My apologies for the delay in posting, and thank you all for the lovely reviews from previous chapters. I'll be back at this at a much improved pace, I promise. Real life got in the way for a bit; I have Nattiebroskette, SweetHigh, eyexlinerxwhore, and a myriad of other authors and readers to thank for getting me back on track.

If you haven't, please do check out Nattie's works - they're deliciously smuttastic (yeah, I made a word up!), and delightfully well-written. She's got a knack for personality. :) Plus, anyone who can put up with me for 2,000+ messages deserves a medal.

As always, I love to hear from you. Reviews, critique, anything - I'm game for it.

Onward!

Driving to the clinic was an exercise in the art of the pot-hole dodge. Randy hadn't ever realized the roads were so ruined, and while Meg swore up and down it didn't bother her, every time he levied a surreptitious glance at the rear view mirror, she looked miserable. She was sitting lengthwise across the back of his SUV, tilted deeply into the back of the seat, head lolling back and forth occasionally, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

'Whatcha up to in there, Meggie? Doesn't look like anything good. Just hold on, kiddo. We're almost there, and then we can figure out what's going on.' Randy drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel, half out of frustration and half out of wishing he'd thought to put the radio on since Meg wasn't much for conversation.

Meg, for her part, was lost in Louisiana, her thoughts firing down a high-speed four-lane and landing on swampland in a soggy highway median. Every time she jostled in the seat, she felt her nails dig into the leather, waiting for the slight bump to turn into an all-out launch across the pavement and end her. 'You did it to yourself. Your leg, telling him you love him – and what the fuck was that, Meg, you love him? I mean, you do, but now he's overreacting with this moving-in-thing – and once he sees how bad your leg is, it's all going to blow up. You know it is.' Pulling into the parking lot, Randy started to reach for the door, but Meg's hand shot between his seat and the wall of the car, catching his wrist before he could open anything.

"I'll get it from here, Ran. You'll get mobbed."

"Doesn't matter. I don't want you to go in alone. You even said you're not going to handle it well, Meg." His hand closed around hers, pressing her down against the armrest of the door, away from the driver's seat. "Please? Meg...I feel like I did this."

"Oh, please. Who got in the car that night, you or me?"

"You wait there. I'll get the door." 'I'm not talking about the car. I'm talking about scaring you into spending that night with Joe, the sex, falling in the hallway, going to Sarah's place alone, the driving...'

"You wait there. I'll call and have them open the back; you can park around there and we can go hide. Deal?"

Randy kept telling himself to think about the similarity between the word patient, in Meg's context, and patience, which got him through the ordeal. Meg had warned him she'd have to be slipped in between paying clients, and the wait to have her films read would be long, if it even happened that day. 'I can have them make copies. Or a disc. I want my doctor to look at what's going on. Your clinic can ballpark it; I want a specialist to tell me what's in there. You need to walk, Meg. I need you to walk.'

He let her limp inside from the car, knowing pride would cause her to turn on him if he tried to intervene by helping her into the building, then sat in the break room with her, smiling as seemingly every nurse, doctor, and technician in the clinic stopped by to greet her and check on her, entirely oblivious to his presence. 'This is getting mobbed, Meg. See how much these people need you?'

Randy, despite her protests and thoroughly amused by the coos and giggles he got from the female staff, carried Meg to the radiology lab, setting her gently on the cold metal table and waiting for her to let go before he backed away. Her convulsive shiver wasn't lost on him, and he was afraid to leave her alone in the room. Meg knew the technician who helped her lay back under the projector, so her flinching under each touch and maneuver was less of a spasm and more of a twitch. The technician took film after film, lateral, supine, anything she could get Meg to hold still for, and much of it at Randy's request from behind the leaded divider. 'I don't even know what I'm asking for. I just want every angle. Anything I can send to my ortho. At least this place let her stay in her sweats. Maybe not the easiest to work around, but...they know.' Watching each image scan across the oversized computer screen, Randy didn't know if he wanted to cover his mouth with his hands, press his fingers against the screen, or go back into the main radiology room, lift Meg from the table, and hold her until her leg magically healed.

The films were brutal. The technician murmured things Randy didn't understand – comminuted, stress risers, non-union, impaction – but the pictures grabbed hold of his stomach and wrenched it sideways. The bone around each of the remaining screws and pins had shattered; some of it looked webbed, some of it was full-fledged fracturing. Meg was walking on what amounted to a column of crushed pebbles with the occasional twisting metal spoke placed through it.

"Crumbs can't heal to crumbs." The technician was still murmuring, but the comment caught Randy's attention.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Her leg. There's just nothing there. They take the screws out, it's all still pieces. There's nothing to plate to – usually, you see stress risers-" She gestured to the small protrusions that flanked the heads of some of the screws, "Where you have plates, because the bone's been shaved down to accommodate the thickness of the metal. Here, the screws just wore into her bone. Then wore loose. Then, impacts from walking, falling, driving, whatever...it all just crushed and crushed." She clucked her tongue. "Four screws, two pins, and one fucking mess. Did she even have any post-op care? Therapy?" The tech arched an eyebrow at Randy.

"Uh...no. But she wasn't staying here. With me, I mean. And she didn't have insurance. It was...complicated."

"Yeah, no kidding. She's real guarded, but she's a sweetheart. Doesn't talk about that much," the technician gestured at the films, "But talks about you all the time." The technician winked at him. "You've got a real hold on her. Meg's a wild one, just from the little she's said, but she tells us you've got her in a good place. She's happy. Always a smile on her, about you."

"Now I just have to keep her in a good place. Can I get these on disc? Don't tell her, though. Uh, please? I have an ortho who works on my shoulders, did my collarbone...I kinda want him to look."

"Yeah, as long as you don't tell her I did it. I like her; I want to see her get better, you know?"

Randy offered a vanishing smile, as did the technician, but his eyes were locked on the screen, the oddly-angled screws and pins a glowing whiteness against the muted grey of Meg's bone and the black of the film itself.

Outside, Meg begged her way into the front seat, pill bottles from the clinic pharmacy in hand, saying she didn't want to be by herself. 'I don't want to sit back there with Jackson. Fucking mind. I need to take the fucking NCLEX. I can schedule it by phone. Right now, even. As soon as I'm licensed, I'm busy. I just have to keep my mind elsewhere, then I can talk to Dave, then I can get back to work.' Idly passing her phone from hand to hand, she startled when Randy's hand landed on her knee. Meg hadn't realized they weren't driving yet. He'd started the SUV, letting the interior warm for her, but was looking at her curiously, as though he was waiting for an answer to a question.

"I'm sorry, Ran. I spaced out. Did you say something?"

"You worry me when you space out. Tell me what's going on in there." He brushed her hair back from the side of her face, absentmindedly tracing his fingers over the top of her collarbone once he'd passed through the ends of her hair. "You look like you saw a ghost."

Meg's face fell. 'You have no idea.' "No, it's just...it's like I'm never gonna be done with this, you know?" She rummaged in her bag for a bottle of water, wincing at how cold it had become from sitting out in their vehicle. She struggled with the lid to the pill bottle, tapped two vicodin into her hand, and paused before tossing them into her mouth, chasing them quickly with the water. "I don't want to think...talk...about it." She shrugged. "Please?"

"I...wow. Okay." His eyes hadn't left her hands and the bottle of pills. 'She said she'd never take that shit again. Not after the hospital. What the fuck is going on? She hurts that bad, or something else?' "Let's get you home, Meggie. I'll cook. We can do dinner in, and then-"

"I love you, but you're not making dinner. I've got it." Meg smiled, and squeezed his hand. "Two vicodin isn't going to put me on my ass. Don't think I didn't see the look you just gave me." 'Stop fucking worrying. You're gonna make me feel worse than I already do.' She turned to face him, unbuckling her seatbelt as she moved. "This reminds me of Blaine. It's grey, it's cold, and I feel like I'm finally home."

"We're okay then, Meg?" 'Stranger and stranger...what are you trying to tell me?'

"We were always okay." Meg leaned up and offered a gentle kiss near his lips, lingering over his mouth briefly. "But you're gonna get yourself in trouble if you don't get me home. The last thing you need is a charge for public indecency." She leaned slightly further in, kissing him into silence. "C'mon, Ran. Drive. I'll let you cook if you let me sit around in a t-shirt, drink wine, and give you direction from the kitchen counter."

"Deal. Sorta. Drinking?" He pointed to her pills. "Is that a good idea?"

Meg slowly pulled away from Randy's lap, her body nearly a malevolent ooze toward her seat where she fiddled with the seatbelt until it latched. "You're right. Drive, please." 'Don't worry, Randy, I can drink when you're not looking. I didn't realize moving in meant I got a boyfriend and a sobriety coach.'

'The fastest way to fuck up, Orton: tell her what to do. This doesn't have to be negotiable, but you don't have to be a condescending asshole, either.' "Meg...I'm not trying to tell you anything. It's just that you really didn't want to take the pills before, so," He shifted into drive and began a slow roll out of the parking lot, "I don't know what to do. I want you to feel better, and it's not like you working with my back. I can't just put hands on your leg and fix it" 'Plus...how much pain are you in, Meg? You said you'd never take those. How bad is it that you're not telling me?'

"I'll be fine. I promise." Meg felt a burn run through her veins; a heady mix of adrenaline and lust, starting to feel high from her pills and having zero interest in controlling the rush of sensations. "I'm trying to be a good patient. Follow directions. Just...take me home, okay?" Meg started to fiddle with her phone again, trying to register for her NCLEX.

Sarah surprised them both; Thai food had been set up on the dining room table. "Shit...Ran, I'm sorry. I forgot she was here. Quick dinner, and then we can...go upstairs?" Meg was floating on the high from her pills, her gait was nearly normal, and Randy was uneasy about the whole setup. Not only concerned that she was overworking her leg, he also felt he had a decent enough understanding of Sarah to know that she'd couch bad news in good food. 'Either she was expecting a trainwreck when we got back from the clinic, or something's up with her. This doesn't feel right.'

"Meg! Meggie. I got you guys dinner...Thai is okay, right?" Sarah didn't just breeze in from the kitchen; she fairly flew across the room and toward them in the doorway. "Are you okay? The clinic was okay? Your leg is...what's going on with that? You look like you're walking normal." Her tone was incredulous. 'Shit, and now I'm going to wreck whatever good news she got.'

"Uh...actually...Randy, what did they say?" Meg sounded as though it'd just occurred to her that she hadn't asked anyone to read her films. 'Not like it takes a rocket scientist to know it's bad.'

"Nobody said anything, Meg. Just that I could take you home. I guess we have to call back?"

"Doesn't matter, I feel better. Hey, Sarah – don't tell Randy, but he was right all along and I probably should have been taking the pills the whole time." She offered an exaggerated wink, and laughed.

Randy groaned, but began spooning pad thai onto his plate. "So...what's all this about, Sarah? Just feeling generous?" 'Whatever's going on, let's get it out of the way.'

Sarah paused, taking a deep breath. "Well...uh...no. Sorta? I don't know. I went back to my apartment today." She turned to face Meg. "Girly...you did everything for me, so I feel like an asshole for this...but...I can't go back there."

"Well no shit, nobody expects you to go back there, Sarah." Meg looked confused, and Sarah put her hands up to silence her.

"No...I turned in my keys, and I'm gonna move to a different complex. The parent company owns a few properties around here, and I'm just...I can't stay there. I don't know what happened, I don't know what didn't happen...I mean, not that, I know that didn't happen. But I can't be there. And I don't wanna just ditch on you like that, but...you have to understand, Meg. Right?"

Meg knew all too well what it was like to not be able to stay – or say – where you were touched; the skin-crawling anxiety, the terror that it'd all happen again, the complete lack of understanding why, and she understood Sarah had to leave. At the same time, she wanted to lunge forward, shake Sarah, tell her she would be fine, that she couldn't just leave after the disaster she'd caused with Randy, that somehow, something more was owed, that their friendship was worth more. Meg's fear to lose the first real friend she'd had outside the business was almost overwhelming, and she felt her smile grow taut across her face.

"Of course I understand, Sarah. Besides, it's not like you're really leaving; you're just gonna...what...be across town? We're still going to be-" 'Please, keep pointing out what didn't happen to you and what did happen to me. I love you, Sarah, but sometimes you should drink more. Or less.'

"Yes! Yes. Now shut the fuck up before you make me cry. Eat something. And I let you out of your lease, too."

"Oh? Uh...well, okay. That works out, actually. Randy wants me to move in, and I said yes." Meg was somehow saccharine and flat, doing her best to be accidentally unnerving.

"Oh! Oh. You...uh, you didn't say anything."

"Yeah. It was...spontaneous." Meg's voice lacked enthusiasm, and Randy cringed.

'And they're both talking about me like I'm not here...and talking at each other like they're strangers. Tonight isn't gonna be fun.' "Hey, Meggie? Pass me a fork? And, do we have wine?" Randy tried to keep his tone light, jar her out of her snippy headspace, and hopefully get her to relax by relenting on the alcohol embargo.

"Here. Fork. And I don't know." Meg turned abruptly from the table, leaving her plate where it was, treading heavily toward the stairs that lead up to her bedroom with Randy, clutching the railing with both hands as she hauled herself up to the room, sweating and shaking with the effort of keeping her weight off her right leg.

"Well." Sarah turned to face Randy. "That went like shit." She rubbed at her face, her eyes stinging. "All I do is fuck things up, I swear to God."

For a split second, Randy felt awkward, but the look on Sarah's face shook him, and he felt nothing but sympathy toward the woman. Her face was bruised, but her mind was worse off. 'They need to not do this to each other. Not right now, anyway.' "That's my line. And no...she's in a weird place, right now. The clinic didn't help, because she didn't get any answers. I saw the films; her leg is wrecked. I don't know what she's going to do about it. She doesn't want to do anything about it, I know that much."

"And now I dumped on her with the apartment thing."

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you need to. You're important to her, Sarah. She didn't have anyone when she came out here – and no, before you go there, I don't count. I wasn't here when she got here. We were a disaster, when she got here. You're like her sister. She's scared that you got hurt, she's scared for herself, and you and I both know she falls to fuck when she doesn't have control."

Sarah hummed, a low tone, relatively neutral and agreeable, and Randy thought he'd done what he could. 'Next stop, working Meg out. Whatever the fuck is up with her.' "You gonna be okay? Go eat, Sarah. Get some rest. She'll come around by tomorrow morning. I'm gonna take her a plate and talk to her."

"Look at you," Sarah sniffled, "Acting like a fucking husband, or some shit." She smiled weakly. "Any chance I can-"

"The liquor cabinet is yours." He lifted his and Meg's plates from the table and followed her up the stairs, pausing only long enough to snag a bottle of wine from the kitchen counter. "Not a snowball's chance in Hell that this goes with Thai food. Oh, fuck it." He plodded up the stairs, following Meg.

In the bedroom, Meg was struggling out of her pants, desperate to get out of anything that had the clinic's scent on it and into one of Randy's well-worn shirts. 'And like a dumbass, I'm starving and had to make a show out of leaving my food downstairs.' With steadier hands thanks to the medication, Meg re-opened the bottle of vicodin, shook out two more, shrugged, and dry swallowed them

"More, already?" Randy's voice was both startled and startling; Meg had no idea he was in the doorway. "You really are hurting, aren't you?"

"No shit, Sherlock. Give it here." She gestured at her plate. "Actually, fuck it, just give the wine here." Randy cringed, but passed the wine and corkscrew to her, watching her with no small amount of amazement as she drank directly from the bottle.

"She's not doing it to hurt y-"

"I registered for my nationals. I'm not going to do anything about my leg. I'm going to have dinner with you, probably pass out in bed, and worry about tomorrow when it happens. What's funny is, since everyone's leaving, I won't have anyone actually around for this magical tomorrow, when it happens. Dave hasn't called me in forever, I don't want to hear from Joe, Sarah's gonna be busy doing whatever she's doing-"

Randy settled in next to her on the bed, passing a plate to her and stealing the wine away, drinking greedily. 'Two can play the drinking game.' "So now would be a bad time to talk about when I have to go back on the road?" He'd gotten a few emails while he waited behind the lead divider at the clinic; the company was pushing for him to come back sooner rather than later. Dave had stretched Randy's injured status as far as it reasonably could go and without a new reason to stay out, he'd have to go back in.

"You really want me to lose my shit tonight, don't you?"

Randy pulled Meg close, and then closer, trying to bury her in his arms, against his chest, anything that might protect her from herself. "No, Meggie. I just..." He squeezed her, hard, and she murmured against his chest. "I don't know. I just want everything out in the open. No surprises."

'Sam, were you planning on actually coming here to talk to me about this? Why am I the one calling you? A fucking letter? A courier with a letter? I mean, what, you were thinking, "Surprise, I'm serving you with papers?" It's low even for you.'

Meg was breezing past the locker rooms, paying little to no attention until she heard Randy's voice, gaining in volume and momentum. She shifted her armload of paperwork and bottle of diet Dr. Pepper from her right hand to her left, and began testing doorknobs, trying to figure out where he was.

'You're a fucking nightmare, you know that? What happened to you? You really couldn't take five minutes out of a goddamned spa day, or shopping, or whatever, to come down here and actually tell me in person that this is what you want?'

Meg found the room; the door was vibrating in the frame each time Randy spoke, and a gaggle of people were starting to mill closer and closer, part ear-hustle and part sideshow. Knowing it wouldn't end well if he walked out into a crowd, she knocked firmly on the door.

'You know what – wait, Sam – go the fuck away! I'm on the phone!'

'Ran, open up. Just for a second.' Meg tried to keep her voice calm; hearing Sam's name come up repeatedly was always good to get a rise out of her. Behind her, the crowd began to thin as quickly as it gathered, common sense seeming to have kicked in for some of the spectators.

'It's not a good time, Meg! No, Sam, I'm not fucking her. She probably needs me to – oh, shut the fuck up, Sam. Really. That's a fucking joke. I know what I am, but I'm not fucking my friend. Call her a whore again, I fucking dare you.'

Meg winced, but knocked again. 'Randy. Just for a second. I know you're on the phone. Please.'

The door came flying open, and Meg felt wisps of her hair pull forward in the vacuum it created. Unprepared for Randy to grab her by the arm and haul her forward into the room, she nearly fell over. Trying to keep her balance, she dropped all of her paperwork and bottle of pop, planting her hands loudly against the lockers ahead of her as she high-stepped over the bench that was, by her estimation, far too close to the door.

'Yes, dear, I punched a locker. My horrible temper. Sue me.' Randy's voice was bleeding sarcasm even as he covered for Meg's presence. 'Actually, don't sue me, just fucking divorce me!' From sarcasm to screaming, Meg was watching him unhinge in front of her. Slowly, she held her hands up and crouched to the ground, starting to pick up her paperwork and fishing in her pants pockets for a pen, writing out 'People are listening' on the back of an old itinerary. Pressing her finger over her lips in a gesture to keep his voice down and then pointing outside the door, she passed him the paper and set about cleaning up the mess on the floor, gingerly setting the now-foaming bottle of pop on the bench. Randy took one look at her writing, rolled his eyes, flung his head back, and leveled a solid punch at the lockers.

'Yeah, and I punched a locker again. So fucking what?' He paced, agitated and boiling over, passing the phone between his hands; whichever hand wasn't occupied with the phone occupied itself by pulling at his sleeves, the ties to his sweats, the zipper of his hoodie – anything to keep moving. 'Sam, you just – no, you listen – what the fuck do you even want me to do, just sign everything and send it back?' He paused, his back to Meg, and she could see him nearly start to vibrate. 'Of course you do! Why wouldn't you? Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, I'm not that fucking stupid! Keep your paperwork, stop sending me your little message bitches, and wait for my lawyer to call. I don't want to hear from you. Period.' He spun on his heels and whipped the phone toward the lockers, covering Meg in a shower of plastic debris as it exploded mere inches over her head. She'd never moved from her crouch on the floor, paperwork now in hand.

'Shit! Shit! Meg! I'm sorry. What the fuck, Orton?' He threw his hands in the air. 'Did I hit you?' He reached toward her, but she caught his hand mid-grab, trying to pull him down to the bench and also check his knuckles.

'I'm fine, but you might have a hard time cashing in the warranty once you tell your cell company half your phone just fell down my pants.' Meg slowly stood, stepping over the bench and shaking out her hoodie and pants, a small trove of plastic fragments scattering across the floor as she moved. 'Lemme see your hands.' Randy pulled a face, but was cooperative and let her work the tension from his hands. He hadn't realized how hard he was gripping his phone, or how hard he'd punched the locker, until she was working her icebox fingers across his. 'I can take you off for tonight if you want.'

'No, I can still go. I'm fine.'

'I'm not talking about your hands, Ran. Whatever your...wife...just did. If you want time, I can get that for you.'

Slowly, Randy reached for her bottle of pop, tilting the dark amber liquid back and forth in the bottle and watching the foam and bubbles mix back in. 'She's being...her usual. It's real this time, though. She sent me papers. Who the fuck does that? Just sends papers, doesn't even have the balls to show up and talk?' He flipped the bottle end-for-end, faster now, and continued talking as Meg worked around his motions, trying to loosen the tension from his arms, stepping behind him to start work on his shoulders. 'She can be such a bitch. And I love her. And she's leaving me.'

'Leaving?' Meg paused mid-compression. 'Randy...it's Sam. No matter how bad it is, I don't think she's gonna leave you. You two are-'

'She fucking sent papers, Meg. She didn't even come here to give them with me, just sent over some law-firm asshole who expected me to sign everything without even reading. He tried giving me some speech about needing to take care of her.'

Meg snorted. 'Bet you shut that shit down quick.' She went back to his shoulders, pulling his hoodie down so she was only fighting his tension and t-shirt, instead of the extra layer of fabric.

'You shoulda seen the guy run.' A dry note of amusement had crept back into Randy's voice, and Meg could feel him calming under her touch.

Meg slid an arm forward around the front of Randy's shoulders, resting her chin on top of his head and surrounding him in a gentle embrace. 'Well...' She paused, considering her words. 'Where do you go from here?'

'Out to the ring. Then a signing. Then maybe you can stop by with tequila, because if I go out tonight I'm gonna get in trouble.'

Meg shrugged. 'Maybe trouble is what you need right now. Work it out of your system a little.'

'I can get into plenty of trouble with you.'

'Oh, no. Nope. My job is to keep you out of trouble.'

'Meg, you just told me to go out and get-'

'I meant with me. No trouble with me. Shenanigans, maybe. Occasional hijinks. But no trouble.'

Randy chuckled, and cracked open Meg's bottle of soda, shocked at the speed with which she let go of his shoulders and dropped to the floor behind him. A fraction of a second later, Randy knew why – the contents of the bottle exploded outward, coating him in a syrupy mess – not only had she dropped it, but he'd been slow-shaking it through most of their conversation. Slowly, he put the bottle down next to him on the bench, and started to turn to face Meg, who was doing her best to choke down the laughter that was staining her face every imaginable shade of red.

'Oh, fuck no. Nope. You c'mere. It's your bottle of diet-death-cola, you're cleaning this up.'

Meg tried to backpedal, but her shoes slipped on the wet floor and she landed solidly on her ass, the laughter spilling from her and becoming a hysterical protest as Randy upended the remainder of the bottle over her head, earning laughter of his own.

'You are such a dick! I don't have anything else to wear, dipshit!' Meg sputtered, but was far from angry.

'That's 'Sir' dipshit, to you.' Randy offered a hand to Meg, who grabbed on and tried to pull him down into a soda-puddle on the floor. 'Oh, come on. Like you're gonna get me to move?'

Meg splashed the spilled pop upwards, catching him on the neck. 'You win. By default stupidity, you win.' She smiled and disappeared to the back of the locker room, taking her shirt off as she moved. 'You think this'll be dry by go-time if I rinse it out now?'

'No clue.' Randy materialized around the corner of the sink area and backed out just as quickly, not realizing she'd taken her shirt off. 'Meg, shit! Warn me next time.'

'Sorry. We can't all look like a Diva.' She rolled her eyes and continued to rinse her shirt out.

'They're no competition, Meg,' Randy mumbled to himself, then raised his voice over the sink, hoping his volume carried around the corner. 'Can you come find me after the show? I really do...want company...tonight. Just to hang out. Grab a movie, drink, whatever. I don't want to...' He trailed off, unsure of how to admit he didn't want to be in his own head, dwelling on Sam and her legalese bullshit.

'How about you come find me? I stay in triage; you wander all over the fucking building. If I'm not in triage, you can assume I'm out buying a new shirt.' Meg materialized from around the corner, her shirt damp and clinging to her. 'This feels so gross, thank you.' She shivered and wrinkled her nose. 'Plus, you don't have a phone anymore. It's gonna be kinda hard for me to track you down. If you don't run in to me, you can always have Dave call me.'

Randy caught a few words; something about after the show and triage. His mind wandered to the contours of her body, the way her shirt clung to her, and the involuntary full-body spasm that wracked her when she shivered.

'I'll find you, Meg. Don't worry about it.'

Meg had finished dinner and drifted to sleep in Randy's arms while Randy's mind had drifted back to their accidental locker room soda pop fight, and her even breathing helped him relax, stilled the frenetic worries and fears jumbling around in his mind. "Like you said, Meggie," he whispered, "Tomorrow." He shifted carefully around her, stripping down to his boxers and keeping the wine within reach. In the dim light of the room, her face was peaceful, and she clung to him through each movement he made. "But fuck me, I don't want to leave. Promise me you're gonna be here, Meg?"

Fingers tracing cool lines up and down Randy's chest, Meg burrowed against him. 'It's all a fucking mess, Meg. Tell me you want me to stay, and I'll quit tomorrow. As soon as the office opens.' He watched her, not knowing how long he alternated between playing with the ends of her hair and finishing off the rest of the wine. It was only when a nightmare began to shake Meg from sleep into misery that he realized what a disaster his return to the ring was about to become. 'You haven't had a nightmare in a while, Meg. And I'm not gonna be here, and you're not gonna talk to me about it.'

She feigned sleep for the rest of the night, not wanting to worry him with her thoughts of Jackson, the emotions that came with the thoughts, the constant feeling that she was falling but never sure where she would land. His whispered confession scared her; she'd never had someone so invested in her, never learned what to do with a relationship that was functional, never learned how not to break things that were fragile. Randy held still as well, not daring to look at her – in part because he didn't want her to worry that he wasn't sleeping, and in part because he wasn't sure what he'd see in her eyes if he met them.