Welcome lovethemafia! I hope you've found both Analeptic and Malum enjoyable. Given the recent turn of events in the RR, the next story is all but written involving Joe. Poor dear soul. MWAHAHAHAHAHAha...ha...*ahem*. Uh. Anyway. Third ticket punched? Anyone?

Also, thank you to Nattiebroskette for the million and one edits on this; if you haven't checked out her newest; "Can You Help Me Heal"...what are you waiting for? :-)

Double-thank-you for all of your patience with the update; I struggled with the ending of this chapter and how the mood needed to...mood. I'd appreciate your feedback on it and what you thought of Meg's first day back - one hell of a surprise, eh?

Onward!

(Don't worry, you're not about to get pelted with tons and tons of useless characters, I promise. I hate stories that go that route. Just indulge me for a minute, okay? It'll all be worth it. Meg's gotta have some friends. Consider them human interludes.)

EDIT: Oh my god, NOBODY checked me on all the typos? GOOD LORD, people!

In triage, Meg made sure the door was shut firmly behind her before letting out a shaky breath. "Please tell me this isn't how every night is gonna go?" Dave was still struggling to slow himself down; he wasn't built for running and his high-speed attempt to find Randy had left him well past winded.

"Jesus, Dave, I hope not. I'm gonna tear my contract in half and go right the fuck back to Saint Charles. My nerves can't take it, and Randy will end up killing Joe. And it's my first fucking show. This isn't how I wanted to surprise him."

Both of them jumped at the knock on the door; Dave motioned Meg to back away and went to see who wanted entry. Renee's small figure slipped through the door, and Meg moved to greet her, at first thoroughly perplexed and then horrified when she saw her arm.

"Oh my God. Renee. What happened? Why are you holding your arm? Didn't you just finish filming with Joe?" She fumbled for a Dynarex pack, popping the bubble in the middle and shaking it as hard as she could, feeling the chemicals ice up between her hands.

"Uh, other than the fact a six foot tall tweaker was trying to kebab me with electrical equipment, I'm good. And yeah, I'm definitely done filming with Joe." Meg pressed the pack gently against Renee's upper arm and glanced at the clock.

"Let's hold this here for ten or so, over your sleeve, then I'll get your sleeve up and we'll take a look at what's going on. Does Jon know you're down here?" Meg patted the table, and Renee stepped up as best she could in heels and a tight skirt, Dave helping her turn to sit with some degree of decency, throwing a warming blanket over her legs, in part to keep her skirt covered and in part to keep her from shivering due to the ice.

"No, and let's not tell him. I saw the cavalry show up for Joe once already; I don't need the cavalry plus Jon. I'll say I got clipped by a camera or something." Renee sighed; Jon's temper was legendary when given the proper motivation, and Joe would certainly qualify as a motivator if Renee said he hit her with a microphone after breaking script following a near-fight with Randy over Meg.

"Yeah...sorry about that. This." Meg gestured at her arm.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. A grown-ass man who can't handle a break-up?" Renee leaned over Meg as much as she could, pulling her into yet another hug. "Meg, look. We..." She waved her hands around, trying to imply the backstage crew and talent, "We don't know everything, but it wasn't hard to put two and two together. You left. Joe and Randy both looked miserable, and we all know how important you were to Randy. Then Randy disappeared. When he came back, even before you got here, it was like something changed in him. He was happy. And Joe stayed the same miserable asshole. Whatever the reason was you left – if it was Joe, if it was something else – it doesn't matter. We want you to stay. He wants you to stay. And Joe's just gonna have to live with the fact he fucked up bad enough to lose you."

"Renee, I always knew there was a reason I liked you." Dave was beaming at the two women from the corner of the triage bay, glad Meg had found another ally. "And yeah, the 'tweaker' thing is beginning to worry me, too. He's beyond erratic. We're going to handle it." 'Meaning, he's getting a full twelve panel directly after the show, and then Talent Relations is gonna have a long sit-down with me. Harassing Meg is one thing; she expected that. Skewering Renee? He's out of his fucking mind.'

Meg moved the ice pack and gingerly rolled up the three-quarter sleeve on Renee's dress. A dark spot was beginning to form on her upper arm; Joe had clipped her with more of the stick than either he or Renee had realized. "You're not gonna be able to play this off as a camera, hon. Jon's gonna know. There's no part of a camera that's oblong. Sorry." Meg gently massaged the area around the bruise, willing the depth of color to go away. "If you want, I can tell him. Or go with you when you do. And you never know, Jon might take it better than you think."

"And I might put on spandex and hop in the ring, too." Renee snorted. "I'll talk to him after the show, here, and only if you're with me. He'd probably listen to you better than me. You can tell him it's not exactly gonna be lethal." She shivered. "The sleeve is gonna have to stay up, isn't it? The ice won't fit under it, and costuming would kill me if I messed this up."

"You wanna stay back here for a while? I know the table isn't comfortable, but it -"

"Please?" Renee jumped on the offer; Jon was busy with pre-match prep. "Besides, we should catch up. Girl stuff. Did I tell you about the last time Jon took me to Vegas and we spent the night at the-"

"Ladies! Ladies. Tell you what." Dave cut in, and abruptly at that. "You stay in here and catch up, and I'll go do a walking-wounded survey so we know what we've got coming up at the hotel. See if we can catch anything before it turns into a call. I'll even lock the door." He shook his head, still smiling. "Besides. I think I hit my maximum quota on 'Conversations Old Guys Weren't Meant To Hear,' for today." Dave slid out the door, chuckling softly and closing it firmly behind him, checking the knob to be sure he'd reset the lock pin correctly.

Renee shrugged her shoulders, then turned to Meg. "What was that about?"

Meg smiled deviously. "How much do you know about knots, and what are Jon's favorite colors?"

Dealing with listing and treating the night's bumps, bruises, and tweaks kept Meg and Dave occupied, Renee sitting quietly on one of the two triage tables, and Meg couldn't have been happier to be busy. She didn't want to see anyone get hurt, though she had the distinct feeling that a majority of the, 'Ow, can you just take a look at my knees and shoulders?' were simply excuses to stop by and say hello, but she couldn't complain. Dave shooed her and Renee away when it was finally time for Randy's match, walking them to a room with a monitor near the womens' lockers, as Randy was in competition with Jon and the match promised to be a good one. Joe had been chastised enough for one night, and enough people had seen both debacles involving him that Dave doubted anything more would involve either woman at the arena.

To a degree, he was right. Joe fully planned on leaving Meg alone at the arena. He knew he'd crossed a line with Renee, he knew that cornering Meg on her own turf in triage was a bad idea, and he knew the concierge service was going to be useless to him unless he felt like taking an ambulance ride.

Randy, however, was an entirely different story. He'd embarrassed Joe, and in a tremendously public fashion. Knowing that his match with Jon was at the end of the night, Joe decided things couldn't get much worse for him. He'd already jumped script with the promo, so he decided he may as well jump script with Randy's match as well. He could always claim confusion about his role, disorientation from his match earlier in the night, any number of things – and besides, he didn't plan on being physically involved. Just mentally.

"Uh, Layfield," Michael hissed to his right, palming his headset away from his mouth and praying nobody heard him or read his lips, "Look left. What the shit is going on? Joe's on the ramp? No intro? Music didn't hit?"

John shrugged and whispered back. "Your guess is as good as mine. There's real backstage bullshit – real heat – between him and Orton. Let's see what he does. I'll get us started."

Clearing his throat loudly for effect, standing up, and waving and pointing his hat, John broke out into full-on JBL-mode, welcoming 'Roman' to join them at the table. Randy paused, both he and Jon on the mat, hearing just enough carried voice to nudge Jon in the side, tell him to fake a roll, be still, and try to sneak a look.

"The fuck?" Jon breathed the words, trying not to get picked up on camera.

"No clue."

Both men stood, shook themselves out, and went into a collar-elbow tie-up in the middle of the ring in order to continue their conversation on the sly. Joe, meanwhile, was adjusting his headset and chair at the commentator's table.

"What a surprise!" Michael's tone was genuinely shocked. "Down here to check out the competition?"

"When that bitch Orton turns into competition, I'll let you know."

John kicked Joe under the table; whether or not any of them liked it they all had to watch their mouths and the show's rating. "Well, these two certainly know how to put on a show. Let's see what they've got!"

Arms still braced on each other, Jon hissed at Randy again. "Now what?"

"Just drop me. I'm gonna roll and take a count out."

"The fuck?"

"You were supposed to win anyway."

Jon shoved Randy back as hard as he could, sending him into a corner turnbuckle and drawing a chuckle from Joe. "See? No competition at all."

"You've gotta give credit to Ambrose, he's really becoming a force and-"

"No, I don't. And no, he's not." Joe clearly wasn't at the table to contribute to commentary. Michael and John shot each other confused looks, but kept plowing ahead, trying to keep themselves on task. Joe simply sat there, feet up on the desk, staring daggers at Randy and smirking at Jon. It was disconcerting; the cameramen tried to avoid filming him, Randy and Jon both tried to avoid making eye contact with Joe, but eventually it wore on them both and they both wanted out.

Moments later, after yet another tie up, Randy hit the mat, hard. Jon whispered a go, dragged Randy back up to his feet, and went for a snaplock driver. Seeing the agreed-upon opportunity, Randy reversed out of it and then rolled as quickly as he could out to the side, where the thoroughly confused referee, well aware he'd lost control of the match – and having been informed by both men that they needed to call audibles to finish it out on the fly – started a fast ten count, with Randy backing up the ramp, faking a back injury the entire way. John and Michael called it as such, having no idea what was actually happening, until they heard Joe laughing so loudly in their headsets that they nearly had to take them off.

"What a joke! What a complete joke! All I had to do was sit here, and he's rolling out on some fake ten count just to hide in the back with his girlfriend like a scared little-" John yanked the cord out on Joe's headset before he could complete the thought, not wanting to hear from corporate or the FCC for whatever profanity was going to fall out of the man's mouth next. Joe shrugged and slid up to the ring, posing for the crowd, Jon having vacated it quickly behind Randy as though he intended to pursue him to the back to continue the fight.

Having watched the whole thing play out on the monitors, Meg had run toward gorilla as fast as her battered leg would carry her, her heels skidding on the concrete floor, Renee following fast behind her but opting to ditch her shoes as she went. Randy dropped his hands as soon as he was completely past the curtains, knowing the 'poor injured me' act wasn't necessary any longer. He nearly did end up injured as Meg slammed against him, arms wrapping around him and hands flying to the base of his spine.

"Whoa, relax, relax. Acting 101, how to get out of a jam. I promised you I wouldn't lock up with Joe, so I got out of there." He pried Meg's grip loose, feeling her panting against him, trying to back her up enough to read the expression on her face. "And you look like you're about to fall over...and Joe's been out there the entire time...so what's going on?"

Jon wasn't far behind, with Renee pouncing on him equally enthusiastically as soon as he cleared the curtains. "Did that cocksucker touch you, too? I swear to fucking God, if he laid one hand on you, I'm gonna put a microphone up his ass." She, too, tried to look him over, but had no idea what she was looking for.

Randy chuckled. "Clearly, you two spent some quality girl-time together. What an influence, Meg." The fearful expression hadn't left Meg's face, or Renee's. "Wait. Why would Joe...what does she mean, too?"

Jon gripped Renee gently, and began to turn her around, his eyes finally settling on her arm. "Did Joe do that to you? You need to tell me what the fuck happened. Now."

"Jon, it's not a big deal. You don't have to-"

"Renee, I do have to. Let's go. Before he walks up here and I have to do something else." Guiding her gently by the waist, Randy and Meg not far behind, Jon steered Renee back toward triage, where Dave could hopefully offer some explanation, since Meg was entirely wrapped up in Randy and what had happened out in the ring.

"Okay, we both saw him come out there. What did he do?" Meg's voice was so taut it could have snapped. "Why was he out there?"

"Meg, I don't know. He didn't say anything to either one of us. Just watching." Randy was doing his best to calm her, but could feel the ire building in himself. 'When he can't get her, he goes after me. Her friends. Any way he can. Because it all gets her, in the end.'

"Well, we could hear him. We were in back, watching the monitors. Joe was calling you a bitch, saying Jon had no talent – what's going on? I looked at the script a dozen times today, there was nothing in it like that. Nothing that involved Renee catching a mic to the arm, nothing that involved Joe harassing you at ringside, nothing that involved setting Jon off...just...nothing. We checked with the girls in the locker room, nobody changed anything on the fly." 'Why did I come back? Everything worked when I was at home. And I fucked it up by coming back here. Randy would have been able to stay away from Joe, and now I'm here, rubbing salt in all the wounds.'

"Meg, stop. Stop. It's okay. You didn't do this. We'll figure it out, okay? Did he do anything to you?"

"No. I mean, not after you told him to fuck off. We stayed in the back, I gave her ice, we watched the match on the monitor. That was it." Randy pulled Meg tighter against him, sweat be damned, his hand rubbing small circles against her side. "I should have stayed in Saint Charles."

Randy, Jon, and Renee all spun to face her, glowering. Jon was the first to speak. "No. You should have come back, just like you did. Everyone was getting hurt, Dave couldn't keep up without you, nobody liked the new guy, nobody wanted the new guy touching their girls, and you needed to be here. Now you need to stay, so shut the fuck up with that shit." Jon glanced up from Meg to the towering man next to her. "Er, sorry, Randy." He turned back to Renee, and continued leading her to triage.

Jon pounding on the door, yelling to be let in. Dave called over his shoulder. "It's triage, not demolition. Let yourself in."

He immediately regretted his choice of words as the door fairly exploded open. Renee put her hand on Jon's shoulder. "Lay off. Dave and Meg were here and babied me. They're the good guys, remember?"

"Yeah. Yeah, fine. But I still want to know how the fuck this happened." Jon glowered at Dave and pointed at the black mark on Renee's arm, then back to Dave. "First Joe's pinning you on walls, then he's barricading Meg in here, now he's hitting Renee with stage equipment?"

Meg was the first to speak in the tense silence that followed. "Look. It's because I'm back, regardless of what you guys wanna think. At some point, we are gonna have to talk to each-"

"No!" All four people in the room practically screamed at her, and Meg flinched back into the wall. Randy reached for her, still not having bothered with track pants, a shower, or so much as a towel.

"C'mere. We're sorry. I'm sorry. I know not to yell like that." He bent over her, murmuring against her neck. "But you know nobody is gonna let you be alone with him. It doesn't matter what problem it solves, it's prolly gonna start ten more."

Jon sniffled. "Cute. Anyway. This shit happens again," and he pointed to Renee's arm, "And I'm going to put your concierge medical service to good use. For him, not me. As close as he is...was...to me? This never should have happened." He pulled Renee against him, and she winced.

"Shit! Sorry, babe. Did I get your arm?"

"No, but I think I lost brain cells. You're...aromatic. Go get in a shower?" She smiled, and nudged Jon in the chest with the better of her two arms. "And hey – before we take off – Meg, I'm just gonna take Motrin for this, for now. If I need anything else tonight, can I call you at the hotel?"

"Um, she'll be calling you from the hotel, Meg." Jon stated, pointedly. "I want you to check her out again at least once. Er, please? Randy, that's cool, right?" Jon normally would have just told Meg to show up, but Randy added an extra level of things to consider.

Randy raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Wow, and he even asks permission."

It was Meg's turn to smile and offer a gentle punch to Randy's shoulder. "Of course it's fine." She looked at Jon. "The "How To" sheet explains what to do to get a hold of me or Dave once you guys get back and get settled in. For now, try a little more ice, and you," Meg pointed to Renee and winked, "Don't do anything too strenuous."

Randy and Jon shared a second, confused look, but their girlfriends just giggled, with Renee urging Jon out the door and toward the locker rooms. Distantly, Meg could hear her ask if he still liked green. Smiling, satisfied, she closed the door behind them.

"Oh no you don't, you two. Not with me here." Dave huffed from his position in the corner. "I'm going to Talent Relations and then packing the car. You two talk or whatever it is you do." Passing by Randy on his way out the door, he sniffled. "Actually, Renee was right. Brain cells. Or soap. Aromatic doesn't even begin to describe it." He cringed, and let himself out.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Meg slid behind Randy and locked the door. "What would you like to do?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"Well, you're still in ring gear, and you definitely need a shower. And we should be avoiding Joe. Let Dave handle that, or corporate. Plus, I need to grab my concierge bags, since I know I'm at least seeing Renee tonight. I don't think Jon's letting me off the hook that easy."

"So what you're saying is," Randy grinned, pulling her against him and enjoying the fact that she only half-wrinkled her nose at how sweaty he was, "If we don't want to be interrupted, we should do something now?"

"Oh, I don't mind being interrupted. It's kinda nice watching you squirm."

"You know, I'm really sweaty. I can use you like a towel..." Playfully, and with size as an advantage, Randy lifted Meg off the ground and started swiping her up and down his chest. "Or, we can just go get a towel now."

Meg, trying desperately to push off of him, made all the more difficult by her hysterical laughter, acquiesced. "You win! Shit, now I need a shower." She shook her hands off, tried wiping them down her front, then realized it wouldn't do any good as her clothing was damp from his skin. "So, what do you suggest we do about this?"

"I suggest you get some towels from here, a clean shirt and pants, and follow me down to my locker room with your bags. Free wine might not always be a perk of the job, but private showers definitely are."

"Oh, see, now you did it."

"Did what?" Randy looked thoroughly confused, but appreciated the view Meg was giving him as she bent over her bag of supplies and pawed through it til she found her spare pair of dress pants.

"Brought up Blaine. This better be one hell of a shower." 'And I need it, more ways than one. I need all of this day off of me. Joe, makeup, guilt. Our gentle sin, Randy. Please.'

Gently, after a short trek down the hall, Randy shut the door to his locker room, making sure to latch both the privacy lock and the deadbolt behind him. Single locker rooms were only offered to a select group of performers, and he'd never before been happier to be on that list even if the room was miniscule and the shower itself left quite a bit to be desired. The metal fixtures in the shower stall were rusty, and to say it smelled slightly of mildew was like saying he only needed a quick rinse, but the water was scorchingly hot, and Randy knew Meg would make him – and his lower back – appreciate it. He turned the water on and waited for it to take the chill off the tiles, then watched while she moved their soaps and shampoos within reach before sitting on the bench and busying herself with the zippers on her boots, gently easing her legs out and trying to rub some semblance of feeling back into the worst of the two before slipping off her dress pants.

Bands of steam were beginning to whisper through the room, and Randy had already stripped off his trunks, shamelessly moving behind Meg to help her out of her blouse and suit jacket, giving her more time to work on her leg. Her stood behind her, her jacket slipping off easily, and he felt her shoulders rise and fall gently in a slight laugh as he fumbled with her blouse, having forgotten entirely that womens' buttons were arranged backwards from mens'. 'She never wears this stuff. It's pretty, but it's not like her. T-shirts, dark jeans, messy hair, no makeup – that's my Meg. All of this needs to come off. She's under here somewhere. Wash this off. Wash this whole day off. Make it us again.'

Meg lifted her hands to cover his, pressing them against her breasts, leaning heavily against his thigh, her hair sticky against him, the result of too much time in a crisp updo coated heavily in product, now melting in the hot, moist air. She pulled out her hairpins, then pulled him down toward her, gently, knowing he'd be tender with her but still feeling pathetic in her request; there was no way she'd walk on her own, not yet, her leg was still too stiff. By the time they made it through the shower, or to the hotel, maybe even when she wrapped her shin or switched some of her gear and braces around, absolutely, but now – now she needed him.

He'd lowered himself over her, shoulder to shoulder, and Meg tilted her head back, angling from his thigh to his neck, tasting the salt on his skin and feeling the steam in the air curl moist fingers around her throat as she kissed a trail from the deep grooves above his shoulders to the sinewy lines near his jaw. She moved her hands to finish the buttons he'd started, sliding the blouse back from her shoulders. Praying he'd hear her over the spray of the water, she asked him to carry her.

He lifted her so delicately the motion barely registered, his lips equally busy against the crook of her neck, the scent of her rose oil amplified by the heat of the room. His arms were gentle under her knees and around her shoulders, his movements so careful that she knew her face registered warm delight.

"Couldn't ever hurt you, Meggie," he whispered, nudging the curtain aside and slowly sliding her down to her feet in the thick air of the vestibule between the shower-proper and the rest of the room, closing the curtain behind them, the dim light further obscuring their bodies. "Ever." Her fingers danced along the ridges of his hipbones while his fingers climbed her sides, then traced the back of her bra – her clothing only ever seemed to get softer with time – and he swore he could have spent an eternity memorizing her lines. Gently, he pulled the clasp open, waiting for her to move next.

Slowly, acknowledging what he'd said and how he'd said it, shown it, she started a series of nearly imperceptible movements, bra straps slipping, and it was an act of sheer willpower than Randy never took his hands from where he'd left them at the middle of her back. It was all part of the dance they did, some things the same, slight alterations here and there, but always a show of trust from both of them. What could be given and received, the things they were willing to endure, the reverence they showed each other in stolen glances, bedrooms, and even a small, rusted shower.

She leaned into him, her skin glacial against his in the sauna-level temperature of the room, fingers tense around the crooks of his elbows, and as she slid up his chest to kiss him he felt whatever thin bits of lingerie she'd been wearing catch against him, create a delicious friction, and then begin to fall away.

"Magic. You're like magic, Meg." Randy brushed away Meg's bra, toed her panties to the floor once they'd slid to her shins, and gently lifted her back into the shower, turning as they moved so the hot water would hit his lower back.

"Hm?" She was buried too deeply against his shoulders, not knowing where to nip or kiss first, fingers working deeply into his lower back, to be following much of what he was saying above the roar of the water, but she did stop and look up, trying to understand. 'After today...tell me what you need.'

Mist from the shower spray peppered Meg's face; something light and shimmery was beginning to spread from her eyelids in the moist runoff, and her mascara ran in black rivulets down her face. She could feel them sting at the corners of her eyes. 'I remember telling you in Blaine that you didn't need to wear that shit. Stubborn, Meggie. Or did corporate make you play dress-up since it's your first day back?' Randy slid one arm out from behind Meg, his hand cupping her cheek, and for a moment he considered whether he should wipe the mascara away with his thumb.

"No, Ran. That's too easy. Tell me what you need."

His hand dropped lower, and he dragged his thumb across her lipstick, smearing it outward, some kind of red that was a few shades under 'roadside-diner-waitress' but far above what he remembered her wearing to dinner with him. It was too close to Jackson. "I need you, Meg. Not the made-up, company product...whatever this is. I need you." Not accounting for the amount of snarl and styling product in her hair, he locked his fingers through it far more firmly than he intended when he turned her, pushed her against the wall and pressed against her from behind, eternally grateful he'd had the foresight to let the tiles warm earlier, and far too close to heaven from the moan that came out of Meg when he'd accidentally yanked her hair.

"You liked that?" 'Fuck, if she makes that noise again, I'm gonna get off. She liked that? I liked that. A lot.'

"I need you to find me." Meg turned to face him as much as she could underneath him, still pressed into the tiles, and all Randy saw was the makeup, sliding down her face, slivers of her actual skin visible under all the cosmetics. Taking her hands, bringing them up to her shoulders, he pressed her forward again and pressed himself deeply against the back of her hips, sliding slightly underneath her, invitation and warning. 'Just...get this off me. Joe, this day, this shit on my face, all of it. '

"You were always here, Meg." Part of him hoped they'd be lost in the shower; part of him hoped she'd be loud enough to bring security to the door. He snapped his hips forward, ever so slightly up, holding her still, neither one dared move until he felt her push back against him, rocking gently, then eagerly, then turning enough to wrap her arm around his neck, keeping him close enough to pant that she wanted more and what she'd do if she didn't get it.

'Just keep your hands still for now, Meg. No touching. Not me, anyway. Show me who you are when we're done.' He brushed the back of his hands across her face, traced the fullness of her lips under his thumbs, pulled his fingers through her hair again and again, trying to dislodge the sticky styling products. 'And Meg, oh my God, that noise. Please make that noise, but don't. That's home.' He moved her arm back to the wall; any time her hands left the tiles to try to touch him, he pushed them back, trying to make her understand – he didn't know how much, if any, of the garbage the makeup department had painted her with would come off with just hot water and fingertips, but he had to try. Had to see that the woman he'd followed cross-country, thought was dead, loved, would keep forever – was under there somewhere. That he hadn't imagined her showing up, that he could wash all the veneer off of her, all the taint that everyone else tried to put there, and she'd still be underneath.

It took a few minutes for Meg to understand what he was asking without saying, which was fine by Randy. He knew her body so well he could bring her to the brink and back as many times as he needed to, in order for her to follow what he meant. Finally, she cautiously brought a fingertip to the corner of her eye. Despite the length of time they'd been in the shower, the amount of spray she'd been catching as mist and splash from the wall, the makeup was still peeling off of her, and a black line was printed on her index finger when she pulled it away to inspect it. 'You need me...Find me...oh, Lord, Randy, sometimes I don't know which one of us is dumber, me or you. I'm right here...but you're looking for me.' Meg worked her hands over her face, trying not to rub herself raw, remembering all the times Jackson had her slather on the makeup, remembering Joe's fiancee – wife – at the door in Tampa, with her perfectly painted face, and she stared at the rivulets of black and red as they coursed down her fingers and across the backs of her hands, tiny sparkles from her eyeshadow floating on top.

As Meg worked, Randy eased her away from the wall, giving her space to move her arms, but holding her closer to him, feeling something across her tighten, her breathing start to come in shallow, hitching gasps. He could see the red and black run over her hands, his arms still bracing them against the shower wall, their hips still working in unison. Meg finally gave up, convinced whatever had been there was gone, and simply bowed herself against him, wrapping her arms back around his neck, back arched, whispering to him that only now, only with him, she had been made clean, and let herself go.

He only thought he hated the song, thought back to the night he'd drank too much and nearly thrown her from her bed, but here she'd let him push her against a shower wall, trusted him enough to let him inside her without seeing, without really knowing – and had still somehow known exactly what he needed. He had no idea tile could hurt so much when you landed dead weight on it, on your knees, but he refused to let go of her. He had made her clean. 'She told me think about what we found. I found her.'

It was the last thing he remembered before his eyes opened and swam, in part from the dim light and in part from flooding with water from the still-running, still-steaming shower. When he finally focused and his mind cleared, he realized Meg was on the tile floor with him, a warm smile on her face, makeup completely gone, hair in soft swirls across her shoulders.

"Welcome back."

"What happened?"

"Vasovagal syncope."

"English, Meggie."

"You passed out. We're just that good. But really...overexertion, heat...you were doing all the work, you stubborn asshole. When we get to the hotel, you're going to be the one laying on the bed enjoying yourself."

"I found you though, didn't I?"

Meg leaned over him, kissed him, and began to gently rub circles over his shoulders with one of her washcloths, her medallion tapping against his chest; Randy nearly purred into her touch, the soap part roses and part whatever he'd packed for himself that week. "Took me to church, Ran."