With thanks to several online references for additional information on the Hagia Sofia; rather than provide in-line citations since nothing's a direct quote and we JUST WENT THROUGH THIS, PEOPLE (it's fiction, not a research paper), I will provide the information and links to anyone who's interested via PM.

It's Christmas, so I'm feeling a bit of a romantic. The next chapter gets us back to the hijinks.

Special thanks to Nattiebroskette, who greenlighted this one :)

Randy was dying, one motion, one aroma, one sip at a time. Meg had quickly sorted out her work schedule from his lap while the sauce bubbled, letting him lean against the back of her cell phone as she spoke with her supervisor. He listened to the days and times the charge nurse rattled off, smiling approvingly as the woman made every effort to accommodate Meg's requests while she penned them into a small notebook. Satisfied with the results of the call, Meg thanked the woman and hung up, curling into the crook of Randy's neck, tapping her wineglass against his in a gesture of self-congratulation.

"She's really good to you, Meg. That's a crazy-flexible schedule, even for a twenty-four hour place."

"She's a saint. I told her about your back – not about your job, just your back – and that you were gonna need a lot of support while you rehabbed. They're really happy with me at the clinic, so I guess the consensus is, as long as I come back, I can be gone when I need to be."

"Not about my job?" Randy furrowed his brows for a fraction of a second. "Whatcha mean?"

"No, not like that." Meg scooted from his lap, stirred the sauce, checked the directions on the package of pasta, and turned back to Randy. "What, you thought I should advertise?"

"Well...are you embarrassed?" Randy's voice was irritable and hard, and he set his wine glass down far too firmly on the counter. The small charm around the stem jumped and clinked.

"Whoa, now. Hold on." Meg crossed her arms, wooden spoon in hand, and leaned next to the stove in order to face Randy. "Because I don't want to put your personal business out for the world to know, because I don't want to get peppered by questions at work from nosy people who want to sell you to a tabloid dirt sheet, and because I don't want to get followed around by assholes who only think I'm useful as a way to get to you, I'm embarrassed?" Meg looked crestfallen. "Ran, how many people did Sam drag into your life who were only there for the ride and not the reality? There is nothing about you that is shameful to me – but that doesn't mean I want to broadcast you to the world, either. That happens twice a week on cable as it is." Meg spun to face the stove again, feeling her eyes start to sting, not knowing if the rest of her statement was a good idea, but the wine forced it out of her mouth. "And...I wasn't sure what was or wasn't okay to talk about, either. I...kinda wanted your permission. Before I said anything to anyone. I didn't know what was too much."

Meg heard the wineglass scrape up off the counter, but what she couldn't hear was Randy feeling like a fool. The floor vibrated ever-so-slightly as he pushed his chair back along the edge of the galley-room and stood up, inching over to Meg near the stove as she aimlessly stirred the pot of sauce.

"Meggie, I'm sorry. I don't know what..." He paused, looked into his wine, and drained the glass, putting it to the side of the stove. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her back from the pots as they popped and bubbled. "No, I do know what. Remember how we said we were gonna talk over dinner?" Randy leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, feeling the heat and steam from the stove crawl up the side of his face as he tilted over her, relieved when he felt her relax and lay back against him.

"Yeah...is this one of those things we have to talk about?"

"It's probably the thing we should talk about, as far as I go. And whatever else you need."

"We both need more wine. That's a start. And, Ran?"

"Hm?" He continued to burrow into her neck, not sure if he wanted to stay there and drown in roses or move a few feet lower and take his chances going face first into a pot of what was promising to the best pasta sauce he'd ever had in his life.

"Kiss me."

Turning, pulling her back from the stove, he lifted her as far up to him as he could manage, Meg boosting herself the rest of the way up the counter, dinner momentarily forgotten. It was only the shrill beeping of a timer that brought them out of their reverie and sent Meg down to her knees, drawing a groan of excitement from Randy – which was soon replaced by a groan of mock-frustration as Meg spun on her heels and took a tray of bruschetta from the oven, scattering fresh basil and a drizzle of olive oil over the top.

"C'mon, and bring the wine. Appetizer now – there's olives out already, somewhere – and I'll throw the pasta in the water in a bit. Sauce will be ready a bit after that, and then boom, dinner."

They channel surfed briefly, with Randy stealing the remote when he noticed Meg's eyes widen at the Travel Channel. 'Ideas, Orton. File it away for later.' "Whatever you called this, Meg, this is amazing." Crisp and light bread that had been salted and peppered, a vague taste of olives from the oil, pungent basil, snow-white cheese that stretched into long strings, and tomatoes that he didn't realize could taste so much like...tomato.

"Wait'll you try the pasta. I don't do the sauce all that often, but it's so good. It's all about the garlic and the – Ohh, Randy, look!" Meg gestured wildly at the television, the stained glass windows of various cathedrals being shown as part of a segment on Western Europe.

"I thought you were Russian?" Randy teased, but knew Meg had a soft sport for Europe in general, along with many of its cathedrals and churches – and had been corrected by her enough times to know full well that Russia lay on both sides of the Urals.

"There's so much I miss about the job. Seeing you all the time, absolutely that. But after that...the travel. I used to lie to Jackson about that all the time. I mean – I really didn't do the clubs and restaurants, though the restaurants would have been wonderful. But...the travel. I loved the travel. I always wished I had more time to sightsee. There's so much history, and so many churches..." Meg trailed off, swirling her wine around the glass.

"It's not a religious thing for you, is it?" 'We never really talked about this...but maybe it's a good way to bring up the sex thing? Maybe. You've been drinking.'

"Sometimes, sorta, but not the way you think. My parents were nuts about it. So religious. Me...there's a difference between faith and religion. I want to have faith that there's good for good in the world. And bad for bad. That there's a purpose, and something's looking out for us. Think about it – how many amazingly good people have you known in your life?"

Oddly, his mind rushed back to Eddie. Randy shivered and nodded quickly. "A...a few, yeah."

"Present company excluded, I know." Meg tittered and nudged Randy. "Well...wouldn't you want something good to be out there for those people? Not a reward, per-se, but just something better than all the bullshit we live through while we're here?" Meg stretched up off the couch and went back to the kitchen, dropping the pasta into the water, trying to subtly roll out her ankle as she moved. 'I should try and find someone to take a look at that mess. Feeling stiff I understand; feeling like I still can't walk is just wrong.'

Back on the sofa, Randy watched the program pan through cathedral after cathedral, each window more ornate than the last, France then Italy, Germany then England, finally closing with the Hagia Sofia.

Already on overload from Meg's perfume, along with every aroma pouring from the kitchen, each taste and texture in his mouth from whatever concoction she'd put on the bread, the structure landed on his eyes and refused to let go. Gold and marble, restored and broken, equal parts glittering and dull, two faiths half-exposed and warring in its interior, he found himself leaning closer and closer to the television, enthralled by each section. The precious stones remained surrounding the Virgin and Child in their mosaic even though the archangels Gabriel and Michael were ruined around them, then Emperor Alexander and Empress Zoe, with husbands and wives repeatedly changed, painted, removed, the detailed work on the mihrab in the apse, and the depth of the green in the stone marking the seat of the Empress in the loge.

The story of the weeper's column almost brought his hand to the screen, curious to feel if the stone really was wet, curiouser still to know what ailment it would remove from him. 'I know what I want for you, Meg. I know I want to keep you...safe, mine, and I know there are things I'm not going to say, because they don't need to be said. We're both smart, we're both stupid. And I think we both know we're gonna take our chances on this one.'

"...Right, Ran?"

He snapped his head towards Meg, still standing in the kitchen, holding up two bottles of wine. "I'm sorry, Meg. I was lost. I -" Randy realized he was perched on the edge of her couch, hand still extended. "- I dunno what."

"You okay? I was just asking if you thought pinot noir was gonna work with dinner. It's lamb and veal in the sauce; Sarah bought half a wine store. The tiramisu's all set. I can pick something else if you don't like this one."

Easing off the sofa, the gold and marble, lamb and wine, stone and saints all tangling in his thoughts, Randy picked up both of their glasses and ambled toward the kitchen. "Yeah, Meggie, I'm fine. Sorry, sorry. Just...kinda caught up in the cathedrals. And thinking."

"Yeah, I thought I saw the poor hamster fall over dead." Meg elbowed him gently and rinsed their glasses before filling them with the pinot noir. "Go ahead and get comfortable at the ta...oh, fuck. That's not gonna work, is it?" Meg's dining table was pitifully small, and while it suited her frame, there was no way Randy was going to angle into it and still have room to eat. Angrily, she flung the pasta into the sauce to finish, rubbing her hand across her forehead, trying to work away a band of tension before going back to stirring. 'You see, Meg? It. Doesn't. Work. You can try as hard as you want, and it doesn't work. Stop fucking pretending. The only reason you pulled your bullshit with Joe as long as you did was because he never asked to see where you lived.'

Randy's hands closed around hers over the pan, gently at first, then tighter when he felt how hard she was shaking. "Meggie, what's the matter? Putting dinner on the table? If your collarbone's bothering you, it's not like I can't lift a bowl or plate for you. It's okay." He rubbed her hands between his fingers, her palms cold, shaking harder and harder despite his offer of help. "That's not it, is it?" Gently, he eased the spoon out of her hand, rested it on the edge of the pan, and pulled her arms around herself, still trapped under his.

"Dinner can sit for a minute. Meg, listen to me. Don't look, don't think, just listen. When I'm at my house, it's empty. I have a kitchen I don't know how to use, my rooms are all empty, I don't know what to do with myself...it sucks. I pace. I can't sleep. I don't eat. You know I don't take care of my back. I don't take care of anything. I came over here because I wanted to be where you are. And if that means coming to your apartment, or coming to your mansion, or coming to your cardboard box, then I'm there. Okay? So I'm going to put the plate, or the bowl, or the bucket, or whatever, on the table, we're going to make plates, sit wherever, drink too much wine, and enjoy tonight."

Meg rested her head against the inside of his arm, worming one hand free to reach for the spoon and stir the pasta and sauce one last time. Gently, she kissed the crook of his elbow, and tried to compose herself before half-turning to face him.

"Yeah, we have a lot to talk about tonight. A lot-lot."

"I know, Meg. I know. The first thing is going to be where you learned to do all this." He watched her awkwardly lift the pan of pasta from the stove and reached over to help her, letting her guide him toward a serving platter, but then found himself fighting her tilt to pour the pasta out.

"No, no. Always pour away from yourself. When it splashes, it doesn't land on you." She corrected his roll with the handle, and sent him to the table with the platter before lifting the much lighter bowl of salad and smaller dish of grated parmesan, following behind him. Pasta piled and salad loaded, silverware and napkins in hand, Randy snagged Meg by a beltloop on her jeans as she shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, unsure of what to offer him for seating.

"Easy solution, Meggie. Plus, I have something to make up for, anyway. Follow me." Led by memory, Randy shuffled toward her bedroom, Meg creeping along behind him. He put his plate on the nightstand next to the bed, settled in, and patted the space next to him. "C'mon. It's like-"

"-At the bay." Meg placed her plates next to to his and crept into the bed next to him, kissing him deeply. "Hang on. All we need is the wine."

"Magdalena." Randy's tone was suddenly low, and he held her, refusing to let her leave so quickly. "You're coming back."

Meg quirked an eyebrow; it wasn't often Randy told her what to do, but she hustled her way back to the kitchen and gathered the bottles and a corkscrew. When Meg made it back to the bedroom, her weight awkwardly off-balance from trying not to bang the glass bottles together, she caught Randy mid-bite, an expression of bliss on his face. She smiled and came in the room as quietly as she could manage.

"You caught me. This is so good. Unreal."

"C'mon. First, you say that about everything I make. And second, it's totally not as good as the room-temp chicken salad from catering."

Randy elbowed her, smiling, and reached around her to grab her plate. "Hush. And eat. And please, no talk about that chicken salad. I remember the food poisoning. I think half the roster does."

Meg snorted, but managed a quiet meal leaning against Randy's arm, trying to formulate her next question in a way that wouldn't upset him. Randy chased a noodle around his plate before giving up and going after lettuce instead. Meg leaned over and twirled the noodle for him, holding her fork up before moving his now-empty plates to the side, stacking hers on top, and waiting to see if he'd take the lead on their conversation. Their silence wasn't uncomfortable; Meg understood it was his way of getting his words right before he said them.

He didn't speak, merely handed his wine glass over to Meg and began to look around her room while she poured. The walls were still the odd middle-beige shade he remembered, but she'd finally personalized a bit. A large, black-and-white print of the St. Louis skyline flanked the sliding glass door to the small balcony. Nearby, the hoodie that she'd taken from him in Tampa was hung over the knobbed corner of a tilting, full-length mirror. She'd finally bought a laptop and a digital camera – they were on a small, circular table in the corner – but the headphones that dangled near her iPod, also on on the table in its dock, were still cheap-looking. Pens and journals were scattered on the surface of her dresser, along with bottles of rose perfume and phials of rose oil, some lotions, and two framed photos at its corner, near the door.

He grinned at one of them; in it, he'd pulled Meg into a sweaty hug after a steel cage match and John had taken the picture of them together, sending it to Randy's phone later: Meg's face was a shocked, wrinkle-nosed smile, Randy was running high on adrenaline and leaning in to rub all over her, knowing how much she disliked sweat. When he received the photo on his phone later, it'd sparked a hell of a fight between him and his girlfriend at the time; it was the beginning of the end of that particular relationship. The other photo he didn't recognize immediately; it wasn't local, there was too much water, but it didn't look like Tampa or New Orleans, either.

"You said you were making up for something?" Meg's voice was small, and she passed him a glass of wine he hadn't realized she'd refilled. Slowly, Randy sipped at it, rolling the wine around his mouth, thinking.

'This is the easy question.' "Yeah...we...earlier, it was all just a mess before you left, that whole thing with Dave, and I just wanted to stay in bed with you, after we...I know it's not exactly the same thing, but I thought we could just lay here together. I didn't want it to feel like we just hooked up and then you left, you know? I didn't want you to have to leave."

Meg curled closer to him, her shirt beginning to wrinkle upwards. "I know, Ran. And I didn't feel like you were trying to get me in bed and then get me out the door. You're not like that."

Randy cringed, openly, and stared directly into his wine glass before drinking as though it'd solve all the world's ills. "Meggie...you do know I'm like that." He swayed the empty glass back and forth between his fingers until she reached out to his hand, first to still the glass, then to refill it. "You...saw all the bullshit I pulled, every time I pulled it. Everything I did. Everyone I fucked. Fucked over. Mostly, fucked."

"So...you think it's gonna bother me?"

"Meg...yeah. Honestly? Yeah. I worry you're gonna leave me. You're gonna realize I've done some really miserable shit, maybe not like Jackson, but still like a fucking idiot, and you're not gonna want to deal with it, or with me, and you're gonna walk away. You're gonna get tired of cleaning up my mess, because I keep fucking up. How many times have I said it's the one thing I'm good at?"

His voice was starting to catch, and Meg pulled his wine from his hands, leaning over him to set it on the small bedside table near him. When she leaned back, his eyes were closed as though he was bracing for some sort of damage to come at him from her small frame. Meg simply pulled his head against her chest, wrapping her arms as much around him as she could, pulling her knees up into him, amused at their size difference and how little of him she could actually hold.

"Keep me?" His voice was muffled against her, breath hot through her shirt, and her fingernails scratched gently up and down the back of his neck. His arms felt desperate as they snaked around her, restlessly searching for a way to hold her that settled him but finding none.

"Keep you? Jesus Christ, Randy – look at what I've done to people – and you're asking if you're the more guilty party? Oh my God. No." She urged him, as much as she could, to turn in her lap and half-look up at her, surprised to see the sadness in his eyes. "Hey. Ran. Ran, look at me. Really look at me. What the fuck else would I do except keep you? This is home; of course I'm going to keep you. I'm afraid one day you're going to look around, really look around, realize what a shitheap you wandered in to, and wander right back out."

It was Meg's turn for her voice to catch, and Randy looked up at her, curious. "The table?"

"The table, yeah. The tiny, shitty apartment. You're laying on a bed I don't even own. This whole apartment fits into, what, your laundry room?" Meg sighed heavily. "My job is nice, but it's nothing like yours. I'm not like the women you're around every day – they're beautiful, they're talented, they're...normal. Randy...you're slumming it, here. Jackson knew he was the whole time. Joe never had a chance to figure it out because we were on the road, but he would have eventually. And now you know, so I dunno where we go from here, because it's going to get old or embarrassing, and I can tell you right now I am not going to ride around on your coattails."

"I can't tell if you want to start an argument with me or with yourself." Randy was vacillating between hurt and confused, but he knew Meg wasn't 'done' yet – hadn't worked out the last of the kinks from Jackson and Joe, and certainly had no idea what to do with a relationship in which both parties believed they were tainted. "You make it sound like I'm gonna treat you like they did. And I never offered to let you ride on my checkbook."

Meg startled. "I...no. No. I wasn't trying to start anything. I don't know what I'm doing. If I'm telling you or telling myself. You're not them, Randy, I know that. My heart knows, logically I know, and then there's something in my head that tells me it's going to go to shit, I'm going to fuck up, and you're going to get sick of dragging some dirty whore around behind you."

"Funny, I could say the same thing. You're not Sam, you're not anyone else. And sometimes I look at you and I'm fucking terrified that you're going to see this drunk, angry asshole who used to punch things and fuck anything that smiled and said yes, and then you're going to walk away." He turned away from her lap just long enough to drink from his wine glass, then buried his face back into her shirt.

"And I don't care about that. I mean, I do, because of how she – they – hurt you...but I don't care about it in any way that's gonna make me look at you and say no."

"Then, Meg, why do you think I look at you, or here, or anything else, and think something's wrong with you?"

"Because it's..."

"Keep me." He sat up long enough to reach over her, hand her wine glass to her, and settle back into her arms. "Yesterday I said I didn't care that you had a past, and tonight you said you didn't care that I have one, so keep me. Because I'm going to keep you. Okay? That's got to be enough for now, because you're not Sam or anyone else I fucked, and I'm not Jackson or Joe. We can't both...I dunno. We can't both do this, this way. Don't think like I'm too good for you, Meg. I wouldn't be here if you didn't get me through my shit."

Meg slammed her head back into the headboard of the bed startlingly hard; Randy both winced and jumped. "And that's great, but do you understand that you've gotten through at least some of your shit? You can actually point to what was wrong and talk about it and know what those things are? All I know is I'm your ex-friend's sloppy seconds, I'm Jackson's...fuck. I don't even remember most of what he did because of that fucking car; I can look at myself and see the things that are wrong now, but I don't know why they're there. So...I'm just Jackson's fuck. I used to look at you and see things. Hear things. Thank fuck that stopped, because that was gonna kill me, that my mind was turning me around on you."

She closed her eyes and tried to take the anger out of her voice; it wasn't anger at him, it was exhaustion, and she wasn't sure he would know the difference. "So please, Randy, try...just...to understand? I want to keep you, I want all of this to be enough, and if I got you through your shit in one piece then I guess I did at least one thing right...but please don't sit there and tell me that you aren't too good for me, because I know you are."

Randy simply adjusted himself in her lap, burrowing in deeper, trying to press his weight as firmly over her as he could without crushing her. "Just keep me, Meg. When you realize I'm not, just keep me."

Meg shook her head and sighed, stroking her fingers down the side of his face, understanding and not understanding his stubbornness, and thankful that he hadn't asked any questions about what she'd just said. 'He will, eventually. And I could probably handle a few, tonight. Just not all of it.' She watched his eyes in the mirror, as they traveled back across the room to the pictures on the edge of her dresser. "You remember those?"

"One, yeah. You hate sweat. I didn't know John was gonna get us with his phone, though."

"I'm glad he did. You look happy."

"You kidding? Kicked some ass and got to gross you out. Win-win. I don't remember the other one, though."

"Yeah you do, Ran. It's the bay."

Randy slid forward across her lap, squinting at the photograph. Slowly, it came together – the resort was in the distance, on the left, hills, fog, the birds caught mid-dive in the frame, and he realized she must have taken it from the parking lot of the marina. "Before you left?"

"Mmh. Second favorite place I've ever been to."

"How come?"

"'Cause I found you there. Wanna know the first favorite?" Meg smiled down at him, the barest hint of a giggle in her voice.

'This is way better than the conversation three minutes ago. Let's stick with this.' "What's the first favorite, Meggie?"

"Right here, because you're in bed with me." She hefted him up using her knees, and placed a gentle kiss on the bridge of his nose, though Randy could feel her right leg start to shake underneath him. He shifted his weight off of her, under the guise of taking her wine glass, and looked up at her bedroom door. "I think you said something about dessert?"

"Be right back." Meg pushed him down onto her bed and shushed his protests, taking their plates with her, though he called after her that he thought he was supposed to be helping. Two generous portions later, Meg hustled down the hall back to Randy, who had taken the opportunity to lean out over her balcony despite the chill in the air. He passed her wine back to her as she passed dessert to him, both of them watching cars and people pass by as they ate.

"I don't know how you do all this."

"All what?" Meg looked confused, shivered, and tucked in under his arm.

"This. Put up with my big dumb ass, find time to cook like this, babysit your friend, work...just..."

"And one more thing. We're gonna have to work around it, so you're gonna have to talk to Dave about what to do with your rehab."

"Whassat? You're not moving again, Meg, I swear to God, if you-"

"Oh, shut up. You know I'm not moving. I want to finish my RN." 'Dave made me swear not to say why, so that's all you get.' "All it means is that I'll have some class stuff to do. And since I'm technically not supposed to be within fifty feet of anything medical that's related to you, I have no idea what kind of bullshit you and Dave are working out to cover it. I don't think I want to know. I want to do what you need me to do...it's just gonna have to be around some college shit, is all."

Randy spun Meg around. "Seriously?" He tipped her back against the railing, watched her eyes go dangerously wide, then glassy, then snapped her in against his chest. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck I'm sorry Meg, I didn't mean that, not backwards like that, I'm just happy you want to get your RN, I didn't mean to-"

"You're okay with it?" her voice was small, and she sounded almost scared to ask.

"Meg, are you serious? I know how much you wanted to go back – you talked about that all the time – and now you can, and this is great, are you kidding? I didn't mean to flip you back like that, I just fucked up."

"As long as you're okay with it..." She trailed off. "No, I know you're okay with it. C'mon, let's go in. It's cold."

Randy let her slip through the door ahead of him, rolling his eyes at himself and calling himself everything he could think of as she passed him. 'Wonderful. Push her back into a railing, right over the edge of a balcony, because that isn't going to trigger her at all, you giant dumbfuck. Could you do anything else more intelligent, or is that gonna be the highlight of the night?'

"You in there, or you still thinking about cathedrals? I'm gonna have to buy you a replacement hamster if you keep it up." While Randy was busy berating himself, Meg had kicked her clothing into a heap in the corner and was half under her blankets, wine in hand, bra straps slipping.

"I'm about to be there. Jesus, Meg. You kill me. And don't ever change anything." He gestured towards her shoulders, knowing she wouldn't have a clue what he meant, but in his mind there were limes in summer, the bed in the resort, and bra straps he never wanted to stay in place. "More making up for earlier sound good?"

"Anything with you sounds good. And...thank you. For being okay with the RN thing. And hopefully with the iPod...it kicks on later. If there's no background noise, I can't sleep. You...know how I get."

Now down to boxers, Randy sprawled next to Meg, who immediately rolled over him, abandoning her blankets, and began to massage his back. It wasn't long after that he was asleep, unable to remember a time he felt safer, more comfortable, more loved, and less afraid of the word and all its repercussions.