Welcome dallas1990! Missed you! Thanks to AliceJericho (Go read Fade To Black RIGHT NOW if you haven't) and Nattiebroskette (and go read Can You Help Me Heal, too!) for all their help with this.

Just hang in there with me, on this one, and let's all agree that...it's going to be part of the moment Meg deserves.

True to his word, five hours later, Remy was back at the door to Randy's room, pounding on it with a force that would lift the dead from the catacombs. It most assuredly lifted Randy from his bed and his tepid sleep, nearly depositing him onto the floor, the bright sunlight that flooded the room nearly blinding him when he forced his eyes open. 'Christ, it's like liquid yellow in here. It's so bright it almost hurts. It does hurt. But it's warm, too – no wonder Meg likes it here.' He could almost feel the light in the air; not just on his skin as heat, but as a tangible thing he could push his fingers through, something thick that suspended the dust motes rather than allow them to amble aimlessly through.

"'Allo? Randy? Dress, monsieur! We have croissants to eat, coffee and chicory to drink, and then streets to wander before you leave. My friend has given me a place to start. Allez, vite, vite! Five minutes!" Remy banged back down the stairs, the same rapid-fire French trailing away with him and being aimed at his friend.

Randy cracked the door. "I'm working on it – I'm gonna send her one quick text, okay? Then we're going." 'I guess telling me where the bathroom was is a moot point, since it's not like you're gonna give me time to do anything. Thanks, guys.'

"Allez!" Both men shouted from downstairs, and Randy shook his head. 'I do not do mornings. I do NOT do mornings. Where is Meg? She'd keep those two occupied while I took a sho...wer...oh. Right.' Slowly, flipping his phone end over end, amused that the black case was already somewhat hot from the amount of sun in the room, he started, erased, and restarted a text to Meg. Randy debated what to write and how much of it should be on him and how much should be on her; he was worried that Dave couldn't or wouldn't go into her room to check on her, he was furious she'd slipped so far backwards toward self-destruction, and at the same time he flatly accepted that, until something clicked back into place in her mind, Meg would always be close to implosion. 'Dave told me she would try to sabotage herself. I just don't know how long is normal, and if I'm supposed to be the one to stop it, or she is. Or if it takes both of us. Or does it ever stop?' He found himself not caring if it stopped, but caring very much that they didn't stop. 'Oh well. I can be as fucked up as she is, and I know it. We both do really stupid shit. All the time.' Carefully, he tapped out a message, not giving himself too much time to re-think it.

'Meg, I fucked up last night. I shoulda wrote I'm coming back. I needed to leave to get my head straight. I was wrong for how I acted, and I'm trying to do something to make it right. It's not Jon or Renee's fault. I'll explain when I see you later today – if you want to talk to me. If you need time, I understand. I love you.'

Drumming his fingers on the bedside table, he pressed send and hoped for the best, quickly changing and splashing some water on his face, taking a last look out of the balcony. The air had changed, somehow – there was more coffee in it, along with something mossy, then cinnamon, then almost smoky. 'Like her coffee, her cigarettes, that...earthy thing she always talks about...but the salt isn't so much in the air now.'

Rolling uncomfortably around on the bathroom floor, vaguely aware it was morning due to the shift in light in the main area of the suite, and glad she'd stopped with the valium when she did, Meg reached for her phone and struggled to read the message Randy had sent. The pill and alcohol combination left her with a pounding headache and eyes that refused to focus, and all she'd managed to do all morning was heave into the toilet and drink handfuls of water from the sink after she slapped at the handles enough to turn them on. Her leg was screaming at her and she knew she'd undone so much of her hard work at PT. 'Not that you're going to the gala now, so who cares.' Meg sighed, and dropped back onto the floor, trying to force her eyes and phone to cooperate with each other.

The cracks in the screen, combined with the tilting world and her swimming eyes, caused Meg to give up trying to understand what Randy sent her. Even turning the phone so the message would read widescreen didn't help. Briefly, Meg considered calling Renee, but after her tirade the night before decided she was best left alone. 'You fuck up everything, Meg. You take people down with you. Randy got sick of you. Renee was trying so hard to be your friend and you tore her head off last night – you probably did something wrong before then, because something was wrong with her and Randy. And Jon. You heard that shit in the car.'

Balling up again, only this time unable to find any comfort on the much less forgiving tile floor in the bathroom, Meg resigned herself to very cold and miserable sleep, praying for the rest of the valium and alcohol to wear off so she could get back to work and give off the appearance of being fairly functional by the time the phone rang and she was directed to go to a shuttle. 'I don't even know if I'm flying or driving. Fuck it, I'll fly. Randy's gone. I think I'm still in Biloxi. Where the fuck am I supposed to go next? I need to ask for time off. Go home? It's his house, anyway.' Scared of what didn't or couldn't come next, Meg forced herself into sleep, praying it would be a permanent affliction.

Dave, ever her savior, came up to the suite after Meg had worried her way into a nap between the toilet and the towel cabinets, first knocking and then kicking at the door til Meg crawled up to it and leveraged the handle down just enough for him to edge it open. She couldn't move back; it took too much effort and she didn't have the energy or coordination, so she allowed Dave to brush her backwards with the door.

"You look like shit."

"You aren't supposed to be up here. And I'm supposed to be the blunt one."

"You need to get in a shower, get packed, and get on the road with me. Without worrying about how I got up here." Dave crouched in front of her on the floor, offering her a gentle hug. "I know he fucked up, Meggie. He talked to me last night. I just..." Dave trailed off. "You can't do shit like this, Meg. Drunk over valium – yeah, I knew – no. No, you can't do that. He's not leaving you, okay? Now go shower. I'll get some coffee and...coffee sent up here. Try to hurry, okay? We gotta get moving."

"Where?" 'And why does it even matter? Can't you just leave me here? The pillows still smell like him.'

"You'll see when we get there. You're gonna be asleep, anyway." 'You think I'm really gonna tell you we're going to Jackson, Mississippi? Let's play that mental name-game later. Let's just get you in the car.'

Showered, dressed, Dave having done most of her packing for her, he steadied her as she walked down the hall and through the main lobby, telling anyone who asked that she'd simply had a touch of foodborne illness from the coffeeshop she'd been at the night before. Meg registered vague surprise at everyone's level of concern, but brushed it off. 'They don't want to see Dave have to do the running around by himself. I can't keep fucking around like this. It's not fair to them. To him.' Dave paused in the hotel vestibule, letting Meg's eyes adjust to the mix of indoor and outdoor light before taking her fully out into the open air, not wanting her to throw up.

"There's no sense in telling anyone what happened, Meg. We'll work it out, okay? But once you've slept it off...I need you to talk to me. And Renee. Jon...enh, whatever. He knows you were blitzed. But you have to talk to Renee." Throwing their suitcases in the back of the SUV, he opened the back passenger door for Meg, who was only too happy to slide in, fall over onto the seat, huddle up, and promptly fall asleep, despite the copious amount of coffee Dave had forced into her.

Twenty minutes into the drive, Dave texted Randy, sending him a picture of Meg looking completely drained and miserable in the back of the SUV. 'Still meeting us at the arena? I'm not sure she's up for a whole lot right now. And she's gotta talk to Renee.'

'I might not be back til right when we start.'

'Oh for fuck's sake Randy DO YOU SEE HER?'

'Tell her I love her.'

Dave threw his phone into the front passenger seat and sped up slightly. "Meg," he whispered, "Please just hold it together when we get there. Find Renee first, okay? Start with that. And eat something, for Chrissakes." He rolled his eyes at himself in the rear-view mirror and continued. "You know, when you pulled all this shit before, I used to actually...put up a fight, with you. Guess I'm just getting older, now, and I'm...tired? Ready to see you stop? I dunno, Meg. But you've gotta quit this shit. Why isn't Randy enough to make you stop? It's all still that raw for you?"

Croissants and coffee with chicory ordered, Randy and Remy sat outdoors at the small cafe down the street from the bookstore, Randy imagining Meg sitting in some of the same chairs, ordering the same things in the early morning light. Not-so-distantly, a cat meowed, and Randy's ears perked up.

"So, we start here. It is not too far from where Meg used to live, my friend says. She bought newspapers from him every day, and would come here for croissants. Here, we can ask the owner!" Remy was enthusiastic, trying to encourage Randy, whose worry was written across his face in large swaths. "Look, my friend. If you want to do this, learn her, and do it on a timetable, then we must commit. Retrace her steps. It was pure luck that my friend knew her – I thought we would have to track her down through that bar – but now that we have a real idea of where, we can move swiftly to what. And since it is what that has brought you here...tell me again what you are trying to do?"

"She smells like roses." Randy was caught somewhere between distracted by the cat and wistfully thinking about Meg. "And I want to get her a necklace. A rose pendant, with garnets and black diamond chips, and a small sapphire set in the middle. But it can't be made out of gold. And...I learned the hard way, it can't be new. I tried going to a jewelry store, and they hassled me about Meg wearing her Saint Julian medallion. The rose...it's got to hang just above that. I don't want her to have to pick between wearing the two."

"Bien, bien. A jeweler that can...say...take old pieces and make them new again?"

"Yeah, something like that. Mix them? I just don't want anything big. She won't want anything big, either. And...it's got to be made out of something that has a story behind it."

"Merde, Randy, this is no small task." Remy moved his plate to the side, picking up his cup of coffee and waving over the manager. "Ma peche, do you remember a girl from so long ago, name of Magdalena?"

"Bien! My little one. How is she now?"

Randy jolted, but couldn't suppress a small smile. 'You're shitting me. Okay, the bookstore was one thing, but this is fucking weird. Now we end up at the coffee and cat store?' He spoke cautiously, despite the somewhat warm look on his face, trying to look pleasant but not trusting in the sheer oddity of the situation. "She's...doing really well. I'm down here to get a gift for her, but I need some help. I've never been to New Orleans before-"

"Lord, just by how you say it, I can tell!" The woman laughed and patted Randy's shoulder. "Meggie, she should help you with that. Bring her back to us! We all miss her."

"I'm trying. This gift is part of it. Since I've never been here, I'm trying to meet people she knew, see what places she liked, things like that. So far, I know she bought her newspapers there," he pointed back over to the bookstore, "And she would get her croissants here. Once she was done, do you know where she went next? Or what she would do, a shop she liked to go browse at? Something she always wanted – maybe a necklace? An antique?"

The woman smiled again. "Meggie and jewelry? Oh, mercy. She always did love old things, though. She'd spend hours with the vendors along the water, and there's so many antique shops down there. Oh – and her church! Lady of Guadalupe – Mortuary Chapel, Anthony of Padua, if you know better. Try around there."

'Oh my God. We just lost any trail we had. This city is huge, 'water' is everywhere, and she just said 'hours' and 'many' – things I don't have.' "Thank y- uh, Merci? I'm still learning."

The woman laughed. "Oh, Remy. Keep an eye on this poor baby. Mortuary chapel, please. Meg found him, and Anthony is people, you know that."

With her clearing their plates and the cat making a brief appearance to tie itself around Remy's ankles and then regard Randy from a distance, Randy leaned in. "What the fuck? Mortuary chapel? I'm not dead. Meg's not dead. What does she mean "found"? Like...Meg and I have a thing about found and churches. There's no way she knows. How would she know? Who's Anthony of Padua? And what fucking water, there's water everywhere!"

"Randy. Breathe." Remy smiled gently, shaking his head. "The first thing you must understand about this city – it is like nowhere, nothing else. Slow down. You have to let it in. You act like that," he said, waving his hand in a circle, "And you will never find what you are looking for with Meg. Or for Meg. Or understand Meg." The look of skepticism still hadn't left Randy's face, so Remy tried another tactic, pointing at the owner of the coffee shop. "That woman is...intuitive, in some ways. If she says Mortuary Chapel, we go. Yellow fever it is." Remy popped up from his chair and started walking away, hoping Randy would follow.

'And I was thinking about yellow sunlight, this morning. Creepy? No. Stop that. Remy said relax. Meg said she believes in kismet. If this place is trying to tell you something, do what you shoulda done all along. Listen.' Walking up double-quick behind Remy, Randy fell in step behind him, trying to breathe, see, smell, understand, digest, interpret – and then quickly discard all the forced effort, instead allowing things to filter to him.

"Anthony of Padua, by the by," Remy called back over his shoulder, "Is the patron saint of finding lost things and lost people. Let us hope the Father has time to talk when we arrive."

Randy slammed to a halt, clutching a lamppost like it would keep him upright, prevent him from dissolving, and possibly give him something to bang his head into if it came to that.

"Remy, stop!" The humidity, the odd coincidences, the omnipresent feeling that Meg was with him, somehow, eternally tied to the city no matter what it had done to her – 'And has it done anything to her, or did someone slither in here – someone who didn't belong, who didn't understand the place, didn't understand her – come in here and ruin everything? Maybe she's got it all confused in her head and she's just got to come back to see it's all okay again' – was all entirely too much for him. "Stop! Stop. Tell me you didn't set that up at the cafe. "

Remy turned and walked back to Randy, still clutching the lamppost like it was a lover. "Randy...please just accept what this place is giving you. It's Meg's home, oui? It's Meg. Do you fight her like this, as well?"

"No. I – I mean, yeah. Fuck, I don't know. I get scared she's gonna go back to the mess she was when I found her in Tampa. She was terrified of everything, she was hurting, and now she's...not great, but better. She can talk to people. She's trying to go out more. Or she was, I don't know what happened last night. There's light in there, now, and sometimes I get so-"

"Then let go of the damned lightpole and walk with me to her church!" Remy threw his hands in the air, and started moving again, not caring to look back and see if Randy had bothered to follow.

Mumbling, Randy forced his arms loose and made his feet turn to go after the one friend he seemed to have left in the wake of the disaster he'd created. "You're right. And we found each other in the church. She was found in the church. We're going to church."

Remy arched an eyebrow, catching Randy's words, confused, but refused to stop and waste more time. 'Mon dieu. Please, let this be of some help to him. Maybe he needs a moment to pray?'

They passed a few antique shops on the way and were sure to check each one, and though several of the proprietors knew, or thought they knew, Meg, none had quite the right mix of jewelry that Randy was looking for. He was verging on frustrated, thinking that while he now had a better grasp on her and her affection for the place, he was no closer to what he wanted – to show her his affection for the place, that he'd salvaged something from it for her.

Wandering the interior of Our Lady of Guadalupe – Meg's Saint Anthony of Padua, if one was being properly historical – fingers tracing the edges of the pews, unsure where to stop or what was too close to things he wasn't allowed to be near, Randy tried to take it all in. There were scents of frankincense and myrrh, deep colored in the stained glass, and an overwhelming Spanish style that was so different from the French things he'd become used to seeing in New Orleans. 'It all sorta fits. It doesn't, but all the parts come together. They don't argue, they just make room for each other.' Exhaling more heavily than even he expected, he sat at the corner-edge of a pew near the front of the church,

Meanwhile, Remy busied himself making the sign of the cross with holy water and lighting candles at the back of the church, dropping a donation into the small box near the alcove housing the hundreds of flickering lights to cover the two candles he'd chosen for Meg and Randy. 'I am surprised the Father has moved the medallions. I will ask him about that...it is something small I can do.

Seeing visitors, and recognizing Remy, the Father wandered toward the back. Ignoring Randy entirely – and leaving Randy wondering if his tattoos had more than a little to do with it – Remy and the Father entered into another rapid-fire conversation that was beautiful yet foreign to Randy's ears, so he waited patiently until they finished, the interior of the church passing through light and dark as the shadows of clouds moved across windows. Finally, Remy smiled broadly, bowing his head at the man in front of him and accepting something small from his hands, then turning to face Randy.

"Meg had a penchant for arguing with the Father during games of Pinochle. In particular, about what it meant to covet."

"I'm not following you." 'Please let this make sense sooner rather than later...'

"To covet is to want desperately, almost greedily. And there was a shop that always showed -"

"Let's go." Randy was nearly dragging Remy out the door before the sentence was complete.

Once outside, both men squinted in the comparatively bright light, though both were aware Randy was running out of time before he had to catch yet another flight. "Where? Which way?"

"If it still exists. We're approaching floodlands, my friend. Katrina has never left, in many ways."

The shop was dark and looked empty, when they arrived. Some boxes were still inside, some merchandise was on the shelves – all of it antique – but it looked as though the owner had simply given up halfway through cleaning out and left the mess for someone else to deal with. No lights were on, a thin film of dust coated the inside of the windows, and it looked for all the world like a clock had simply run out on the store's time to exist.

"Are you kidding me? Are you fucking serious?" Voice alternating between sounding like he'd expected the turn of events and sounding like he was preparing to throw a brick through the window, Randy couldn't decide if he should be broken-hearted, enraged, or simply ask Remy what or where was next. 'Relax. Kismet. Something else is next.'

"Wait, wait." Remy looked around, his eyes finding the stairs that led up to the exterior door of the upper apartment. "Stay here, watch the windows. I will be right back." He disappeared up the stairs, reappearing minutes later out the front door of the shop with an elderly man in tow. "Voila! Not closed. Renovating! We did not look hard enough for the sign. And I explained your...difficult...situation to him – he is willing to open the doors for you!"

Randy exhaled, clearly relieved. "Ah...merci? My French is awful."

"Good, so's mine. Name's Alvin. C'mon in."

Shuffling, Alvin led Randy and Remy through the store, nudging boxes out of the way as they went. "So, Meg," Alvin smiled knowingly, "Never thought I'd hear anyone got that tornado to touch down."

Randy offered a genuine smile, and laughed. "Let's say...she's a tornado with a storm track, now. And I'm trying to figure out where the cloud came from – which, I guess, is here."

"So you need something stormy for your destructive little rose." Alvin started fiddling with locks on cases, pulling out key rings from pockets to open safes under the counters and along the walls, followed by the dusty and scratched cases that also served as counters, putting down tray after tray of antique jewelry in front of Randy. "That girl used to bring the newspaper down here every damned day, flood the whole store out with her perfume while she was at it, and I know I'm cross-town from where she was. Half the time she'd be bringin' me breakfast, too. It was because of that church – she got lost walking back after night rosary once, after she moved down here, so I made her wait inside til a cab came by."

Randy chuckled. "It's hard to picture Meg getting lost. She's got a good sense of direction."

Alvin smiled. "Oh, she asked me about where to get maps real quick, while we was waitin'. After that, all that newspaper and croissant stuff was like her way of sayin' thank you. Keepin' me company, too, I guess. People stop in to buy, but in't nobody really wants to talk, y'know? Every damn time she was in here, she used to look at a couple necklaces, couple bracelets, but said she always felt bad about it, didn't have the money, shit like that wasn't for her, her boyfriend wouldn't like it – hey, now, you ain't that boyfriend, right?" Alvin froze mid-twiddle on the knob of a safe, and Remy had to jump in.

"Non, non. That man is dead. I am the paramedic who signed off on it. This man is the one who took care of Meg after the accident. Kept her well.."

"Good." Alvin gave Randy a firmly appraising look, in a way that made him feel very much like a high school boy meeting his prom date's father for the first time. "Good, then, we keep goin'." He cleared his throat pointedly. "So, 'bout what you were thinkin' for her? Think I got out 'bout every damn tray in this joint."

Randy shook his head as if to bring himself back into the moment, trying to move away the flashes of Meg curled into the chair in the clubhouse, bunched on the floor in the hotel room, asking if anything was on her hands their first night together at the bay, described the piece as best as he could. He wanted something small, meant to sit in the hollow between her collarbones, then went on to talk about the stones he wanted, watching Alvin put away tray after tray of jewelry as he described the piece. Stranger still, Alvin pulled out racks of silverware and small, jewel-crusted boxes. At the end, Randy made a point of saying the rose absolutely couldn't compete with her Saint Julian medallion, and that was that, non-negotiable.

"And she's still got Julian? Well, Lord a'mercy. She damned near floated in here the day after that bag – s'cuse me, nun – gave it to her. That lady made her cry so many times, but Meg finally won her over. Don' worry, we'll make it look right. What kin'a rose you thinkin'? Not some rose-on-a-stem shit, right?"

'I really, really like this guy.' No...the same kind of rose in her perfume. I think they're-"

"M'roccan." Alvin cut in. "Don' look s'prised, an' pick your jaw up. I asked her b'cause she wore it in here so damned many times it was startin' to sink into the place. People could tell when she didn't come in for a couple days, on account of you could smell solder and not flowers."

Randy was still wide-eyed at the man, and Remy hadn't stopped smiling, so Alvin shrugged and continued. "Anyhow, good, I can fit in lots of garnets. Here, we're gonna do it like this." He grabbed for a pencil, wheezing from the dust that kicked up as he unrolled a large swath of butcher-block paper. "Imma draw it big so's you can see what I mean, but it'll be Meg-sized when'm done."

"Show me." 'I'm sold. He knows her, she knows him, he already knew her stories before we even came in, I just had to let go. Let the place win. Kismet. But what are the boxes for?'

"Petals got shadow at the inside – dark at the middle. Depth. You're gonna get your diamond chips at the inside of each petal. It's gonna be a tall – now, not too tall – pendant, so it sits up off her, like a real flower would, jus' real tiny. Like her. She was like a goddamned bird, tall and rail-fuckin'-thin. You do get a meal in her once in a while, right?" Randy nodded, thinking back to the first night she made dinner at her apartment.

"We work together, so most of the time she's the one reminding me to slow down and eat. You wouldn't believe how she can cook, too. Wish I knew how she learned." 'What color does the sky turn down here when the sun sets? It's SO dark, at night...and SO yellow in the morning...what comes just before?'

"Boy, look 'round here! How's you gonna be 'round all this food an' not learn? Jesus Lord, Remy, you brought me a real special one, huh?" Alvin winked, and Randy pursed his lips into a self-deprecating crumple. "Anyhows, here, look. I'm gonna ring each diamond with a garnet – cut it like a horseshoe – gonna be a bitch, but it'll fit 'round the diamond, give it depth, and it'll match the height of the garnet. It'll look like it's all one stone, just made out of two colors. And then...then what'd you say you want at the middle?"

"A sapphire. Used to be my traditional birthstone, and-"

"Lemme guess – blue like the bay?"

Randy's crushed smirk unfurled itself into a smile, slow and sweet, and he nodded. "Yeah. Center of her world, here, I'm starting to figure out."

"Ain't it like that for everyone?"

"Should be, I think. It's kinda growing on me." Randy's smile shifted to a frown. "But...you weren't gonna set this in gold, were you?."

"Lord, no! Unless su'mn changed on Meg, she 'in't never liked gold. I got old silverware in the trays, odd pieces, mixed sets – it's not fancy, but-"

"Silver's good. She'd like that all the sets are mixed together like that."

"A'right, so what's we takin' apart?" Alvin was drumming his fingers on the edge of the case, leaning forward, looking nearly excited. His skin was leathery, but seemed to soften from being worked by talking and smiling.

"You tell me, Mr. Alvin. Old, good histories. So they'll turn into something that makes sense for her." 'I get the feeling Meg was more like a daughter to you...what'd you do when she disappeared? Did she disappear, or did she tell you about the job?'

"1700's French sound good to you? I got stacks of bracelets I can take apart for her. And I'll get the silver for the setting from a sugar spoon. What about the chain?"

"Sounds perfect, as long as there's no...what'd she always call it...bad juju...attached to it. Nothing dark. And the chain just has to be short enough to sit where I need it to. Or something I can make short real quick when I put it on her." He looked at his hands, suddenly considering the size of his fingers. 'Something that I'm not gonna be too clumsy to get on her when I'm nervous as fuck and she's mad at me, or scared, or doing that thing where she's so happy she can't hold still. The fidget.'

"No bad trade history with these pieces, and I'll use the rest of the sugar spoon to make a custom chain. You'll see how to shorten it in the back once it's done. Lots of loops, and then the tail just hangs. Speaking of which, when you need it?"

"You're not gonna like me...but can you have it in a week?"

"Shit, boy, I can have it in three days. Ain't like I got much else goin' on besides boxes I don't wanna move too much right now."

"Name any price you want, Mr. Alvin. You have no idea how much this-"

"Just keep the tornado on the ground, boy. Get her to come home, if you can. That's all. Now, scatter. Can't work with an audience. Your friend here can pick it up and get it to you." Alvin's voice was more scratched-sad than gruff, and Randy chose to let the issue lie still, making a mental note to find out just how much renovating the shop needed and what it would take to get it done. 'Meg, you have this...effect...on people. And I need to get my ass on a plane.'

Handshakes all around, Remy promising to check back in three days but knowing full well Randy would be texting much more often than that, Alvin rushed both men to the door, saying he wanted to start work as soon as he could.

"Well?" Remy was quiet, but had a small note of victory in his voice.

"I can see why she loved it here. I want to make it right again, if it can be. If I didn't screw up too bad."

"Get on a plane and find out, I suppose?"

"We gotta go find your car for that, Remy."

The airport was its own usual special slice of hell, with crowds and waves of people clamoring for autographs, more than a few women asking where his girlfriend was and if he was single again, and watery drinks that were over-iced and under-poured once he was able to make it back to the private lounge to wait for his flight. Normally, Randy and Meg would simply box up in a corner, with her walling him off from the rest of the world, but now...now he was lonely and tired, and wanted to stare into his glass of tequila unmolested by the crowds until his flight was called. He'd even paid for front row in first class so he didn't have to look at anyone, the irony of flying to Jackson not lost on him. It was a decently long wait for his flight or else he'd somehow decided it was worth it to kill some brain cells, because he was surprised to find himself hurrying to finish his second glass of tequila – and why was there ice in his tequila, anyway? – before trying to rush to the plane.

'Meg and Dave should be there by now. I can talk to Meg. I have to talk to Meg. Can I talk to Meg? She said I couldn't ever really do anything wrong...and we ended up fighting the morning after she said that, too. Please don't let this be the one thing, because I was trying to do something right for her. Just in a stupid way, because Jon was right for once."

Boarding the plane went quickly, and though Randy's plan was not to stare at people, he found himself being stared at as everyone else boarded the plane. More than a few flashes and clicks went off, and he rotated further and further into the wall of the plane until his back sent up a warning twinge to stop the spiral of pouting and sulking. 'And...I dunno if I can ask you to fix it right now. I know you would, if I asked, but I want it to be you touching me, not Meg The Professional Medical Concierge at my service, thank you for calling.' Deciding a brief nap was better than no nap at all, Randy dragged his hoodie up to block the light, bunched against the window-wall of the plane, and forced himself into an agave-flooded sleep. The flight was painfully short, the sun was glaring on his side of the plane and his window shade would only pull halfway down, and the entire time he was in the air, his mind was on Meg and what her reaction to him might be once he was on the ground, in the arena, with her in their suite after the show – if she'd even let him get that close.