's gonna take six days, a customs waiver, and a legal permit to cook."

"Meg, you just took all the fun out of this."

"He likes Italian. How much coffee am I gonna have to brew to counteract that handle you just put down?"

Three hours later, the office closed and all major crises averted, Sarah nearly kicked a hole through the bottom of Meg's door, arms overflowing with paper bags, vegetables, bottles of wine, and the requisite baguette sticking up into the air. Meg, having jumped out of her skin and then back into it due to the explosive noise, ran to the door and threw it open.

"Goddamn, girl, are you coming to dinner with us?"

"He's not gonna have a fuckin' salad for dinner, Meg. You need food-food, not "I'm Meg and I eat calories by looking angrily at lettuce" food."

"Are you two sure you're not related?" Randy, leaning into the frame of the door, was doing his best to suppress a smile. "You argue like fuckin' sisters."

"Sarah, not a word. How did you not see him coming up the stairs behind you? And don't make the noise." Meg smiled and steered her friend out the door around Randy, holding her by the shoulders, though Sarah couldn't help a backwards glance at his ass.

"Daayum, Meg, you're not gonna-" Sarah's neck was working double-time to keep staring.

"Sarah, go work your fork-fu. I love you, and we will talk later." Meg winked, and closed the door, thankful Randy had the good sense to slide further into the small entryway, where his curiosity got the better of him and he moved into the kitchen and unloaded several of the bags.

"Italian?" Randy held up bottle after bottle of wine, smiling broadly.

"Italian from scratch, apparently. Sarah wanted to keep me busy tonight." Meg puzzled through the items in the bags, settling on putting together a Bolognese sauce that could go over pasta, add in veal-or-something, since there was half a butcher's shop in one of the bags, and a hurry-up bruschetta to snack on while they waited for everything else to cook up or down.

"What if I want to keep you busy?"

"Then that's what we have the wine for. And satellite. And tiramisu, which I have to start soaking now." Meg's deadpan was terrifying; Randy almost believed her entire intent was to make dinner and watch a movie with him while they waited for ladyfingers to chill in a cream sauce and coffee liqueur.

'Okay...okay, and if she does, that's fine. Slow it down, tiger. It's just dinner. Normal people do normal things like have normal dinner. Not everything ends in crazy rabbit sex.' "Meggie, whatever you want." He kissed the top of her head, unable to see the smirk on her face or how deep the roll of her eyes was.

"Good Lord. If you really believe that all I want to do is watch a movie, then I have swampland in Florida to sell to you, too."

"You know, I might actually have a use for that..."

Meg punched him in the arm. "Oh, shut up. If anyone gets to drop his ass in 'gator-central, it's me. You can give him a backwards map to 'help' get him out, if you want. And as long as you're gonna be too stubborn to sit, pass me the chef's knife and the mandoline."

Randy looked at her blankly, and then half-heartedly pulled out a drawer before gently closing it and drumming his fingers on the edge of the counter. "Er...can you pass me two wine glasses and the corkscrew instead? It's probably safer that way. And I promise I'll sit down and just watch. Appreciatively, even." He dragged a chair up near the counter, eased down into it, and waited for the well-meaning barb from Meg. What followed was a gentle kiss after he sat, as she tilted his face up to meet hers. He felt himself smile against her lips, and knew the night would only improve from there.