A million thanks to the Readers and Reviewers out there, and of course, to the lovely nattiebroskette, who edits, betas, and whaps me over the head when I need it :)

The walk to the hotel shuttle was full of light laughter from Meg, who was enjoying the near-constant ribbing she was taking from Randy about just what kind of work she'd be doing once she got back to their hotel room. It wouldn't be cleaning, he figured, they had housekeeping for that, and she couldn't possibly cook anything, the hotel had a restaurant. He offered to let her mix him a drink, but cautioned against wearing her arms out by shaking or stirring too hard, in case they were needed later. And of course, he refused to let her carry a single bag. The drive back to the hotel was blessedly uneventful, as was the trek up to their room, punctuated by gentle kisses between each soft tone that indicated the various floors. Once Meg heard the tenth such ping go off, she paused and asked Randy what on earth he'd reserved for himself.

"A good view. You said you liked the travel, but...I thought I'd be by myself. Since you weren't with me, I've been kinda...staying away from everyone. I liked my space, but...you weren't in it, either. It's weird, but...it reminded me of you."

"You enjoy torturing yourself, you mean." Meg reached up to stroke the side of his face, sighing, knowing exactly why he was exiling himself from everyone. He wanted to be alone as much as he didn't want to be alone; have his rages and his moods and his small happy victories walled off from the rest of the world, even if that world was the same one he was going to face only hours later under the cover of scripting and smiles. It was the best insulation he could afford himself. 'You could think in solitude, and you could even think too much.' She'd found that out in Seattle, and then she'd filled her open spaces with him.

Once inside and settled, Randy watched Meg easily take the boot from her left leg, then wince and grumble her way through unzipping the boot she wore as support for her right leg before quickly rewrapping it for the night, marveling at the fact that unless you knew her, you'd never knew she wore part designer footwear, part orthotic. Their compromise was, no surgery as long as she worked with his orthopedic surgeon, odd as that sounded. His surgeon had managed to put together a team of therapists and specialists that were able to get close enough to Meg to actually do some good. She'd put her trust in Randy, and he'd come through for her, even from the road. Exercises were working, hydrotherapy was working, Meg had backed off the medication and was honest with Randy about when and why she was taking it, and the whole situation calmed down. At least, until his surgeon questioned why Meg wasn't making more progress, and she explained that she was only wrapping her leg at home – not using the brace he'd given her and expected her to use. Meg had walked out in the middle of the ensuing lecture, driving off hysterical with fear and memories, and Randy had to spend hours on Skype with her, trying to get her to calm down.

"It's bullshit! I did everything they asked, I'm not tromping around in some giant...thing...it's...it's too much. You have no idea how heavy it is. And you're not home; what if I trip? How can I drive? It's useless. Look – I tried, I really did. I'm not lying. It's just not functional, and it aggravated everything. Including me." She stretched across their bed, and he could see that she wasn't wearing a brace or a wrap on her leg. He wondered if that actually was the issue, or if something else was going on. 'She didn't want me to leave, either. Now she's got a doctor crawling up her ass about the accident...which means bad memories. And she's alone. And I have no idea what's up with Sarah, so she probably really is fucked right now.'

"Meg, hon, slow down. I know the doc flipped his shit today, and I already told him to back off on you. What can we do? I don't want you to stop now...the last video you sent, you looked so much better."

"I don't think you were looking at my leg in the last video I sent you." Meg smirked at him and adjusted herself on the bed, giving Randy a better view of her, clad only in one of his shirts.

"Well...yeah...but..." Randy smiled and looked down, flustered. "Meggie, please? For me? Just try it one more time? Try going back? If the boot, or the shoe, or whatever, is the issue, I'll figure something out." He paused, drumming his fingers on the edge of the laptop. "But...Meg...is that the only issue?"

Exhaustion overrode any fight Meg might have had in her, and she knew she wasn't going to weasel her way out of the situation; Randy was genuinely concerned for her and the distance was killing him. "No. I mean...it should be the only issue. The fucking thing is uncomfortable. I don't feel safe walking around in it; I really did slip in the kitchen and banged my arm on the counter. Sober, before you ask, smartass." Meg smiled, and touched the laptop screen; a nearly-permanent smear had formed where her fingers almost always seemed to land against the pixel-edge of his face. "But...no. It's just another fucking reminder, Ran. I could deal with them working with me because it felt like it was getting better. It felt like everything was letting go, like it was all going away and all that shit was past. Now I'm supposed to go running around in that...thing...like a giant flag. 'Here, look what I did, I completely fucked up my leg!' It's an open invitation for questions I don't want to answer." Meg threw herself back on the bed and dragged Randy's pillow over to herself. "It brings it all back, Randy. It opens it all up, again. It hurts worse, with the brace. It's constantly there, with the brace."

"And you're..." 'Meg, please don't say you're having nightmares again, please don't. Don't say you're seeing things. Don't. Please don't lie to me, but please don't say that you've been sitting at home by yourself like that since-'

"Yeah. I am."

Randy's fingers stilled their drumming, resting lightly on the laptop.'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I need to go home. I need to go home now. How do I go home now?'

Meg sighed heavily into Randy's silence, trying to slow down his mind, toying with the hem of the shirt. "Fine. I'll go back. But you owe me. And I don't want to hear any more shit from your doctor. Period."

"You won't. But I don't want to hear any shit from you about how I solve the problem, either."

"Wait – what are you goi-"

"Just trust me, please?"

"You win." Meg threw her hands up, managing to take the shirt along with the gesture. "I'll call them in the morning and book myself back in. I promise. You can call and double-check, even."

"Love you, Meg. You have no idea."

"I could hazard a guess, Ran. And I love you, too. Get some sleep, okay?" She gave him a hazy smile, and Randy knew he should go before anything happened that would make him pack and leave that night.

Disconnecting the call, freezing Meg's image on the screen, he rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. "That's going to have to do for tonight. I can imagine the rest, can't I?" He smiled wanly to himself, closed the screen, and willed the tension out of his body, wishing dearly that his hotel room wasn't quite so empty of roses.

A few days later, when the delivery came in, Meg balked at the cost of the boots, balked further when she discovered he'd ordered several pairs and not just one, but had to admit – they were beautiful. They were clearly things he wanted to see her wear, all knee high, in black leather, and with all the work the orthotic team had put into disassembling and reassembling them, now perfect braces for her legs. The right one, to keep her shin together as it healed, the left one simply to keep her balanced due to the weight differential of the hardware in the other. 'What am I gonna do in summer when tall leather boots aren't...oh, fuck it, Meg, worry about it later.' When she finally got Randy on Skype that night, she made sure her thank you included the boots, and nothing else.

Now, in the hotel room, her hair still damp, his knees stinging slightly but his back completely relaxed, the scents of their soap mingled together, they instantly, wordlessly, shucked off their clothing and slid under the sheets, not bothering with any more light than that afforded by the partially-open curtains of the balcony. Meg threw the Concierge phone on the small table near the bed, praying it wouldn't sound an alert despite Jon's promise that he'd call about Renee, and she'd be free to spend the night tangled around Randy.

Meg listened attentively as Randy recounted some of the backstage antics that'd happened between various couples before she returned; Meg teased her way through the excitement of opening the envelope she'd received before calling Corporate and negotiating her new contract. Both of them were drawing closer toward the edges of sleep, and she could eventually feel his lips moving against her hair, whispering to her, but couldn't make out what he was saying. 'Whatever it is, he'll tell me. He is telling me.' Meg settled deeply against Randy, annoyed by the scratch of her Ace wrap against his skin, wishing she could feel him fully.

One hour passed drowsily for her, despite Randy's solid slumber, then two, and it took until two in the morning for the concierge phone to chirp. 'Jesus. Either she tried to tell him no, or he went behind her back, because Renee would not pick two in the morning to call. Unless it's not Renee.' Fumbling, Meg clicked through the screens on the phone, ending up with only one message: "4215."

"Huh. That's weird. That's not Jon or Renee. That's..." Meg flipped through the printed pages of the room-roster, realizing that Jon and Renee were on the fourth floor, but neither one of them were staying in 4215, and 4215 wasn't listed as occupied. 'Weird. Maybe they went to someone else's room, and now her arm is bothering her? Could be part of a suite...or, there's a typo on the list. They're supposed to be 4551. It's kind of right, but...still. Off.' She rubbed at Randy's shoulders until he woke, gently explaining that something had happened on the fourth floor, but she wasn't sure what, and she had to go. Randy helped her adjust the wrap on her leg, found a comfortable pair of yoga pants and t-shirt for her, then gently eased his hoodie around her shoulders and up her arms, slipping her phone into its inside pocket before kissing the top of her head.

"Huh? What's that about?"

"Because it's two in the morning and all you have is a room number that isn't right? Because it's your first call? You might get cold. If anything happens, if you need help, if you get bored and want to talk on your phone and not the company phone, if-"

"Okay, Ran." Meg smiled, and squeezed his hands. "I love you, too. If anything feels funny, I'll call you."

"Honestly, Meg...I really don't want you to go. Something isn't right. Can you take Dave?" Randy was growing edgier by the second. 'Who pages Concierge and gets their own room number wrong?'

"Technically, no. They hired me so that Dave can get some sleep. If it looks even the slightest bit off, I'll call you first and then him, okay?"

"Me, security, then Dave."

"Okay. But...remember how we would get? Maybe someone just mangled their room number because they're shitfaced. Or they don't remember their room number. Or they don't really get how to use Concierge. This is all new. First night, remember?" She tiptoed up on her good foot to offer a reassuring kiss. "Look, Ran. I promise. I'll be fine. It wouldn't be the first time someone's gotten pass-out drunk, tried to call for help thinking they're gonna puke and die, and all I have to do is shovel them into a bed and get them below performance BAC before the next show. Dave and I did that all the time. It happens. They just have an official phone to use to whine about it. Odds are good I'll be back in an hour. Plus, I looked – it's not Joe's floor. He's on six. At least Jon and Renee actually are on four."

"If you're not back in an hour, I'm gonna be on the fourth floor looking for you."

"Call first, on the Concierge line. It might not be something you want to walk in on."

Minutes later, Meg was speed-limping off the elevator and onto the fourth floor, triage phone in one hand, Concierge bag in the other, mind paging through what she could do for Renee's arm at this point. 'It'll be knotted; I can try myofascial release assuming she doesn't scream her way through it. Ice, that always helps. Heat, too. More ibuprofin. We can talk about makeup techniques to cover it – fuck if I don't know enough about that. Stretches, so it doesn't lock up on her. Joe hit her in just the right spot, between the muscles.'

Lost in thought, wandering out of the elevator past the mirror, the various ficus plants, small writing desk, courtesy phone, and low chaise all artfully arranged in the fourth floor elevator vestibule, Meg didn't see Joe standing off to the side of the elevators, alternating between looking at his phone and looking at the courtesy phone on the table. The area was so small, so crowded, that Joe could as easily have been a potted plant as a human being, and Meg simply didn't register him as anything more than a vaguely dark shadow, completely silent in a corner.

Watching her limp and shuffle down the hallway, pausing here and there to check room numbers, Joe couldn't help but smile. She looked a little more like her old self; some of the glow was back to her skin, and she was walking with importance even though she couldn't have known what on earth she was walking into. 'Keep going, Meg. The courtesy kitchenette is before 4215. Get the ice. You always get ice.'

True to form, Meg sighed heavily, thumped her Concierge bag to the floor outside the small area with the icebox, sinks, and vending machines, and ducked inside. It was pleasant; there were two small couches, a microwave, a table that could accommodate a decently-sized group; even a wall-mounted television droning a news station softly in the background. Meg could have hugged the ice box; it was not only gigantic but came with settings. Opting for small crushed, she poked a few buttons and settled back at the table while the machine hummed to life and counted down before filling a plastic pail for her. Her body was present in the room, her mind was completely back in bed with Randy, and she traced the outline of her phone in the inner pocket of Randy's hoodie. Oblivious, her fingers worked back and forth across the plastic rectangle until a low voice intruded into the room, nearly startling her from her seat.

"Evening, babygirl. Now can we talk?"

Meg slowly pulled her hand away from her phone; tipping Joe off that she had access to Randy was the last thing she needed. Instead, she pulled the Concierge phone from her pocket and put it on the table.

"Joe, I'm on a call. I'm getting ice. Why are you even down here?" 'Hurry the fuck up, ice machine. I didn't ask for filtered water from Fiji, I asked for crushed fucking ice.'

"Because I was the triage call." Joe's frame blocked the doorway entirely; Meg had zero chance of shoving past or around him, especially without any sort of real brace on her leg. He leaned into the doorframe as though he knew he had every physical advantage over her, slowly looking her over, appraising both her and the room. "Why don't you go sit on the couch? Take the ice with you. You looked like you need it, you weren't walking very well."

'I never should have talked to you about the accident. I should have listened to Randy and let him walk me down here. And honestly, I said I was gonna talk to him eventually, so why not now?' "Okay, wait. You made a fake call at two in the morning just to get me out of bed so you could talk to me in a kitchenette?" Meg was incredulous, but the back of her mind was also calculating her options. Bad leg or no bad leg, she wasn't out of weaponry, and she was scanning the room just as he was. 'The microwave probably has a glass plate in it. I can make hot water; there's a coffee pot in the corner. I don't need to run far, I just need an advantage. It's the right floor for Jon and Renee. And my triage bag is still in the hall – at least, I didn't see him move it – someone will notice it eventually.' "Joe, you can't do this shit. You just can't. I'm tired. I was worried something was wrong and I had an actual call. You know, had to do my job. If you wanted to talk to me you could have called Concierge during normal hours."

"I'm an actual call, Meg. I need help."

"You need to call your fucking wife and leave me alone." Meg stood to leave, and Joe lunged at her, pushing her backwards across the room, down into the sofa he had directed her to sit in when he first entered the room. Meg lost her balance, toppling awkwardly into the sofa, her right leg banging into the front edge of the furniture frame and drawing a hiss from her.

"This is how you're going to convince me you care about me?" Meg's voice was wild, but whispered. "You're gonna throw me around like he did? If you want to talk, then talk. Whatever you need to say, say it. Otherwise, I need to go. Jon and Renee are on this floor, and I need to check on Renee. You hurt her arm."

Joe looked down at his hands, then up at Meg, backing away slowly until he bumped the table behind him, startling himself back into reality. "No...Meg...fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know what...Jesus. I – are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

"Yeah, that hurt, you asshole." Her hands worked up and down her leg, trying to keep her composure, feeling to make sure nothing had shifted. From inside her hoodie, her phone poked at her, and she surreptitiously turned the volume down. 'Shit! Shit. The triage phone is still on the table. Now what? Think, Meg. Think.' "Don't you remember telling me that if I said you should leave me alone, you'd leave me alone? I'm telling you, leave me alone. As much as Corporate likes Randy, as great as developmentals are going, you really think they're going to keep someone around who's making fake calls to triage at two in the morning and harassing other employees?"

Deciding that she couldn't make it worse and Corporate could always get her a new phone, Meg tried to bolt for the door. Joe simply caught her around the waist and lifted her up over the ice machine, unceremoniously thumping her down on top of it, banging her head against the wall as he did.

"Stupid move, Meg. We are going to talk. You need to hear me out. Now you're going to."

The triage phone chose that moment to go off; Meg sent up a silent thanks to whatever was listening to her in the heavens and alternated rubbing her leg and the back of her head. Joe raised an eyebrow and reached behind him for the table, never taking his eyes off Meg. This time, the number was to Renee and Jon's room.

"You're not going." Joe's voice was flat. "And I'm not letting you text them. You'll do something stupid."

"And you're not legally allowed to tell them I'm not going. Give me the phone. I'll type the message; you can read it before I send it."

Grudgingly, Joe handed Meg the phone, thankful that it was Renee. 'Please, Renee, I need you to understand what I mean. Or, Jon, I need you to get really, really pissed off. Either way is good by me, but one of the two of you needs to figure out what I'm actually telling you.'

Tapping at the screen, Meg put in, "Alllll tied up with Randy right now. It's gonna be a while. You know how his back is." Showing the phone to Joe, he read it, re-read it, and then nodded his assent. Meg pressed send before it could be re-considered; Renee had to be smart enough to know that Meg wouldn't delay a triage call for tie-up ribbon sex-play, or else remember that nothing was really wrong with Randy's back earlier – but that his faux pain had been related to Joe's presence ringside earlier. Or, if she didn't get it, but had talked to Jon about the ribbons, that Jon would show his legendary ugly side and go up to Meg's room to break up the party, where he'd find Randy – but not Meg. 'Either way, problem solved, because they'll all be looking for me. I just have to last that long.'

"Okay. You've got my undivided attention. You keep saying we need to talk, so...talk to me. But give me the fucking ice. You really screwed up my leg."

"Meg...I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to do that. You were gonna run again, and I panicked, and I just..." Joe rubbed his hands over his face, and sat backwards in a chair at the table, looking up at her. "You really can't get down from there?"

"Joe, move it along. I'm not going anywhere. It's a four foot drop, and I have a broken leg."

"Broken?"

"Yeah, broken. Never healed right after the car accident. You whacking it into the couch didn't help. So what's on your mind that you need to trap me on an ice machine at two in the morning?"

"I can't...she's...it's not..."

"Married life not what you thought it was gonna be?"

"She's not you, Meg."

"Well, no shit." Meg snorted, then thought better of her attitude. "Look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of the shit that I did. I pretty much drove you right back to her, didn't I?"

"Yeah. I mean, yeah, but no. I could have told her to leave. Really, I didn't have to marry her. Like..." Joe stood and reached toward Meg's face causing her to flinch back. "She's...she's just not you. In my head, I could see us...how we would be...the way you would look if...when...we got married. Something warm and tropical and us, not this giant stupid churchy thing she did, and then we went all over Europe...

"Joe, first of all, you know I'd kill to travel Europe, so don't even bitch about that. I would have been begging you for the same thing, I just would have picked better weather. And depending on my mood, why wouldn't I want a church? I'm Catholic. But I guess you had it all worked out, right down to the dress, since you know what I wanted, right?"

"Stop being such a fucking bitch. You know exactly what I mean. I mean I can picture us, Meg, the way it was supposed to be."

"It was supposed to be you waiting for me." There was no small note of hatred in Meg's voice; not for what she lost in watching Joe walk away, but for what she endured in believing she'd have him at the end, rather than letting herself hold on to Randy all along.

"I don't get why you didn't let me help you. It's not like I couldn't have stopped him."

"Stopped him with what, Joe? A boot to the face? If you really think you could have stopped Jackson, then you don't understand a single thing I've told you about him, or a single thing I told you about what I went through. Or did. Or am dealing with now. What I did stopped him from coming up here. You wanted a career, you got one. Without the added distraction. Anything that took your mind off work, well, you did that to yourself. I told you that I'd come back – you just had to believe me, and you didn't."

"Oh, fuck that, Meg. You don't even talk to me now. How would I know what you did then? Or what you do now? Other than Randy, all the time, 24-7, tie me up tie me down style?"

'One step too fucking far. Just because you never could say you loved me, just because you never could make it about anything more than yourself, just because anything involving you is only ever always only about you...fuck you.' "Honeymoon not what you expected, either?"

Joe lunged up at Meg, his hands closing around her ankles. "You know what? You're not in any position to give me ugly right now, Meg."

"Do your worst, asshole. I fucking dare you. Go ahead, drop me. Put some effort into it, see how hard you can go. Maybe I'll bounce when I hit the floor. Maybe you can knock me out – Jackson only did it a few times, but you're stronger than him. Guess I'll find out, unless you're too much of a pussy." 'I tried the apology, you still want to have an attitude I'm going to give it right back to you. What more can you do to me that hasn't already been done? Go ahead and give me the excuse I need to scream.'

Down the hall, a door banged open, a woman's voice loud behind it, and then slammed.

"Meg, what the fuck are we doing?" Joe released his death-grip on her ankles and stepped back over the chair he'd been sitting on. "I wanted to talk to you, not hurt you. Do you know how much I miss you? I wanted to tell you that I shouldn't have let you leave. I should have kept you with me in Tampa, I should have kicked her out, I should be married to you right now, not her. Those shirts you wore? The long ones that were mine? I never washed them. I still haven't; your perfume is still on them. I kept her old engagement ring in them and I was gonna melt it down and reset all the stones and propose to you, Meg, and then you left. I wanted everything for you. For us. You left me." Joe dropped his head to his arms. "Meg...why did you leave me? I still can't figure that out. Everything we did together...we did. Then you were gone, and it was back to me. And she started hovering, and then planning, and then having anything around to fill space was better than nothing."

Meg swore she heard stomping footfalls coming up the hallway. 'Who the fuck can stomp through plush carpet?' "What do you want me to tell you, Joe?"

"Tell me why you did it."

"Because I wanted to protect everything you had."

"Meg, I had you! You think any of this other shit means anything to me? I don't care if I give up the ring – I almost did, because of the surgery. I almost did when I came back, because I was so sick of how they treated me. If it wasn't for this push – which everyone hates, so it's not like it even matters – I probably would be gone. Now I have that stupid bitch in my bed and all she wants is my credit line."

"You didn't have to marry her. You didn't have to kick me out. She doesn't have to use you, and you don't have to settle for it. I didn't have to leave, either, but you know what? I didn't believe I was really what you wanted. 'Oh my God. I really didn't believe I was what he wanted, did I? Was I protecting him, or Randy?' Nobody's blameless. But right now, you can't fuck with my job. This shit, here? This has to stop. Now."

It was that single audible line, along with Meg's strangely elevated silhouette, that brought Jon to a screeching halt as he flew past the kitchenette, ranting about how Randy couldn't keep his dick in his pants long enough to let his girlfriend do her damned job. Jogging in reverse, he popped into the doorway and looked up at Meg, then over at Joe, opting to fix the latter with an icy glare.

"Meg? Not all tied up, I see. You need help getting down? I'm gonna guess you had help getting up there."

Joe stood from his seat. "I'm not done talking to her."

Meg's eyes never left Joe, but her hands moved for Jon. "Yeah, Joe. Yeah, you're done. I don't have anything else to say to you. If you're not happy, leave her. Or find a way to be happy with her. But either way, you need to leave me – and Randy – alone. You – well, we – had our chance. And it's done, and honestly? I don't know what we were even trying to do. Save each other from something. But it's done. I'm telling you to leave me alone."

Joe sat down again. "No. No. Meg, come on. You don't love him. I know you still love me. You have to."

Still reaching, Meg started to turn toward Jon. "Help me down? Please? I can see Renee, or..."

"Just go back to your room, Meg. Nothing that happens next is for you, okay?"

"Jon, it only comes back on you. So don't." She slid forward toward the edge of the ice machine, trying to get within arm's reach of Jon, when Joe lunged forward and grabbed her by the shins. Meg slammed her hands down over Joe's, unable to tamp down her scream. His grip – he meant for it to keep her in place, whether or not he intended for it to hurt her was another matter – was crushing her already crumbling leg, and clearly he'd either forgotten or stopped caring that she was injured.

It was over in a second; Jon's aim was that good. One punch, directly to the temple, and the logical, medically-literate part of Meg's brain that always seemed to pipe up at inopportune moments told her that he caused a chain reaction in Joe's body leading to a temporary shutdown and unconsciousness by connecting correctly with the proper series of nerves, triggering the proper series of reactions. The emotional part of Meg's brain, which was now tossing her around on tsunami-sized waves of fear and nausea, gave her permission to go wide-eyed with shock and completely silent. Jon eased her down from the top of the ice machine and helped her back to the room he shared with Renee, who took one look at her and her lopsided hoodie, and dug through the pockets, coming up with her phone. Jon, ghost-like, had left the room, Renee still holding Meg upright near the door, trying to scroll through numbers with one hand, stop herself from shaking, and formulate a plan as to what to do next.

"C'mon, Meg...help me...I don't know what to do..." Renee whispered, breathy, passing Randy's number and doubling back. "What do I do for you? Uh...we should...we should sit. You had me sit down, and that was just my arm. Let's sit down. C'mon." Phone tucked under her ear, Renee edged a limping, zombie-like Meg closer to the bed she shared with Jon, trying to shove clothing out of the way, feeling Meg balk when unfamiliar shirts and jeans and boxers came in to view. 'She has no idea what the fuck right now, and neither do I.'

"Meggie! Was it a drunk and disorderly, or someone pranking you?"

"Randy, it's Renee. I need you to come help me with Meg. She's hurt, it's her leg, and-"

That was all she was able to get out before the line dropped, and Renee tossed Meg's phone on the bed, still shaking. "Okay. Okay. He's coming, Meg." Meg dug her one good leg in harder, and Renee realized she picked the wrong word. "No, Meg. Randy's coming. You're in my room. This is all Jon's stuff. Jon left to...I don't know. Jon probably left to go beat the shit out of Joe. C'mon. Sit down. We need to wait for Randy. I'll put the TV on, okay? Here. Hold your phone."

Renee clicked the TV on, lowered the volume to near-inaudible levels, and bundled Meg in net to her. "We're gonna be fine. Jon and Randy are coming back in a minute, okay?" 'And I remember how pissed off they both were at the arena. Please, God, let there not be cameras.'

Meanwhile, Jon disappeared back to the kitchenette and stood over Joe, still motionless on the floor. Pocketing the triage phone and waiting until he heard Randy's heavy, running footfalls coming down the hallway, he waved his hand out from the doorway.

By the time the two men were done and Joe was tucked neatly into the corner of the kitchenette, Meg's long-forgotten bucket of ice placed courteously between his legs, both men felt they'd proved their point. Once back in Jon's room, running on adrenaline, rubbing the bridge of his nose, Randy smiled at Meg. She was lodged under Renee's arm, where both had fallen asleep on the bed, a Law and Order rerun playing in the background.

Jon smirked at Randy. "Any other night, I'd say it's a hot fantasy and ask if you wanted to share."

"After the night she's had? Don't push your luck."

"Fuck that; yours has got mine wanting to play tie-up in bed."

"Yeah, well...that wasn't all her idea. Besides, you complaining?"

"Dirty motherfucker."

"You're welcome. Just make sure you use more ribbon than you think you need. Doesn't work if you can't actually tie her up."

"We can hear you," Meg mumbled from the bed, "And I'm open to sharing. Her, anyway. You, Jon, I dunno. I'd need rabies shots for that." She smiled and carefully slid out from under Renee's arm, covering her gently. "In all seriousness, though, thank you for tonight. I wasn't sure you guys were gonna understand that text."

"Wait, what text?" Randy looked confused, and continued rubbing his nose. 'Something's not right. Other than my nose; motherfucker just had to get up once and clip me. Why am I the one who always ends up hurt?'

"Long story, Ran. Let's just go back to the room. I think I've had enough triage for one night. Oh, and Jon – her arm is fine. Nasty looking bruise, small knot, but I woke up for a minute and we talked about ways to cover it up and how to alternate heat and ice. Just make sure she rests. I know you'll take care of her." Meg smiled and squeezed his arm. "Turns out, you're not all bad. And your girlfriend's a sweetheart."

Joe's moaning could be heard from the kitchenette as Randy carried her past, and Meg couldn't resist asking what they'd done. Randy, not one to lie to her, explained. Jon went after Joe's arm in much the same way Joe had marked Renee – only he'd used a chair, and Randy had held him, slipping only once which allowed Joe to get in a single shot across the bridge of his nose. Figuring evens were evens, Randy took the same chair to the front of Joe's leg, just enough to leave him limping and remind him that where Meg was concerned, he was to keep his hands to himself.

Breathing deeply against Meg as he held her in in the elevator, he tried his question again. "What text, Meg? I don't understand how all this happened."

With as much brevity as was possible, Meg explained that the triage phone had rung while Joe had her cornered, and she'd tried sending a thinly-camouflaged message back to Jon and Renee referencing as much of Renee's time in triage and Randy's post-match faux back pain as was possible without being obvious.

"I figured, either Renee would realize that there was no way I'd blow off my job – plus, how do you send a text message if your hands are actually tied up? - or Jon would end up angry that I was ignoring him when I knew he really wanted me to see Renee. Someone was gonna keep calling triage, or best-case, start calling you."

"Jon didn't say a whole lot about what was going on when he found you. And Renee said it was your leg."

"Randy...are you sure you want to get into this? You got your pound of flesh tonight. I need it to just be over."

"It is, Meg. I can almost promise you, it is. I know Dave went to Talent Relations. Jon and I handled it. I just want to know what happened."

"I was looking for the room number, and it was on the other side of the kitchenette. I don't know how Joe got behind me, but...he followed me in." The elevator reached their floor, and he turned to carefully ease them through the doors. "He threw me on the couch-"

"He what?"

"He wanted me to sit down. It wasn't sexual, it was – he was – trying to get me to stay in one place. I tried to run for the door, so then he picked me up and put me on top of the fucking ice machine. It was a four-foot drop down; I couldn't do it. If I landed wrong, my leg..." Meg trailed off. "I was stuck."

Randy nodded. "So how'd Jon get involved?"

"He – or Renee – called the triage phone. I figured if I pulled out my phone, Joe would just take it from me. I sent a text on the triage phone that would hopefully make just enough sense to get them looking, or arguing, but not enough that Joe would understand it. He let me send it, Jon came down the hall, and then he got me out of there. Renee called you...and then you guys handled it from there."

"So what'd he want you for? To stare at?"

"No...it was weird." She shifted in his arms while he carded their door open. "He kept telling me – like always – that I didn't love you. That he shouldn't have married his wife, and he kept seeing how his marriage to me would have gone."

"What do you mean?"

"Creepy shit. He said he knew how I'd look at the wedding, some bullshit about using the old engagement ring to propose to me, where we would have been married, where we would have gone on our honeymoon, shit like that. Like in his head, it was all planned."

Randy placed Meg on their bed and brought her brace over. Much as she loathed it, it was yet another compromise she was willing to give him. He reasoned that if there was some sort of accident, she'd need it, and she couldn't wear Ace wrap or high-heeled boots to everything. Just most things.

"Trust me when I say I don't think that'll be on his mind anymore. Jon said you had a hard time walking down the hallway to his room – please, I know you hate this thing, but it's just me tonight, just us, and you know I'm not leaving you. I'll lock all the doors, I'll lock the balcony, you're safe – I just want to know that nothing's wrong. That nothing's worse." 'That when Jackson's on your mind, I'm here too.' He crouched next to the bed, reaching for her hands as she lay.

"Ran...I know it's worse. When Joe grabbed my leg, he -"

"Grabbed your leg? I thought he just put you up there so you couldn't run?"

Randy would have been back out the door had Meg not thrown herself at him, latching on to his shirt. "No. You just told me you're not leaving, now knock it off. And fuck, now your nose is bleeding again."

Backhanding his nose, rolling his eyes at the blood, Randy wrapped his arms around Meg, pressed her into the bed, buried his face against the crook of her neck, deeply in her hair, trying to knot himself around her without jostling her leg, breathing in her perfume, reaching for whatever part of the hotel quilt was available, trying his best to bury them both under it, before whatever sound was threatening to come out of him made its way to the surface.

Intuitively, Meg reached with him, helping him pull, rolling with him, pressing him further into her as she went, equal parts gentle reassurance and stony rage, knowing right now he needed to shut the world away from them both, even if it was childish; hiding from monsters by ducking under a blanket. 'It's not just the out, though. It's the in. It's the knowing. I'm here, he's here. That he really can keep us, he can keep everything away from us, we won't break. It's guilt – he wasn't there, wanted to be there, doesn't see he's here now.'

Randy's breathing was uneven under Meg, and she could feel the struggle in him to try to calm down. Her leg was still throbbing and in nothing more than a mangled Ace wrap, his oversized hoodie was tangled around both of them, and the coppery scent of his blood was almost overwhelming.

"Ran...you found me, remember?"

"Yeah."

"Don't forget that, okay? I don't want you to lose me."

"Meggie..."

"Just stay, Ran. You're here, I'm here. Take care of me. Let me take care of you. You already told him – showed him – I belong with you. Every time you go back to him...it's like you're jumping up to one of his questions. Fuck his questions. You know what I realized, sitting up there?"

"What?" His words were coming out with gargles; Meg was worried about how much blood was coming from his nose, and tried to turn him to his side.

"Listening to all his bullshitting about what I wanted, and how things were gonna be – fuck, I didn't even get my own rings? I got secondhand rings? - I knew I wasn't sure that he really wanted me. Or that I ever really wanted him. All that stuff you said about Sam made sense – about not wanting to fuck up that friendship, about being afraid of losing something really good and really right, and...I ran because I didn't want Jackson near you. If anything happened to you..."

"Meg, I-"

"No, don't say you can handle yourself. I know you can. It wasn't about that. It was about protecting what you...what I...love. Tell me if Sam said she was gonna come after me, you wouldn't have done the same thing."

Randy was suddenly silent, the hot tension gone from his body, replaced by something languid and easy.

"Just stay with me here for a few minutes, Meg. Then, your leg. Please?"

"Long as you need, Ran. Forever, even." She could feel his blood drying sticky onto her neck, making her nervous, but as long as he was at peace, she'd take it. 'Small concessions. Nobody's ever died of a bloody nose.' Tilting her head down, she kissed him, not caring that he tasted like pennies, feeling an odd mix of revulsion and romanticism as his skin clung to her lips, tacky and warm. 'And while it's on my mind, fuck Jackson. If anyone's blood is on my hands tonight – it's for the right reasons. It's Randy's. And I'll kiss him clean if I have to.'