Merry Christmas, I wrote you all an update!
Songs are: Adagio for Strings, Hallelujah (the Jeff Buckley version), Crucify, and Take me to Church. Lyrics are incomplete (you will have to parse them out from dialogue; this is intentional) Artists are available via PM.
If anyone is really motivated, there's also a choral arrangement for Adagio for Strings.
Special thanks to nattiebroskette, as always. My belle, my boo, my bestie! (Even my busted-hip buddy!)
Special-special hugs to SweetHigh, who will always have a home up here in freezing-ass Michigan, as soon as I figure out the Visa process, ChelleLew for being a review machine (Seriously, you did all that?), BlackHat for epic potato inspiration, ShieldGirl because the MUSE IS BACK!, EyexLinerxWhore for still having the coolest name ever and being ultra-supportive, and:
mxjoyride, because she wrote something new, kinky, and dear lord. Just, whew!
I'm still feeling Christmassy, so this one is half-mush (Don't worry, MetalMayhem, Randy will not be all mush all the time – there are twists ahead) and half "Let The Games BEGIN!"
I encourage everyone to keep their hands inside the ride and double-check the height requirement.
All PMs, notes, comments, reviews, critque, inconsistency, etc etc etc is welcome. Feed me the writer-catnip!
Meg covered Randy with a quilt before kissing him lightly, locking her front door, and turning off the lights in her apartment. She lowered the volume on her iPod a few clicks before she settled in next to him under the quilt, and prayed for sleep to come quickly. 'I'm still such a mess. A mess with a headache; I think I went for closed-head-injury-number-two when I planted into the headboard like that. If he wants to throw me in bed til he gets bored with it, then fine. It wouldn't be the first time. I just have to tell myself that's all it is.' Satisfied that she'd, for the moment, come up with her own private solution to her problem, Meg began to drift off.
It wasn't long after Meg had settled against Randy, one arm draped over his neck, one hand settled on his inner thigh, legs knit through his, that he woke up half-aware of music in the room and her fingernails trailing along his leg. 'I'm not gonna know half of what she listens to, am I?' He shifted his hand to cover hers, and the tension in her fingers disappeared, though it was a bit like pressing an ice pack into his thigh. Randy slid individual locks of hair away from his face and up over hers, the music still lilting through the room.
Luckily or unluckily, or with the foresight only an alcoholic can develop after years of practice at the craft, Sarah really had bought out half the store. Randy and Meg had made only a small dent in the stock of wine bottles she'd provided for them. Carefully, slowly, Randy flattened himself out on the bed, slid out from under Meg, and leaned as far out as he could, grabbing the first bottle that met his fingers. Scanning for the corkscrew, he realized he'd have to roll over Meg, in the opposite direction, to get it. 'Please don't wake up and freak out...it's just me...and I need something to take my mind off everything.' Arching as far as he could over her, he managed to grab the corkscrew off the table near the bed without disturbing her beyond an irritated clutch of her fingernails into his thigh as he adjusted back around her, rolling her over him, pulling her up the bed with him so that he was seated half up the headboard, within better reach of the remaining wine.
'This one I do know, but fuck if half the locker room wouldn't give me shit for it. Minus Claudio. He'd try to turn it into a discussion.' Quietly, Adagio for Strings seeped into every crevice of the bedroom, heavy with sorrow that could make the listener curse the same God they called to on their knees. The kind of music that was more smoke than sound, it grabbed hold of him while he worked the corkscrew down and then back up, trying to guess without looking at what he'd selected. Deciding he didn't care, he drank directly from the bottle, looking down at Meg, who'd huffed half-irritated, rearranged her arms across him, and sleepily kissed his chest. Her medallion had tangled through one of her bra straps, and Randy gently unwound it before deciding against readjusting the strap. 'This sounds like her. Feels like her. Sad. Sad and...not angry, but hurt.' He drank again, set the wine to the side, and tried to dose off, breathing in the scent of her hair. Peace came, but briefly.
He wondered if it would be all instrumental, or if she'd set the songs so that an occasional lyric or line would filter into his brain just long enough to knock a memory down from the shelf and onto the floor of his consciousness. They tended to raise cloud after cloud of dust from the past, fancies and failures, and he knew before long the air of his mind would be too thick with soot to allow room for sleep if that were the case.
The next time he woke, it was because Meg's leg had shot up across his front, narrowly missing a direct kick to his crotch, and she was starting a stranglehold around his neck. Rather than wake her up, he pried her arm loose and pushed her leg down, mindful that it was her right and not her left, and held her until the fight went out of her. A squinted look at the wall clock, barely visible in the parking-lot light, told him it took nearly half an hour before she was calm. 'This is what she's like with the distraction and the noise. Wonder what she's like without?' He reached for the wine, kissing her shoulders between each drink, and debating the merits of opening a second bottle after finishing the first. Rationalizing that it was only 2:15, he slid his hand around the bottom edge of the bed, bumping gently into another full bottle. Something unsteady, a guitar, began to play, and he was vaguely aware of how unsteady he felt as it continued. The voice wavered, his hands wavered, and he nearly hit her in the head with the wine as he struggled to open it. 'And my hands are shaking...why?' Randy inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and forced the corkscrew solidly down, feeling the pliable substance give, creak, imagining Jackson's bones doing the same under his force. The voice in the room swelled, Randy drank, Meg lifted her lips up to his neck, and he felt himself smile around the mouth of the bottle.
'You don't really care for music...well, sometimes, Meg. Who is this?' Randy drank again, and looked down at Meg for a hint, though he knew none was coming. She'd fallen back into a brick-like slumber, her lips where she'd left them against him. 'Baby, I've been here before, I've seen this room and I've walked this floor – I used to live alone before I knew you...but I've seen your flag on the marble arch, and our love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah...Meg, what the fuck is this? Meg?' He felt something cold crawl over him, worse than her skin, memories causing the feelings he'd gotten every time the phone rang and the number was unknown or unlisted, every time he'd called the hospital and they'd had no news they were willing to give him, every time he'd looked at the photos Remy had sent him.
Just as suddenly, he her hand slid up his chest and back down, settling the hateful soot and oddly, his mind chose to replace it with diamond dust of stained glass and pebbly jewels from the murals at the Hagia Sofia, cloves of garlic, flakes of ash from their campfire at the bay, bits of burnt marshmallow, hummingbirds around their balcony in Tampa, and Randy felt his chokehold around the wine bottle relax. 'Broken might be alright. Who is this, Meg?' He rolled the more-pleasant fragments around, preferring those to the alternatives, nursing the wine along and twisting the ends of her hair over and around his fingers. Occasionally, he traced his fingers along the chain of her medallion, amused that she'd never switched it from the longer one he'd worn back to her original, more delicate one. 'It's not a cry that you hear at night, it's not someone who's seen the light, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah – we might be, Meg, but we're here. Kept.' Randy closed his hand around hers, and drank til he was ready to sleep, making sure the bottle was solidly on the table before he drifted off.
The final time he woke, Meg had laid herself on and around him, hips curled between his legs, her chest over his. It was her fingernails, again, that got to him – they weren't sharp, but they were individual points of tension pulsing against his skin, deeper and deeper as her mind dragged her through whatever nightmare pictorial it had concocted. Deciding to finish what he'd started, and figuring 3:30 wasn't too late for zinfandel, he compressed both of her hands into one of his, and reached for the remaining wine with the other. Meg writhed against him, mumbling vague words and names, but stayed in his lap. 'I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets, looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets – who, Meg, you or me? Where do you find this shit? Maybe this is part of the problem of you not sleeping? Randy glowered over at the iPod, but knew he couldn't do much from his position on the bed. 'Nothing I do is good enough for you, crucify myself, I wish you'd let me get you out of here, Meg. Stay with me. Stop doing this to yourself.' There wasn't going to be enough wine in the bottle to make it to morning, Randy knew that. He wanted to turn the music off, could feel through himself and back again that it was the whole problem with Meg – at least, in that moment, was what was igniting the tinder in her mind – but if he moved, he risked sparking a different fire. He put the wine back.
"Go on, you fucking evil thing. What's the next one, 'Songs On Killing Yourself, B-Minor'?" Randy's hissed question was bitter, and the glowing rectangle in the corner of the room didn't care one way or the other about his irritation. The woman's voice was followed by a man's, and it was yet another song Randy didn't care for. He'd heard it on the radio while trying to fill the void in his house with anything, sound included. It didn't work, the void spread and became all-consuming, as did his pacing, but he'd started to learn the words just from exposure, knew what was coming, and suddenly hated himself. 'Why did she pick this? What the fuck is this saying? - Knows everybody's disapproval, should've worshiped her sooner - Meg, you aren't dirty. I know I should have found you sooner. I didn't mea – like a dog at the shrine of your lies – Meg, I'm not lying to y – fine looking high horse – I told you, you aren't beneath me, this isn't abo -'
The room was starting to whirl dangerously around him, her fingers and fingernails still working under his hand as though they meant to draw blood, and he knew she was calling his name. It was a whisper at first, but her legs were starting to push her upward, unfurl her over him, up onto his shoulder, closer and closer, and Randy felt the same panic come over him that he felt when he was in Vancouver, drowning in tequila, didn't know where she was, even though now she was in his arms. Here, however, Randy didn't know where her mind was, if she was running to or from him in her dream – 'no masters or kings when the ritual begins, no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin, Meg, fucking stop this, wake up' – and he started to push her back down, pry her hands apart and off of him, do anything to get her off of him so he could turn it off, but she'd become a vine around him and whatever he'd managed to untangle simply wound itself around him somewhere else. 'In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene, only then I am human, only then I am clean, Meg, wake the fuck up, wake up, I'm done with this!' Randy, gave up on gentle and shoved her down him to the foot of the bed, earning himself a wide-eyed and terrified yelp for his effort, while he lunged for the iPod and snatched it off the base.
Meg clutched the quilt to her chest, eyes fixed on Randy, who held the iPod out in front of him as though it was a reason and excuse, his eyes equally fixed on Meg. Neither spoke. Meg was the first to move, dropping the quilt and edging off of the bed toward Randy. The wine bottles hadn't gone unnoticed by her, nor had his shaking hand, or the fingernail scratches in a small patch on his chest.
"Easy, easy. C'mere. What got you?" Meg took the small green rectangle from his hand, tossed it behind him on her dresser, and walked him back to the bed, trying to rub his arms as she moved him.
"Fuck, Meg, I'm sorry. I dunno. I'm drunk. I hurt you?"
"That's okay, Ran. You didn't. Music woke you up?" She sat him down on the bed and knelt in front of him.
"Kinda got in my head." He wiped his hands over his face, and looked over her shoulder at the iPod, still glowing on the dresser. "Turn it off?"
Meg cringed, but did as he asked, walking to her dresser and holding up the small, green object, pressing the bottom button til the screen dimmed. "It's off, but now we have to trade."
"Trade?" Randy slid up the bed, pulling the blankets up over himself. The cold sweat that covered his skin after his near panic attack had been replaced by a coat of goosebumps, despite the high heat of Meg's apartment.
"Yeah, trade. You sleep, and I drink. Put the bottles and the corkscrew on this side, and tuck under." She knelt on the bed, cradling his face in her hands, trying to read his eyes.
"Meggie, I'm sorry, I just fuck up, I drank too much, I'm just drunk, it's not-"
"Ran? It's fine." Meg swung her legs over him, pushing the blankets down, then pulling them back up over herself, adjusting so he could work a pillow against her arm without aggravating her collarbone. "You can be drunk. I think that was part of the plan tonight, right? Drink too much?" He'd settled in against her, and she kissed the top of his head. "Besides, I said you worked through some of your shit. Not all of it. The rest, we figure out together, because a lot of it...a lot of it I put you through. So...if you want it quiet, then it's gonna be quiet. That's the least I can give you."
He pressed back into her, grumbling, muttering that he was stupid, the whole thing was stupid, to go put it back on, he was being a bitch, act like a man, and it occurred to Meg -
"Hey, Randy?"
"Whassat, Meggie?"
"What song was it?"
"Aw, fuck, Meg, you know I dunno the names of that shit..." 'I can tell you every word, Meg; I just won't.'
Meg uncorked another zinfandel, drank deeply, and then rubbed the pad of her thumb over the patch of scratches she'd put on Randy's chest. He was almost asleep when she spoke again, softly. "I can guess which one, Ran. You're not hearing it the right way, though. You're hearing what got lost; think about what we found." In the same quiet voice, Meg re-started the final song, singing over Randy's head, lilting Amen, telling him they worshiped in the bedroom, their sweet, gentle sin, that she had finally been made clean, Amen, Amen.
'Wasn't I listening to you? No? Amen. Amen.' Randy shook his head, felt the red wine grab hold, and let go.
Dave rolled his eyes, thankful he had the good sense to turn his back to Joe before he did it. 'What was it Randy always said? Cocksucking motherfucker? Something like that. It applies here.' He plastered a smile on his face before turning around again.
"Feeling good to be back, big man? Shitty squash matches aside, that is."
"Yeah. Fuck that, it's not like I'm gonna come back with ring rust." Joe worked through a series of stretches, pulling on the elastic bands Dave had picked up while he'd turned around. "First they put me in with that glitter-covered asshole and his slut of the week, and then they follow it up with a win by countout. I have never had a crowd call me boring! Ever!"
"Don't let them get in your head, Joe. It's just temporary. Make sure everything's back the way it should be." 'Holy shit, Joe, calm down. It's not that serious. Nick had shit matches for years; you've had two dogs in one week after a major surgery. Can you get a little perspective, or is your black card maxed out for the purchase?'
Joe huffed, but continued his stretches as Dave continued down his checklist. After a tense silence, Joe looked around the room and seemed to double-check that the door was shut behind him. "So...uh...is everything cool with Meg? I wouldn't ask, but...that day, she said she was gonna come back after chuckles decided to swing on me, and she never showed."
"Yeah...I don't know what that was about." Dave lied through his teeth. 'And you better leave her alone, you piece of shit. As much as I think she needs another relationship like she needs ebola, she's doing better. Leave. Her. Alone.' "Honestly, I think she just got scared. I know she checked on Randy after she checked on you, but after that? In the wind. She probably holed up in her apartment for a while. You know Meg. Hides when she can, and when she can't – she hides anyway." 'Or, maybe she doesn't owe you anything? Including her cell minutes? They get expensive at peak usage, you know, and not everyone has massive pay contracts like you.'
"Yeah, if that was a paying job she'd have us all beat." Joe gave a dry chuckle, switched arms and bands, and continued. "But...it's weird. She doesn't answer my calls, either. I don't know where she's staying, if she's working...all I've got is her number. And believe me, I know it's her number. She's still got that tool on her voicemail recording." Joe's voice dropped to a growl.
'I should tell her to let Randy re-record the entire thing for her, then. Maybe you'd take the hint.' "Maybe she's trying to give you space? She knows you've got a fiancee, and that was hard on her the first time you both dealt with that."
Joe snapped into Dave's space, crowding him at such high speed that Dave stepped back awkwardly, trying to avoid colliding with him. "And you mean what, exactly?
Dave, caught off-guard by Joe's sudden movement, didn't know if he should be confused by the behavior or irritated by the games. "What the fuck, Joe?" The room they were in was empty except for them, and the door was shut; Joe's behavior was also completely erratic. "You know what I mean. You and Meg were both sick over each other when you were engaged. She fell hard for you, you fell hard for her. If you're back with your ex, Meg isn't going to want to fuck that up for you. She cares about you too much to hurt you like that."
"She cares about me?" Joe's rage decelerated so quickly Dave wondered if he'd imagined his lunge and verbal snap entirely.
"Well...she stayed with you that night, didn't she? She's at least talked to you a little bit on the phone, right? I think Meg is trying to figure herself out, before she puts anyone else in a position to have to deal with her. Trying to figure out what she can handle, what she's going to lay on other people...shit like that." 'Think, Dave...talk your way out of this without committing Meg to anything, and without getting beaten to death. Nobody will hear you scream, literallly.'
"You talk to her, though, right?" Joe was insistent again, overly close to Dave. "You know where she lives. Does she talk about me?"
"Yeah...and yeah...and yeah, sometimes. But, Joe...you do have a fiancee...you have to keep that in mind, because Meg's going to keep that in mind. She's gonna be looking at you from a friendship kinda way, unless you're planning on ending your engagement."
"You know what? That's not your fucking problem." Joe had wrapped the elastic band around his fist, which loomed ominously over Dave's head. "I can have whatever I want. I can talk to Meg. She stopped talking to me for no reason. If that reason is Randy, I want to know, because that's bullshit. Is it because of him?"
"I don't think it's because of Randy. Truly, Joe, I think it's just because you're back with your ex. Meg's trying to be respectful of that. She's asked me a few times how you're doing; I've always told her you look healthy and you seem happy. Am I wrong in that?"
"Yes! No. No! I don't know. I don't want to think about her, but I can't stop thinking about her. I should just get married already, just shut the bitch up and be done with it. Why is Meg avoiding me?" Joe was starting to ramble, pace in small circles, and Dave was edging around the exam table in the small room, trying to put space between himself and the larger, angrier man.
"Joe, I have no idea. She might be busy with work, she might be in therapy, she might be avoiding you, she might be avoiding everyone. I don't know. What do you want?"
"What do I want?" Joe's face split into a taut, evil smile. "I want to know where she lives, but you're not going to tell me that, are you?" Dave shook his head. 'Be careful, Dave. You know I can make you tell me. And you know I can make you not tell anyone else how it happened.'
"You know I won't do that without Meg's permission, Joe. I don't do that to anyone here, or anyone who was here. It's an issue of respect."
Next time you talk to her, tell her she has to call me. It's important. I need to talk to her. That's all." He unwrapped the elastic band from his fist, and tossed it into a pile at Dave's feet. "See you around, ol' man. Good talk, good talk. Let my girl know I'm waiting on her call." Joe jogged off in the general direction of the locker rooms, humming as he went.
Dave bent to pick up the elastic band; it was coated in sweat from Joe's hand. "Your girl? Joe, what the fuck are you playing at?" 'That's the same shit Randy used to say. Mine. But yours isn't coming from the same place.'
Dave waited until he was safely ensconced in his car before calling Meg; he didn't want to risk Joe – or anyone – overhearing the call and making the issue bigger than it needed to be. Randy was still trying to get himself and his spine back together, even on her best of days Meg was still a poorly-wired explosive, and Joe was now a variable for which there was no symbol. He called, hoping she'd pick up, hoping she'd be alone, and hoping she wouldn't have had anything to drink.
Dave got one of his three wishes, which, all things considered, wasn't bad. Meg answered and was with Sarah, but hadn't yet gotten into the whiskey they'd planned on splitting that night. Randy was in the shower, still in Meg's apartment, content to lay around in a towel and steam in the veritable sauna of her apartment while his clothing cycled through her washer and dryer. 'Plus,' he teased, 'I came prepared. After I pretty much invited myself over for dinner, I figured it couldn't get much worse from there.' He pointed to a duffel bag, loaded with laundry and toiletries. 'Only if you don't mind, that is.' Meg kissed him, pushed him into the shower, and said she'd be right back, help himself to the fridge.
'Right back' was turning out to be a little longer than Randy expected, but she left a note on the counter with Sarah's phone number and apartment number, plus a jokey 'Turn Right' written on it, so he didn't figure he should worry too much. He felt trusted around her things, which pleased him, and yet felt absolutely no need to go through them. 'Meg's always told me stuff, when I've asked. Except Jackson. Which I think meant she had no plan...just decided to do all that. Had enough. Which is enough for me.' Pleased enough with that answer, he stacked a plate with pasta, adjusted his towel, and headed for the microwave.
"Dave, he what ?" Meg's voice was a cold whisper, and Sarah thumped their drinks down on her counter before either she or Meg had a chance to get in to them.
"Yeah, it was very...unsettling. One minute he was normal, joking, kinda annoyed with the fucked-up push he's getting now that he's back, then he was angry that you never came back to see him, then he was ready to kill Randy again, then he said – and I'm fucking serious – said that you had to call him. It was important. He asked me where you lived."
"Dave, you didn't tell him. Tell me you didn't tell him."
"Jesus Christ, Meg, of course I didn't tell him, but it's not gonna take him long to put two and two and Orton together."
Meg spun aimlessly, first toward Sarah, who looked just as helpless as Meg felt, then toward the whiskey, which Sarah nudged toward her and Meg gratefully slammed back, earning a whack in the nose from one of the ice cubes in the glass.
"Meg, put the booze down." Dave's tone was fatherly.
"I have to tell Randy. Oh my God. He's going to flip his shit."
"Well, he needs to not flip his shit. Sorry I'm not there to help."
"Help what, set his alarm system? He's gotta deal with it by being an adult. I'll talk to Joe to see what all this is about; Randy can listen if it'll make him feel better, but that's it. They all need to stop acting like it's a middle school playground. I mean, what's Randy gonna do when he goes back?"
"Yeah, about that..." Dave trailed off. "Do you really want those two anywhere near each other?"
"No, but there's not much we can do about it unless they cop to their little dust-up." Meg sighed. "I gotta go, Dave. He's probably wondering if Sarah shoved me in the bottle by now."
Sarah slugged Meg in the arm good-naturedly, and opened her door. "Tell him I said hi. Or whatever noise I usually make." She winked, and shooed Meg into the hallway.
Creaking her apartment door open, Meg found Randy sprawled on the sofa, plate on the coffee table, ESPN on the TV. "Just like home, eh?" She teased, trying to sound lighthearted, and tossed her keys on the counter.
"Better; you're here. My house is empty." He smiled and shifted to make room for her next to him.
'How do I tell him about this? He's happy right now, everything's good, and here comes Joe. I always pick the winners, don't I?' Meg pressed back against him. "Nah, not empty. You've got an endless stock of tequila, and ten bucks says some of it made it into your overnight bag." 'I'll deal with Joe later, and I put Randy through enough already. Tonight, fuck it.'