SO many thanks to Nattiebroskette; all the ideas, the support, the 3am luvvvvvin'...she's a wonderful author in her own right, and if you haven't checked out her work, I recommend her! Also, EyexLinerxWhore, SweetHigh, Mom2AllisonandJames, ShieldGirlforever, AliceJericho, ChelleLew, ALLLLLLL of my lurkers out there (I wish I knew who you were, you naughty readers you...I see those hits in my stats counter...) a million hearts and stars!

To Ms. Eyeliner in particular, the next one is for you. (Not this one, the next-next one)

I'm gonna make you guys love me before you hate me.

[To those of you who have sent me things to edit, beta, read, etc, it's happening. I have a PhD paper sitting on my desk right now for a friend that I've gotta get through, and THEN all the fun stuff gets done. Sorry - it's kind of the rest of her life, so I have to prioritize a bit. :( I still love you though!]

After the incident at the hotel, Joe actually left Meg alone. It was...odd. That was the only word Meg could think of to describe it. He never did apologize to Renee, but neither she nor Jon expected an apology to be forthcoming. His reasons for leaving Meg and the majority of the backstage population alone became more obvious when, suddenly, his wife began showing up more often with him, as though he'd taken Meg's words to heart and was truly making an effort to...if not love her, at least pay attention to her. First, it was just for drinks at the hotel bar. Short, noticeable, but...noticeable. She looked bored, while he did his best to appear attentive and infatuated. It was as though his presence was something she had to endure, rather than enjoy. On those nights, Randy would joke that he and Meg should go and get their own corner table, just to smile and wave, and sometimes Meg agreed. 'I want to needle him. I want to get under his skin the way he kept trying to get under mine. Then again, no need to go too overboard.' Instead she'd pull Randy into deep kisses at the elevators, lobby sofas, or – if they were lucky – at the piano. They were usually near enough to the bar to catch Joe's attention, and far enough away as to not be too intentionally provoking.

All the while, Randy and Meg went out more and more; now that Joe was erstwhile occupied with his wife, they both felt comfortable exploring the cities they landed in for shows. 'She always said she wanted to travel. I can bury myself in a hoodie so nobody bothers us; she can explain modern art to me. And he won't be hovering.' Sometimes they sat in snowy parks, talking about everything and nothing, until they were spotted by fans. Other times, Randy dug through websites and online reviews just to come up with small bookstores or obscure museums he thought she'd appreciate. Meg, not to be outdone, reciprocated each gesture in kind, finding rock climbing walls, late concerts at small clubs and dive bars, and when she knew they'd both have the time, leisurely vacations to anything small, warm, and tropical. With her contract locked in and her paychecks steady, she could finally afford to spoil him with plane tickets and beachfront rooms when they could line up brief weekends together. He'd grouse, to be sure, saying she was spending too much money and it should be the other way around, but by the time she'd thrown herself into a bikini and started to rub sunblock onto his shoulders, he'd have forgotten what his initial complaint was and instead began to wonder if they'd get caught having sex on the beach, or if their private veranda was a better idea. 'And her Saint Julian medallion is going to leave a tiny white circle on her chest where she doesn't tan. It's the little things you notice, right?'

No amount of rest, vacation, or general carousing could have prepared Meg or Randy for the terrible house show they'd walked into after one of their semi-tropical weekend jaunts. She'd been up ridiculously late after the show tending to more bruises and twists than usual; something had been 'off' for everyone and the injuries had piled up. Randy had fallen into bed nearly as soon as they'd gotten to their room – Meg worked herself into an aching sweat at the arena, outpacing Dave as she ran from performer to performer, then showered, changed, and run out the door from the suite she shared with Randy, the triage phone screaming in her ear. 'At least he managed to not get hurt. Too bad I'm not getting laid...but at least he was safe.'

When she returned to their room, hours later, her hands and arms were aching from the endless massage, trigger point release, wrapping, elevating, icing, and stitching she'd had to perform; even Dave had worked the evening shift due to the high volume of injury. Meg volunteered to prepared the report that Corporate was no doubt going to want; something had to be off with the equipment or safety checks in order for this many people to be hurt. Randy left a folded shirt out for her to sleep in, along with a bottle of tequila and a tumbler on the nightstand. A folded piece of hotel stationery was tucked into the glass. Meg gently lifted the cardstock out; it sounded crisp as she unfolded it, and she smiled at the scent of his cologne as it wafted off the paper.

'The tequila is your favorite, the shirt is my favorite. Need you in bed with me – can we skip tomorrow and just stay in here? Love you.'

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, stretching downward over her leg and deciding she'd give herself the night off from the wrap, Meg first slipped the Ace from her leg, then slid entirely out of her clothing, shedding the remnants of the day. She debated the merits of a second shower while she quietly poured a double shot of tequila into the tumbler. 'Watch how much I care that there's no ice. Which will be not at all. And fuck, this is hard to hold. My hands are so tired I'm shaky.' Using both hands to steady her grip and taking a deep, relaxing sip of the alcohol, Meg felt her entire body unwind, felt the tension drain from her neck, felt her mind spin out just a little farther from the chaos of the day, and then felt Randy tug her hair gently before tracing his fingers down her spine, drawing a full-body shiver from her.

"Sorry I woke you up, babe." 'I could care less that I'm naked. Kinda want to finish the tequila before we get to doing anything else, because goddamn what a day. And yeah, good tequila. Great tequila. Should I put that shirt on so you can take it off me?' Meg rearranged herself further up on the bed, pulling the bottle of tequila and tumbler in closer, luxuriating in the softness and warmth that surrounded her as Randy pulled her tightly against him.

"Don't be sorry. Are we staying in tomorrow?" Meg could smell honey and flowers on his breath; clearly he'd had a drink or two himself, and suddenly she wanted to sink into him and feel the way she imagined he tasted.

"For as long as they'll let us." She shot back the rest of the tequila in her tumbler and slipped into his shirt, making sure to place the glass far back on the table once she was finished. "You mind if I stay up for a bit? Decompress?" 'And maybe not share the tequila with you? Just this once. I'll make it up to you.'

"As long as you stay here, Meggie. Just keep me." Randy stifled a yawn and threw a leg over her thighs, pinning her under him, starting a slow massage on her arms and hands at the same time. Switching the tequila from palm to palm, Meg scratched her nails gently up and down his neck and through his hair as much as he'd let her, drinking directly from the bottle when she had a hand free. Randy shifted once or twice, but couldn't help himself from dropping back to sleep. "Hell of a night, baby," she whispered, once she knew he was completely out, his breathing level and deep. "But as long as I get to come back to this, I'll take it. Beats coming back to an empty house any day."

Meg drank again; Randy hadn't moved, so she continued, still at a thin whisper, feeling the tequila tease thoughts loose from her mind. "Sometimes I don't know if you like our house or not. Well, not the kitchen. Shit, I know you don't like that, you keep telling me to look for remodels, but I don't wanna spend your money like that." Meg giggled lightly, and drank again. "But...I like our house because it's where you are, it's where you wanted me to be...but sometimes I get the feeling there are ghosts there, for you. Bad juju, you know? There's my Cajun shit again, so I know you don't get it. I mean like something in that house keeps you real...rattled, real shook. You remember too many things. Sometimes it feels like there's more peace for you here in a hotel than there in those bedrooms. You ever notice we spent more time at my shitty-ass apartment than at the house, at least before the break-in?" Meg coughed, dryly, drank again, coughed, and tried to roll the tension from her neck. "You know I don't care that Sam was there, right? I just care that you're there. That we're there."

Shrugging, Meg capped the tequila and wedged it upright between the headboard and mattress, opting not to try to aim for a bedside table. "Doesn't matter to me, in the end, Ran. Wherever you are, or want to be, is home. You know I don't grow roots easy. You're the closest I've ever been to permanent." She leaned down, kissing his temple. "You make me love you, Ran. I want to. I don't fight it, with you."

Meg woke knotted and aching. She hadn't taken so much as an ibuprofin before bed, and her body was making her pay for the indiscretion. Room service opened the morning by delivering the wrong order, and while it was a perfectly fine meal, it wasn't the Belgian waffle that Meg was craving. Following that, Randy managed to spend most of the early morning in bed with Meg, barely letting her check the bridge of his nose, overly affectionate, both still unclothed. He lavished her with attention and kept her largely still despite her protests. It wasn't entirely what she wanted; she'd wanted to spoil him, turn him inside out, make him numb and bring him back. The triage phone hadn't stopped its whining and chiming through their lovemaking, either. Frustrated with breakfast, irked that it seemed like Randy was holding her back because he thought she'd hurt leg further, and having been shaken away from her brink one time too many by the endless chirp and trill coming from her work phone, Meg finally slammed her arm around the bedside table until she was able to grab it and hurl it blindly towards the bathroom. Randy heard the phone skitter across the floor, parts of which sounded distinctly wet. Then, happily channeling her frustration into enthusiasm, Meg turned the tables on Randy, guiding him under her and working over him until, strangely, his vision tinged white with halos and the sheets suddenly felt too heavy and too light all at once.

"Remind me to leave you tequila more often?" He was panting; his mouth was dry and he was having the damnedest time breathing through his nose.

"All you have to do is ask. I'll do that for you whenever you want."

"Then, I want a round two in...five minutes." Randy sniffled, hard, and Meg could tell something was off with not just his breathing, but his nose in general.

"Just how hard did Joe hit you, last night?"

"Harder than I thought, apparently."

'Meg, don't think it. Don't think deviated septum, don't think surgery, just stop. Stop the evil mind-carnival and talk to Dave later. Right now, five minutes, and then it's a different carnival. You know where the ribbons are and he doesn't.'

An hour later, both of them happy to have those small moments of trust together, Meg's wrists slightly red, her shoulders slightly tight, Randy ducked off to an event. 'I hope I'm doing what she likes, with that. We talk to each other, she doesn't tell me no, she sure as hell sounds like she likes it...and I can feel her...and she trusts me. I just don't want to scare her. Or hurt her.' The longer her sat at his signing, the faster his back began to send up warning signs that the chair he'd been given was too low, too hard, too wrong, the event was running too long, the table too awkward of a height. 'And it would help if I could fucking breathe. She said she's not trying anything with me if I can't breathe the right way. It's not safe. And that's not fair. I get it – Jackson – the shit he did to her...the wrong kind of control. Fear. She's afraid of hurting me. Not hurting me? Taking something away from it that's there now. I trust her, though. She won't go that far. Too far.'

Which did bring him back to Joe. All Randy wanted to do was grab a comfortable seat for himself, get Meg off her feet, find a decent dinner for the both of them, then convince Meg that his hands really were far enough away from his mouth that he'd be able to tell her to stop if she tied anything too tight, if anything went wrong. His signing provided him with water but no lunch, and he knew she was too busy for food – surreptitious texting with her between glossies had told him as much. 'What's going to get all that done for us? Dinner, drinks, my back, your leg...what's that we always say? It wouldn't be us if it wasn't a disaster? I bet I can come up with something. And I bet you can't say no to it, either.'

Closer to the end of the event, when his perma-pens were running dry and his patience had completely run out, Randy texted Meg, asking her to meet him in the lobby of their hotel in 30, in casual dress, and attached a photo of himself looking sad and tired, the event in tear-down shambles behind him. She'd replied that she was starving, exhausted, just wanted her medication and their bed, and he felt guilty for a split second til he recalled she carried her medication with her.

"Meggie, promise it's worth it. Will solve 3 of 4 problems."

"Which ones?"

"Bed is later."

"Asshole. See you in 30. Love you."

Randy beat Meg to the lobby by mere seconds, barely having time to drop his bag before she wrapped a cold arm around his waist and tucked under his elbow. She thumped her bag down next to his, and he waved a porter over to take their things up to their suite. Meg tipped generously, the two having a conversation that was equal parts hilarity and confusion. She'd spent some time talking to the man the night before, and the two had managed to form some sort of bond over whatever tinny music was falling out of Meg's earbuds. 'Sometimes I think she uses those cheap-ass headphones on purpose. She likes people; people like her.' The porter double-quicked their bags upstairs, saying something about checking in with them after their meal.

"You're not grilling anything, chica, don't get any ideas. Dinner is in there," he gestured toward the bar, "I assume your pills are in your messenger bag, and Joe and his thing aren't at the bar yet, so they can't stake a claim. This place is supposed to have the best burgers. And since you're exhausted, this counts as rest."

"And you know I'm not saying no to medium-rare anything with extra pickles. Game, set, match: Orton." She swatted his arm playfully and let him lead her into the restaurant, the heels of her boots ticking across the marble floor as they went.

Joe had just disembarked from the elevator, wife in tow, in time to see them go into the restaurant, though thankfully they didn't head toward the bar. His wife, nose buried in her phone, was paying no mind to anything beyond the multi-message text she was engaged in, trying desperately to set up a club night with her girlfriends and avoid spending any more time staring at her husband.

"Are we doing drinks again tonight?"

"You have a problem with it?"

"It's boring, Joe. It's all we ever do. Why can't we go out, or something? You never take me out anywhere."

"Because going down to the hotel bar isn't going out? What's 'going out?' Every time we go out, I get mobbed."

"So you sign some shit. I can still go dance or whatever while you deal with it." She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, a sure sign of a shitstorm to come.

At the booth the hostess had led them to, Meg's back was to Joe and she was seated slightly off-center to Randy so she could rest her leg across the space under the table, up on the seat next to him. Randy, however, had a direct view of the elevator, and was watching Joe and his wife bicker with each other, their gestures becoming more and more animated. She'd started waving her phone in his face, he'd planted his arms firmly across his chest in response to her gesture, and both looked as though they were about to burst into petulant name-calling. Beer served and burgers ordered, blissful smiles crossed both his and Meg's faces, but for very different reasons. 'I shouldn't be enjoying this. It's bad karma. He's trying to do what we kept telling him to do – be with his wife. Maybe it's just satisfying to see him understand what he got – and what he didn't get.'

"Okay, then what do you want to do tonight?"

"I want to go out with my friends. I spend all this time doing all this boring shit with you; now I want to go out."

"Boring? But...we're married. We're supposed to spend time together. Enjoy each other."

"Staring at you while you suck down your fifth bourbon of the evening is not enjoyable."

"Because you burning out my credit cards is? You're not the one paying that shit off! I am!"

"And you wouldn't even have made it back here to get that contract if I didn't show up and baby your ass! You fucking owe me and you know it."

At that, despite his conversation with Meg about things called 'Blue Highways' that he'd never heard of but she was infatuated with, where driving was concerned, Randy's eyes widened. Meg cocked her head; she was hearing bits and pieces now, chewing thoughtfully, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly beyond what was necessary for blissful. Out by the elevators, Joe and his wife continued, now louder, much more profane, and most assuredly angrier.

"Did she really just say that? That she's responsible for him coming back?"

"You can hear them?"

"I just tuned in. She called me a downgrade when I showed up at his place in Tampa; kinda hard to forget the voice. It's just funny to me that she thinks she's owed anything. Joe came back for a whole bullshit list of reasons, but I don't think she even cracked the top ten. 'Shrill banshee who over-applies jasmine perfume' might not even make the top twenty, but let me stop being a bitch."

"Jeez, Meg," Randy winked before continuing, "Someone might think you don't like her."

"Nah, it's not that I don't like her. He had every right to move on. What I don't like is that she jumped right to rude and petty the first time she laid eyes on me. She didn't know who I was – at least, she wasn't sure, when she opened the door – and she got ugly real fast. That's what I don't like. So that's my one shot back. We ladyfolk can be bitchy like that." Meg tossed a french fry at Randy, bouncing it off his shoulder and smiling. "Honestly, I don't know her to like or dislike her. She's probably a perfectly nice person. I have no idea. And believe me, I'm not getting close enough to find out."

"No, you're a fucking piece of shit! I'm going out with my friends! You can go suck a dick, or order a porn, or whatever the fuck it is you do. Obsess over your ex! I don't care. I'm fucking done with you for tonight!" Joe reached for his wife, but she slapped his hand away from her arm and stalked toward the doors, waving her arm wildly for a taxi as she went. The scene she'd created had silenced the entire lobby; literally every set of eyes was locked onto Joe, who could only push blindly for the button to call the elevator.

"Well." Meg traced her finger around the rim of her glass of beer. "Guess I didn't need to get close to figure that one out, now did I?"

"Promise me something, Meggie?"

"Sure, Ran. What?"

"When we get that mad – don't say we won't, I know we will – can we just...not do it like that?"

"Oh, no. We're gonna do it like that." Meg smiled deviously and continued tracing the rim of the glass.

Randy froze, confused. "Meg. You can't seriously mean that you're gonna scream at me like that."

"Am I gonna lose my shit on you like that, in public, and be a huge embarrassment? Fuck no. But are we gonna fight sometimes? And probably to that level? Yeah, of course we are. I mean, more mature, I'm not gonna tell you to suck a dick. But, it's okay if we fight like that. You know why?"

"Please, enlighten me." Randy leaned back and crossed his arms, watched Joe melt into the boxcar of an elevator, the expression on his face completely shattered. 'This better be one hell of a reason, Meg, because I swear to God if we ever come at each other that crazy or that stupid, we're gonna have some serious re-thinking to do.'

"Oh, just one reason: make-up sex." Meg's tone and expression were completely innocent, and she tongued the rim of her glass before taking an exceptionally delicate sip of her beer.

It was the second time during that meal that Randy's eyes widened.

The games between Joe and his wife stopped for several days after that incident; he didn't take her out with him, to the bar or otherwise. She certainly took herself out, in taxis and private cars, but after a few days of that, she seemed to disappear. The atmosphere backstage tensed up again; Jon kept Renee close to him, Randy and Dave closed ranks even tighter around Meg. Even Tenille dropped by triage more often, on the surface just to talk, but she too could feel the change in the air and did a poor job of camouflaging her nerves. Joe looked as though he was boiling just below his surface, directionless rage simply waiting for a target. Opponents were edgy working with him and spent extra time in triage for tape-ups, warm-ups, stretch-outs, and simple advice on surviving. More often than not, they came right back to triage after their matches, asking for ice, massage, anything that would make it stop hurting.

Nearly as suddenly as the games had stopped and she had disappeared, Joe's wife reappeared - abruptly, and backstage. It was as though they'd reached some sort of truce after the scene at the hotel – everyone knew what had happened, but not a single soul knew what had happened later to set things right between them. Initially, she never wandered much, and when she did, people walked such wide paths around her it was as though she was a horrid smell or contagious disease. Literally nobody spoke conversationally to her – whatever was known of Joe's sins, they were visited wholesale on her.

She doddered awkwardly through catering, poked through the bottles of water, played with her phone by herself at whatever corner table happened to be available and empty, and then retreated to Joe's locker room. Sometimes she was chased from table to table – directed away by talent, or told by ballsier members of the crew to get up from wherever she'd seated herself – until she got the message. If she wanted to watch a match, she didn't bother with any monitors near locker rooms, knowing she'd be run either loudly or aggressively from the position she'd chosen. Instead, she'd find one in a relatively deserted hallway and lean against the wall. Meg caught her more than a few times near triage, though she was never quite sure if that was accidental or intentional, and all it took was Meg's mere presence out in the hall to get her moving along again. 'Those are technically my monitors, lady. I need to watch what's going on, in case anyone gets hurt. You need to walk your pert little ass right on back to whatever locker room he's rotting in, and go talk shit about my downgrade-self behind closed doors. Yes, I suppose I am still angry. Also, ease off on the perfume.'

Randy had always lingered around triage in general; it was where Meg was. On the nights he could smell jasmine in the hallways nearby he would jog there, half-convinced it meant Joe had come to the back to hurt Meg, take her away, anything – and then she'd pop her head out into the hallway, and he could breathe again. One night, Joe worked Colby so stiff, given Randy such a bad feeling, Joe's wife pacing the hallways like a ghost, that Randy had literally run to triage once his match was over, slamming his shoulder into the doorframe when he tried to bring himself to a halt, half-buckling his knees from the pain, drawing strange looks from everyone in the oddly over-crowded room.

"Okay, Ran. C'mere. Breathe. Sit down. Colby's going to be fine, Jon's in here, Renee's been in here with me when she hasn't been filming, Dave's been here all night. Tenille is in ring right now, then I assume she's coming back here. Let me see your shoulder." Meg slowly led Randy into the room, closing the door behind him. "Do we have room for one more anywhere, or am I going to have to ask to move to an ambulance bay?"

Jon and Renee slid in closer to the wall, and Randy took a shaky seat on the end of the second exam table, letting Meg drape a towel over his shoulder before fussing with how to place oversized Dynarex packs on him and start slow joint work underneath them.

"What happened? You came down here like you were on fire. Did I miss a call?"

"No, Meg." Randy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, and Meg grabbed a small cup of ice chips. "No. I just had..."

"A really horrible feeling." Renee finished for him.

"We all do. Something's fucking off tonight. Not like that show where we all got fucked up," Jon continued, "But some shit's just not right."

"So everyone decided to come in here?" Meg shook her head. Outside, Tenille knocked rapidly on the door.

"Jesus Christ, another one?" Meg cracked the door, trying to slide around the crush of bodies in the room. "C'mon, it's a fucking tea party in here."

"Something's just not right, love. It's like something's coming." Tenille wrapped herself around Meg, and Randy laughed outright; Meg's face contorted into outright revulsion.

"Yeah, a goddamned garden hose for you." Meg tried to wriggle out of Tenille's grip, but couldn't manage the leverage she needed.

"Nell, let go before she hits you. She hates sweat." Randy couldn't decide if he needed to laugh or cough; both were making his shoulder hurt.

"She can hate whatall she wants, I don't care if I smell like Vegemite." Tenille grudgingly let go, holding Meg away from her and scanning her over, as if to make sure she was okay. "Promise me nothing's going to happen?"

"I don't know what got into you all." Meg looked each person over; Jon holding Renee, her once-bruised arm hidden against his chest, Tenille quivering, Colby laying on one of the triage tables clutching his ribs, Dave adjusting Colby's wraps and tapes, and Randy holding his ice. "But everything's going to be fine. Honest. It's..." Randy reached forward while Meg's eyes were on Dave, and when he touched her, she shot several inches in the air, landing heavily on her damaged leg.

"I call bullshit, Meg." He sighed heavily. "C'mon. Show's over anyway."

"I call bullshit, too." Colby whispered conspiratorially to Dave, wincing as his wrap was tightened down one last time. "Something really is off tonight. Jon's right. So are Renee and Nell. Something's gonna happen. I just dunno what. Or when."

Dave shrugged, trying to play the whole situation down, but inside the room he could feel the kind of malefic, electric jolt in the air that took time to build and was self-aware, knowing the more time it took to coil and charge, the more collateral damage there would be when it finally released.