Nattie, Alice, Eyeliner, Mom2: LOVE YOU! :)

I hope my other readers are still out there...let me know...

"She's got ten of Oxycontin on board, and three of Lunesta. That means she won't hurt, and she will sleep. And she doesn't have any other pills with her. Come get me when she wakes up; she's gonna need more for the pain. We're all on the other side of the door."

Randy, half-listening to Dave, stared down at Meg, who was limp on their bed in the hotel, still needing to be undressed and put into something comfortable that wouldn't aggravate her skin. Dave had no choice but to re-dress her in the spare clothing from her bag at the arena, which was all far too dressy and fitted to be a good choice for sleeping in. 'Let him do that. We all can leave them alone for a while; it's not like we can't all talk, anyway.' Motioning to Jon, Renee, and Nell, Dave led the group into his bedroom, closing the door heavily enough to let Randy know he was finally alone with Meg, grumbling quietly when he heard the lock turn from the opposite side of the room. 'Well...and what did I think he was going to do? I have to trust him.'

"Meggie...now what? What do I do to help? You always say figure it out, but I can't." Randy reached for a lock of hair that was laying across her face, then stopped and changed direction to touch her necklaces, then gave up altogether, afraid he'd send her into a death spiral of a nightmare if his hands weren't wanted. "Maybe...if you're not too asleep yet...Meg, I don't know what to do. Please..." Randy had no idea where to go with his question, or if it even was one. Cautiously, he began to work at her clothing, trying to decide if fast or slow would be better for removing it.

Fighting the pain medication was like fighting through the innards of a down quilt. Light filtered through her mind in soft, fluffy beams, and her thoughts felt pillowy, if a thought could feel like anything at all. 'Meg, you're home now. If you hear him, you're home. Wake up. What do you remember? Figure out what he needs.'

Dave was calm and matter of fact while working on Meg at the arena, and taped gauze pads into place over the deepest sections of her cuts and gouges after Randy came back into the room following the announcement from Talent Relations. While he worked, the scuffle between Jon, Renee, and the TR representative escalated into a full-out screaming match in the hallway. Randy shook his head, refusing to go back outside to deal with it. Slamming the door once was enough; if he did it a second time he would wail along with Meg, the entire night beginning to overwhelm him.

Sighing, Dave went out to settle things while Randy held Meg, knowing she was in no shape to fly anywhere that night. She'd need at least a few hours of observation, and Randy was in no frame of mind to let her go. Explaining their collective position as 'Put us all in Randy's suite, lock the doors, and let's hope nobody goes into breach of contract by quitting and walking out,' Dave managed to buy Jon and Renee time to calm down, Nell time to collect herself, and Randy and Meg time to...well, whatever they needed to do. Randy wouldn't and couldn't let her go. Not now. Security could stand in the hall and take care of the rest, and Talent Relations would have time to come up with something better than a flight on a commercial airline.

Randy sat, mutely, through Dave's explanation once he came back in the room, not thrilled at the amount of company he and Meg would have for the night, but resigned that this decision, like so many others, was out of his hands. Meg opened her eyes long enough to give the impression that she was listening and aware, nodding occasionally, but Dave couldn't shake the impression that there was a wash of guilt across her face. 'Inconvenient. She feels inconvenient. First Jackson, now the locker room. It's not like she did this; nobody knows what happened.'

Holding on to Meg's hands through the entirety of Dave's ministrations once he returned, Randy did his best not to cringe. When Dave motioned that he needed to look at Meg's fingers, Randy let her palms lay on his, whispering that he wouldn't leave. He winced his way through much of that work, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Dave's hands and tools, while she stared blankly ahead. Dave snipped flaps of skin from Meg's knuckles – experience dictated they couldn't be stitched due to the way she'd peeled them back after hitting the hinges and vents on the lockers – and her broken and torn fingernails required fairly deep clipping to resolve, which brought fresh blood to the surface. He could have cut one of Meg's fingers off for all the reaction he earned – Meg was present, but certainly not there.

Once that was done, Randy tried to stroke her hair, as much to settle her down as to settle himself, and discovered more blood. Dave moved from Meg's hands to the back of her head, sticking her with a syringe of lidocaine and starting to stitch once he'd found the openings she wrenched in her scalp, as well as the deep gash she opened when she slammed the back of her head into the floor. He knew the EMLA would take more time than he was willing to risk in waiting. 'The longer we spend here, the more time Talent Relations has to think about things. We need to go. Once we're in the hotel, it's harder to move us all.' The needle should have drawn a gasp from Meg; the burn from the chemicals should have earned a flinch, but her face was placid. 'Meg's gone. Whatever's there – or whatever's missing – she's checked out. And starting the same shit she did with Joe, about not wanting to fuck up anyone's career. Where is this one going to end, I wonder?' Washing his hands and rattling through his now-locked bag of medications, Dave came up with Oxycontin and Lunesta, both of which he had no idea how to get down Meg's throat. The bandages and gauze pads taped to Meg's skin crackled as she tried to pull herself up against Randy, mumbling something about promising not to fuck up for him, promising to be good. Half her face was so bruised it looked perpetually in shadow; Randy's jaw hurt in sympathy with hers just to watch her try to talk.

Reaching out toward Dave, Randy beckoned for the pills, not caring what they were, just hoping they'd bring Meg back to him. Looking at the two small tablets, one white and one a purplish-blue, he waited for water to follow before leaning over Meg and whispering to her, then slipping the pills past her lips and holding the water to her mouth. Tentatively, she sipped at it, trusting the hands holding the medication, and then slumping fully into Randy's side, hoping he'd keep her close. His arms closed tightly around her, and Dave let himself out from the room, knowing he'd be expected to update the group in the hallway. 'They both need a minute, anyway. More than a minute, but I can't give them that. Not here. We have to move.'

Nell pounced on Dave as soon as he was out the door, yanking on his arms and dragging him forward, Renee joining in and pulling him across the hall. Only Jon refused to move from where he leaned against the wall, seemingly lost in thought.

"Well?" Renee's voice was low, but urgent. "What happened to her?"

"She hasn't talked. She's barely said two words, other than to tell Randy it's okay if she has to go home."

"And fuck that!" Jon exploded, earning a jolt from everyone in the hall. "What is he gonna do if she's gone?"

"Jon," Dave's voice was patient, but direct. "Meg is gone."

The Oxycontin was starting to take hold and Meg was starting to slump forward, her muscles too numb and loose to hold her. Her arms started to slide and fall from Randy as she felt herself slip further into a dream, though now and again she'd startle upward and reach for him, his presence registering with her as something familiar and safe. She could smell his cologne, the gentle and constant pressure from his hands a reassurance that she craved, and she found herself trying to maneuver them up to her shoulders to replace the leftover feeling from Jackson.

"Meg," Randy kept his voice intentionally low, trying not to draw any attention from the people in the hall, "I know you're supposed to sleep, but can you-"

"Don't you dare, Randy." Dave's had slipped back into triage and his tone was immediately hostile. "Don't you fucking dare. I gave her a pill for sleep for a reason. If you tell her to fight it, you're fucking her over. You know what happens when you fight the medication? You hallucinate."

"Then why the fuck did you give her that kind of med, Dave?"

"Because she needs the goddamned rest. You think she's gonna get any after what she just went through? Beat to shit, just told she's out of here, dumb enough to agree to it without a fight, and is gonna feel like she got hit by a car in the morning. That's all before she goes back to an empty house, without knowing if it's actually safe. Let her get one decent night in, because I can't prescribe this to her. They really will kill her if she takes them with booze, and what do you think she's gonna do if anything more than what we see happened to her?"

Randy opened his mouth, ready to retort, but nothing came. Dave was right. Meg wouldn't be able to sleep, and none of them truly knew what happened. She'd be unwilling or unable to talk about it, especially if it was anything close to what Jackson had put her through, and now she'd be alone. Thinking better of starting an argument when it was clear he'd be wrong, Randy simply wrapped himself around Meg, trying to force his mind to come up with something functional. He'd walk out on his contract – he had lawyers for that. Sell the house and move. Maybe a fresh start away from Saint Charles would be best; a place where nobody knew either of them would dramatically lessen the chances of Meg getting hurt. 'But it wouldn't change the fact that someone out there did this to her. And we don't know who, or why.'

Not that any of them knew Meg had been the one to put herself through it, with only a small assist from Joe's wife and some strategically placed paperwork, of course.

Sighing, and bundling Meg carefully into his arms, warming blankets and all, he carried her into the now nearly deserted hallway. Only Jon, Renee, and Nell remained, along with company security, who were instructed to walk them to a waiting car, go directly to Randy's suite, and allow nobody in or out with the possible exception of heavily screened room service.

Lolling further and further to and fro with each passing minute, Meg rode her ten milligrams of Oxy into oblivion, though something in the back of her mind nagged at her for water – she'd had the medication before, at Oechsner, and always hated the intensely dry mouth that came with it. 'At least it means the Lunesta won't melt. Dave should have known better. I heard what he said. They taste wrong, it's the blue dye. And I don't – won't – take sleeping pills. I'll just wait til we're in the car and spit it out. Randy needs me awake right now, anyway. He was trying to talk to me. If I have to leave, I'm not spending our last night comatose.' As long as she gave herself over to the opiate now, she knew she'd be awake enough for Randy later, which seemed to be all he wanted. 'And all I can do now is give you what you want before they make me leave. I can try to act right. No, don't say that anymore. I don't have to say that.'

The ride to the hotel was tensely, tersely quiet. Renee burrowed into Jon's side in the far back, and Nell wrapped both of her hands around one of Dave's in the middle bench seat and proceeded to nearly wring the pulse from it. Randy took up the entire front bench seat of the SUV, Meg half-upright in his lap, her head curled against his chest much as it had been when they'd napped together at the bay in Blaine, both of them half-facing forward. Knowing she only had a few minutes before she'd doze off, that everyone else was seated behind them, and their driver was paying them no mind, she started to brush at her face, trying to rid herself of the Lunesta before it began to dissolve in earnest. 'If you can taste it, it's melting. Get rid of it. You don't want to be asleep like that. He needs you. Just sleep off the pain med, and then be with him.' Randy ended up trying to help her swipe some of her hair away from her face, not understanding her intent.

"Meggie..." She kept trying to wipe her hands across her mouth, even once her hair was well out of her face. "Meg, what's wrong? What are you doing?" Randy wasn't expecting an answer; he was expecting her to be asleep, or for her actions to be part of a dream and his question to be purely rhetorical. Her small, breathy 'shh' startled him, and he ducked his head lower over her, a motion not lost on Dave.

"She okay?" His lean over the seat was far too intrusive, and Meg froze.

"Hm? Oh...uh...yeah? Yeah. She looked...upset. Nightmare, or something." Randy's hand never left the side of Meg's face, pausing where it landed mid-stroke, Meg's hand under his, near her mouth. He'd turned over his shoulder to talk to Dave, not wanting to yell.

"Yeah...that's normal. Just be there for her." Dave looked concerned, but was satisfied with the answer and retreated back toward Nell.

When Randy turned back to Meg, he squeezed her hand gently, then squinted down at it. There, stuck to the tip of her index finger, was a small, bluish tablet. He frowned, and bent over her again, whispering in her ear.

"What are you doing?"

She struggled in his arms, and he had to help turn her so she wouldn't muffle into his chest. Thinking quickly, he turned to Dave. "Is this normal, Dave? From the Lunesta, or whatever you said it was?"

"Yeah. She's between regular sleep and the pills. Once the meds kick in all the way, she'll stop. By the time we're at the hotel, she'll be out."

Turning back to Meg, Randy leaned down over her again, whispering urgently yet trying to look like everything was normal and he was merely trying to calm her. "You have, like, ten seconds. He's watching."

Fingers burning, shoulders aching, the Oxycontin threading its fingers through her brain and sifting every synapse apart, Meg knew Randy was spot-on about his guess at her remaining time. She grabbed onto his arms, trying to force him to understand what her words might not let her convey. 'Sleep's here, Meg. Talk. Hurry.' "Took the Oxy...hurts. No Lunesta. Awake later. Trust me. Love you. Hide this..." Meg gestured the stuck-on sleeping pill at him, which Randy momentarily panicked at, then pried off her finger and stuck into his pocket, rubbing the blue and purple stain from her fingertip.

'Meg...I didn't like the Lunesta, either...but...' Randy sighed, pulling her in against him. 'Oh, fuck it. I trust you.'

The question Randy asked to the universe, once they were all in his suite, was part for show, and part desperation. He knew he had to make it seem as though Meg had taken the Lunesta and was really out for the night on the off-chance Dave was somehow listening. Underneath the verbal shell, however, Randy really was at a loss. He didn't know what to do for Meg, and the Oxycontin really had put her to sleep. At the moment, he was on his own, without a clue what would help or hurt her, and without any idea when she'd be coming back to him from whatever layer of sleep she was buried in. Deciding that practicalities were the most important at the moment, Randy fished the pill from his pocket and rinsed it down the sink in the bathroom, making sure to come back with a glass of water for Meg. Fishing through their bags and suitcases, he came up with more clothing than either of them would usually wear. 'She should be warm. She's told me about shock enough times that I know it's bad...but Dave would have warned me...I don't know. I want her to feel safe. Why is it always us, Meg? I just wanted to take you to New Orleans. You were happy. We were almost there...really there. Whatever we were going to be was right there. We're still going to be, I promise...'

Every bruise from the lockers, bench posts, and floor had developed in full color on Meg's skin, and she offered no resistance as he undressed her, debating the merits of throwing her clothing in the trash, exactly as had been done to the clothing she wore at the arena and the dress she wore to dinner with Jackson. Some of her bandages had begun to soak through as well, and Randy idly wondered how long he had before Dave would wander out of his room, knock on the door to theirs, and decide he needed to work on Meg. Gently lifting her up, slipping her blouse off, and slipping one of his long sleeved shirts onto her followed by the hoodie she'd stolen from him so long ago, she stirred slightly and tried to draw her legs up to her chest.

"Meggie, it's me. It's okay, you're safe. We're at the hotel." 'Oh no...why did you do that with your legs?' He had to work to fight down a chill, and kept his hands perfectly still on her arms. For her part, Meg simply offered a drowsy smile and relaxed, the tension gone from her entirely. 'Okay...okay, maybe not. Maybe you were just ready for a fight. Maybe it was nothing.' "Meg, here. Pajamas?" He tentatively held out the cottony pair of pajama pants he always asked her to pack – she'd worn them when they'd shared pasta and wine and a bed in Blaine, and they always made them both smile – but she just fell forward against him, giving up to the Oxycontin again, ignoring the offer of sleepwear in favor of staying in her panties. "Yeah...maybe not. Probably better, your legs are chewed up anyway. If you're listening, kiddo, I'm gonna grab a quick shower. I'll leave the door open. If I'm not back and you wake up, just wait for me. Please? Don't get up, okay?" Gently, Randy pulled the quilt around her and kissed the corner of Meg's lips that weren't bruised and split, trying to decide how, exactly, he'd kill the person who had laid hands on her.

'I'm trying, Ran. I'm trying to wake up for you. Just give me some time. I forgot how strong Oxy is...I'm sorry.' Meg wished she was in the shower with him, but contented herself with a dream, half-hoping it'd tell her how to convince him to be with her one last time before she had to leave. The idea of getting on a plane without feeling him, knowing him, having Jackson's touch washed away completely, was more painful than anything she'd done to herself.

Strategically, Joe's wife had avoided Randy's locker room once the commotion had started. Staying in Joe's locker room hadn't prevented her from dissolving into laughter as she heard Renee's screaming, then Dave and Nell's hurried footfalls, followed by most everyone in the company trying to get to the locker room, talking about the locker room, or spreading rumors afer-the-fact about the locker room. It couldn't have worked out any better even if she'd gone in there herself and handed the paperwork to Meg. When he returned after a long walk around the arena, nervous and shaking, Joe found his wife on the floor in much the same position Meg had been in, only she was dry and whole, rather than soaked and bleeding. It took him only seconds to put the pieces together, but this time she was ready for him.

"Before you lose your shit on me – if I can do that to her, what do you think I'll do to you if you fuck with me? I know you had all that shit. I know you had that picture. I'll fucking ruin you."

Joe had started to half-lunge for her, but her words froze him before he reached her throat. Admittedly, he'd crossed several lines – staging the break-in, getting hold of Meg's accident reports, having the photograph stolen, stalking Meg in the hotel, then grabbing her legs and hurting her – but he'd never crossed the line his wife had. He'd never made Meg break herself. 'Meg, you can't come back to me if there's nothing left of you...and how the fuck do I protect you from this? Fuck, I married this thing. What is this? Meg, I thought you were crazy, but no...you were loyal. You loved me.'

"Just get in the car. You have a lot of things to explain to me." Joe kept his tone neutral and flat, trying to weigh his options without tipping his hand.

"Oh, no, sweetheart. That's not how this works, anymore. I'm getting in the car, but you're going to be doing all the talking. You're going to tell me exactly what's been going on, and for how long. And then, depending on how much I like what I hear, I may or may not decide to fuck you over."

"You already fucked me over, you stupid cunt!" Joe exploded at her, icily controlled, volume low – all of his rage in a neatly packaged vacuum. "Do you know what you just did to me – to us – with that photograph? Of course you don't! Yeah, I took that photo from the rental office where Meg was staying in Missouri. I got one of the cleaning people to do it. But I probably bled on it, because I cut my finger on the screen of my phone before I touched the photo. That shower she buried the paperwork and the picture in was great for washing off fingerprints, you stupid bitch, but do you think it did anything for me bleeding into the paper? Not a fucking chance. I hope you like shopping at WalMart, because that's all we're gonna be able to afford once Orton gets some actual cops to do some actual work!"

"No, sweetheart. You'll be shopping at WalMart. I'll have your house and your money, because you just told me you had someone steal the photo. I'm sure if I ask around, I'll find out you've been up to more shit." She'd managed her way to vertical from her ball of hilarity on the floor, and was eying him as though he might be her next victim if he so much as breathed incorrectly.

"Just. Get in. The car." Joe couldn't clench his fists any tighter; he'd lost feeling in his fingers. He had no idea why his mouth had run away with him other than his nerves were so keyed up he had to tell someone what he'd done – and who better, or worse, to tell than the person who had just gotten into as much shit as he had – and could've killed someone besides. 'And isn't that turning into a theme around here?'

"Oh, be nice, Joe. I did us a favor. I heard she has to go home, now. Indefinitely. Doesn't that mean we can go to the hotel bars and not be bothered? Or to the club and you won't want to look at things you shouldn't? You can work, now, and not be distracted? Didn't I just make everything better?" Her voice was nearly a purr, and she stroked his arms expectantly. "You should be happy with me. I did this for us. What did she ever do for you?"

Joe walked in painfully tense silence with her to the company car. Occasionally, his wife looked up at him, half smiling, patting his arm or squeezing his shoulder. After she slid into the car ahead of him, she looked at him, her expression half-curious and half-expectant.

"Well?"

"Well what?" The chauffeur was busy loading their bags; even so, Joe didn't want to take any chances continuing the conversation.

"You didn't answer me, sweetheart. Didn't I just make everything better?"

'What the fuck is wrong with you? This is not what I wanted. This was never what was supposed to happen.' Joe could feel her nails dig into his arms, the pressure increasing with each second that he took to mull over his answer. Taking a slow, deep breath, trying to stop the damage before she truly spiraled out of control, he cleared his throat quietly. "Yes. Yes, everything's better."

"Good. When we get back to the hotel, you can show me just how much better." The wickedness of her smile was matched only by the queasiness in Joe's stomach in response to her request.

Renee and Tenille showered and changed into pajamas quickly, then sat in confused, taut silence. Dave followed suit, though kept himself ready and dressed for triage calls, most of which were answered with, "Yes, Meg is fine. Can I do anything else for you?" He understood everyone's concern, and also understood that Randy would gladly snap the neck of anyone who pressed too hard.

It was Jon who was imbalanced, somehow. Randy was occupied with Meg, the girls were fretting over each other, Dave was watching the lot of them, but Jon had somehow locked the whole scene inside a mental shadowbox and stood outside of it, separate from them all literally and metaphorically, having wandered out to the balcony with Meg's cigarettes, turning the pack end over end in his hands, feeling the lighter bump from side to side in the box like some sort of stubby, plastic metronome. His isolation wasn't lost on Dave, but he didn't feel compelled to push, either.

'They're right. She's gotta go. Never thought I'd say that, but this isn't safe. Randy's not focused, Renee and Nell are scared, half the company is more worried about gossip and bullshit than about their actual fucking jobs...I don't know what the fuck just happened, but enough is enough.' Taking out a cigarette and Meg's lighter, Jon threw himself down into a chaise on Dave's side of the divided balcony, kicking his feet up onto the railing before lighting up, never hearing Randy slip out onto his half of the balcony after finishing his shower and checking on a still-slumbering Meg, the wall between suite-bedrooms and outdoor areas preventing either man from knowing the other was present.

Slapping the cigarette from Jon's hand, Dave joined him outside, sinking into a chaise of his own, waiting for Jon to let go of whatever was on his mind. 'That, or I'm just going to throw him over the edge. I can't deal with all this tension. Those two inside? They'll be screaming like a horror movie in under ten minutes. At nothing. Stress.'

"She's gotta leave, Dave. It's fucked up that I'm gonna be the one saying it, but she's gotta go." Jon's tone was so flat it could have been a sheet of paper.

"You, of all people – you almost made as many excuses for her as Randy – you're really gonna say she's got to-"

"No, hear me out." Not only had Dave leaned in closer, but Randy had silently shifted from his original position to a cushioned chair much closer to the dividing wall. "If the situation was reversed, and it was Renee laid up on a bed, Randy would be sayin' the same thing. Renee would have to go. Not because she did anything wrong, but because how the fuck else do you keep everyone safe when someone – something – can get that fuckin' close, and you don't know who or what?"

"I hear you, Jon, but-"

"I know, I know – if she's not here, then whoever did this can just go after her at home. But..." Jon took another cigarette out and lit it, inhaling deeply. "But, Randy can hire security. Have someone stay with her. Something. Anything. Here? Here, there are too many ways to fuck up. A fake triage call. Grabbing her up in a hallway. Fuck, even going after him. She'd lose her goddamned mind, and then what do we do? If it was reversed and this was on Renee, he'd say send her home because he would want to protect Meg from whatever was out there. Or we'd all want to protect Nell. Or you. And you know I'm right."

"Jon...it's different with them. Don't ask me to explain how, because their...thing...has been building for years, and they finally just..." Dave wiped his hands over his face, not knowing how to explain exactly what Meg and Randy were or weren't. "He can't just put her on a plane and wave goodbye. It might be the right thing to do, or the logical thing to do, but it doesn't mean it's the thing he can do."

"Well, it's gotta be the thing he does. I wouldn't wanna do it with Renee, either. But something's gotta break. Before something else actually does break."

Much as Randy wanted to reach around the concrete divider and throw Jon down the several stories to the pavement below, he couldn't. He knew he'd be saying the same thing – protect Meg, ship Renee off. Whatever the threat was, eradicate it, remove it, minimize it, but keep her safe, and in Jon's eyes, Meg's friendship with Renee put Renee firmly in a set of crosshairs. 'And nobody know what that is, except you. Wake up, kiddo. Please, wake up. I know it's only been a couple of hours, but wake up.'

Gently, in moonlight and around hushed tones explaining every step, Randy came inside, turned off the lights, and moved under the blankets with Meg, praying to whatever was listening that she'd wake up soon and be able to talk to him.

'Soon' took another hour, with Meg's eyes finding it hard to focus sideways on the glass of water perched close by on the bedside table. Carefully, she chanced her arm toward it, only to find Randy reaching quickly over her and helping her hold the glass to her mouth, his lips caught between kisses and words against the curve of her neck, begging her to stay awake, talk to him, anything that told him she was okay. Awkwardly, aching, Meg tried to push against him and face him after drinking, needing reassurance, touch, words – him. Her anchor in reality.

"Meggie, please – before anything – tell me you're fine. Tell me nothing else happened." The undercurrent of panic in Randy's voice was made worse by the electric tension on his skin; Meg's own skin crawled to feel it on him, and her mind ran a thousand directions to find understanding and an answer.

"Wait...Ran...what d'you? Oh! Oh...Randy, no. No. I'm fine. Not...no. Nothing else." Meg wanted to kiss him, to make him understand, but couldn't feel half of her face, couldn't see his clearly, and didn't understand why she still felt wrapped in so much cotton. 'Wake up, Meg. All the way, now. It's over, you're here. Be here.' If she turned her face to one side while looking at him, she appeared fine. If she turned the other way, she was bruised and her lips were swollen – her face an odd, split mask showing the duality of her evening.

His relief was as palpable as his anxiety, though letting go of all the potential horrors that hadn't happened freed his mind to deal with the realities in front of him. As Meg climbed up the ladder from sleep to sanity, she was able to field more complicated questions from Randy, ever-careful to keep her voice quiet and remind him to do the same. 'Dave might be dumb, but he's not stupid. He's going to want to check on us. And soon.' Randy was gentle at first, his questions easy and nearly tender, trying be comforting and reassuring, but gradually, he pressed her toward details and memories of what had happened only hours prior.

"Ran...I don't know. The papers were on the floor when I walked in, and then it was like with Sarah. I don't remember the door opening. There were hands on my shoulders, and then I don't know what. My head hurt and it was just a fight." Meg smiled, wanly. "Guess I lost pretty bad, huh?" 'You gonna tell him whose hands, Meg? Because you're full of crazy, crazy shit."

'Something doesn't add up. She didn't turn around to see who came in? Or he...she...they...were there already?' "I don't know, Meg. You fought. That counts for a lot. But..." Randy pursed his lips. "It doesn't...I don't know. The papers were there when you came in? And then someone came in after? Or...they were there already?"

"I know the paper was there already. I almost slipped on it when I came in. But I don't know...whoever else was there...must have come in after? I was sitting on the floor trying to read all that shit, and then the photo fell out. I was confused, I was scared...it was like I wasn't really seeing anything or hearing anything the right way." 'Meg...shut up, Meg. You're gonna say too much.'

"So you didn't look up, or see anything?"

"Randy...no. I don't know? I'm sorry. I tried...I didn't want everyone this upset. I get why they're sending me home...if I did more, or stopped it...maybe they wouldn't. I don't know. I'm sorry." Hysteria was starting to set in, compounded by pain and fatigue, and Randy knew he'd pushed too far. 'I am sorry, Randy. I'm sorry it was all in my head and I can't tell you why. I can't tell you what. If I do, I know you're gone. Just let me go back home, let me stay there. If I'm away from you, then you're working and focused, and I'm not causing you any more hassles. It all goes back to normal.' Tears stung at her eyes, and her breathing was jagged.

Dave had started to first knock, then bang, on the door connecting their bedrooms, and Randy knew he had to let him in. "Fucking Dave...shh, Meg, calm down. I'm sorry. It's okay, you didn't do anything wrong. Meg...help me out...you were supposed to be asleep. What do I tell him?"

"N-nothing. Just...here...let him in. I can...I'll do it."

Opening the door, Dave shoved past Randy and went directly to the bed, firing question after question at Randy, who only repeated 'I don't know.' Meg winced as Dave jostled his way next to her, but did her best to look drowsy and hurt – neither was really a stretch.

"Why aren't you asleep? Did he wake you up?"

"No. I can't sleep. Everything hurts. It woke me up." 'Please tell me it looks real? It hurts bad enough to cry. I think I'm crying, I can almost feel it.'

"Through a Lunesta? I don't believe that, Meg."

"Dave, I kicked a bench. A wall. With my fucked up leg. I fought someone. Fucking everything hurts. Give me more meds and let me go back to sleep. Stop fucking yelling at Randy, he was trying to calm me down." Meg reached out for the pills she hoped were coming, and was rewarded with what looked to be vicodin. Throwing them back and appearing to chase them with water, she nestled back under the quilt and waited for Randy to come over to her. "Night, Dave."

"I'll check with you later, Meg. And you, asshole, stop locking the door."

Randy had already turned the privacy lock on the door; Dave locked himself out as soon as he closed the door behind him. Once Meg heard the door latch, she spit the vicodin back into her hand and rinsed her mouth, the bitter taste of the pills lingering far longer than she wanted.

"Meg? Again?" Randy was unamused; he knew Meg would be in serious pain by the morning, which was closer than she likely realized.

"Randy...if I have to leave, I want to be with you. Awake. And...with you." The greater meaning of Meg's words wasn't lost on him, but he had no idea what to do with it. She was physically wrecked, exhausted, bruised nearly beyond recognition depending on how she turned her face, and he was terrified of hurting her further.

"I don't know...how...Meg. Any other time, but..."

Dragging herself over him, pulling his hands under the shirt he'd worked so hard to put on her, Meg guided his hands around the hem of the fabric, weaving the edges between his fingers. "Blaine, Randy. Wherever you are is home, and where did we find each other first?"

Sighing in relief and understanding, he gently brushed his zip-up back from her shoulders, lifted his shirt from over her, tried very hard to forget about the bandages across her skin, and pulled her up against the length of his body, recalling how she'd felt against him the first night he'd seen her in just her bra and panties. Everything had felt raw then as well, but they'd had days to close the wounds. Here, he had only a few hours, a few half-truths, followed by nothing but indefinite space and time apart.

'And planning. Planning to start with – and end with – Joe, because he's tied to this somehow. Call Sarah, so Meg isn't alone at home. Get her to stay with Meg at our place, even if she has to quit her job. I don't care. I'll pay the rest of her salary. Whatever she needs. Talk to Jon – not because he's wrong or I'm angry, but because he's right and nobody should feel that afraid. Figuring out our trip to New Orleans, because we're still going and I want to see her happy and in all her old places. In her home. Our home. Make sure Nell and Renee understand Meg is okay and they're safe. And then to get the fuck out of here. Time for planning promises."

He was numb during sex, though his wife threw herself into it with an enthusiasm that was horrifying, given the events of the evening. Joe couldn't stop seeing the blood smeared across the floor in Randy's locker room; he could only imagine what Randy felt when he walked in and saw first what he had to imagine had happened, and then the reality of it. 'And not knowing – whatever she remembers, or doesn't, he's living with that too.'

Rolling off of him, Joe's wife looked beyond thrilled with herself, not noticing or caring if Joe had started, was finished, or still lingered somewhere in between. She got hers, and that was what mattered.

"You're too quiet, Joe. Don't be thinking about her. Don't. She's not an option anymore."

"I'm not. I'm thinking about you. What happened tonight? Like, fine, you got me on the photo. Do you understand why I got the accident reports, at least? Nobody knew what happened. It – that – was morbid curiosity. The photo was...I don't know. You're probably right, I was hung up on her. I still picked you. But...she got the shit beat out of her. You know I went in his locker room. Renee was screaming, Jon was yelling, Dave and Nell were running to get there, and the room was...it was covered in blood."

"Okay, and so what? She's not dead. She's just leaving."

"Babygirl...you had the paperwork, I get that. But...how did you give it to her?"

Her giggles turned into hysterical howls of laughter, to the point she rolled over and buried her face in the pillows to quiet herself. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Joe," she said, rolling over again, trying to speak coherently, "Do you think I did all that to her? I put that shit under the door. That's it. She walked in on a pie of paper. Whatever happened to her in that room – whoever happened to her in that room – either she did it to herself, or someone else went in there later and fucked her up. But it wasn't me. If it was, I woulda finished the job right. She'd be in a hospital, not talking to Talent Relations about the shortest flight back to Cows-ville, or whatever hick-fuck-town she's from. She's fucking crazy, she probably did it to herself."

Staring up at the ceiling, Joe thought back to the night he skimmed Meg's bra from her shoulders as she pressed kisses into his palms, the night he'd taken Jackson from her and she'd trusted herself to him – ironically, the night Randy had trusted her to him, as well. 'I just couldn't leave Meg alone, could I? I had to push so fucking far that I set this shit in motion, because I'm an asshole. But...Meg would destroy my wife in a fight, bad leg or no bad leg. She couldn't have done this to herself, could she? And if she did...I don't want to be the one who pushed her over that edge. Helped take her that far.'

"Yeah, babygirl. Yeah, you're probably right. Next time, though, just ask me first."

With speed that bordered on violent, his wife was on top of him, her fingernails digging in under his eyes. "Joe, there won't be a next time. Understood?"

"Right. Right, babygirl. I meant, next time you have any questions about shit I'm doing, or shit you think I'm doing. I don't mean anything else with Meg. That's all done. You fixed it, like you said." 'Holy. Shit. What are you? What the fuck are you? And how do I...what do I do?'

Dave talked Talent Relations into a private charter for Meg; they'd agreed that commercial airlines and a physically wrecked fiancee – girlfriend – whatever – would play out poorly in the media. Randy made her swear she'd call him from the local airport, from the airport in St. Louis, from their house, and then Skype him later that evening. Kissing each other goodbye, no small amount of pain – of all types – involved, neither one could let go of the other until one of the stewardesses touched Meg's shoulder and indicated it was time to board.

"Meggie...please...just..."

"I know, Ran. I know. It's just for now. I love you, and you need to focus on the run up to-"

"This is the last time, Meg. After this, it's all promises. New Orleans, to start." He slipped his hand behind the charms on her necklaces, looking warmly at them, and she pressed her hands over his, trapping Saint Julian and the rose between their palms, both of them brushing at the bands of tape on their fingers that had somehow survived his match, their night, and several showers and more than a bit of anxious rubbing between them. "Just to start. From there-"

"Go, Ran. Before I can't go."

Randy smiled weakly, kissed the top of her head, and walked back to Dave, who had agreed to drive Randy back to the hotel. 'Always Dave, too. Bailing me out. Talking me through it.' Both men waved gently, shaken by how tired Meg looked as she walked with the stewardess toward the boarding tunnel.

"He's crazy about you, you know." The stewardess worked to keep Meg moving forward, having already been warned that she might try to bolt. "It's rough, having to go like this, but-"

"Yeah." Meg's voice was clipped. "I'll be glad to just get a nap in and then be at home."

The stewardess wisely dropped the topic, seated Meg, and left her alone for the duration of the flight, watching distantly when Sarah picked Meg up at the airport in St. Louis, Meg crying wildly on her. Sarah had been warned about Meg's appearance but could still barely contain her shock while working to dial Randy from Meg's phone.

"Meg? You're okay, right? Sarah's there?"

"This is Sarah, Randy. She's here, she's just upset. I think it's...setting in. For both of us."

Cringing, and trying to get Dave to pull over, Randy wanted desperately to walk while he talked to Sarah. He needed to move, to be as physically restless as his mind had been since he found Meg in the locker room. Dave swung up onto the shoulder, with Randy nearly vaulting from his seat.

"She's...okay...though. Right?"

"As okay as she's gonna be, Randy. And so I don't fuck up, where is she hurt? What should I not be letting her do? I know, no drinking with the vicodin, not that she's gonna take it..."

"She's bruised up. Cut up – well, deep scratches, I guess? Where her scars were. The back of her head, like you. But...that's it. Oh – her leg. She said she kicked the benches in the locker room."

Sarah quirked an eyebrow; guiding Meg into a seat in the concourse and stepping a few feet away. "Okay, wait. She got in a fight in a locker room, got bruised up, scratched up...but she kicked the benches? Not the person? Did she hit anyone? Scratch anyone? No grab marks on her? Nobody kicked her?"

"I...I don't know? It's not like anyone was watching. Security didn't care; they said she was 'useless' because she was sitting in a shower for too long. Dave cleaned her up and then she stayed in bed with me all night. She didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't push. What are you getting at?"

Sighing heavily, Sarah wasn't sure where the conversation was going, herself. "It's a hell of a one-sided fight, for Meg. She's-"

"She was fucking terrified. She didn't tell you your picture was in there, did she?"

"The fuck? No. Wait – the picture from the old rental office?"

"Yeah. It wasn't just 'like' the person who went after you, it probably was the person who went after you. That's how close they – he, she, whatever – got."

Meg had begun to fidget in her seat; Sarah now had a hundred ideas cartwheeling through her head. "Okay. Yeah...I'll have her call you once we get back to your house. If you don't hear from her right away, I'll at least text you so you know we're there. I don't know what she's up for."

"Can I talk to her real quick?" Desperation had crept into Randy's voice; he'd started to walk back toward Dave, who'd waited patiently in the SUV while Randy paced the shoulder of the road. 'I just want to hear her. Even if I can't hear her, I just want her to hear me. So she knows nothing changed.'

"Hang on. She's all yours if I can get her to tune in."

Approaching Meg from the front, making sure to announce her presence, Sarah held the phone far out in front of her. "Focus, Meg. Man-ass wants to say hi. Grunt at him so we can get back to your place and get a drink and some takeout." Still reading as a complete blank, Meg looked at the phone, confused by it. "Meg? C'mon, Meg. I'm done. Take your phone, you're almost home." Sarah waved the phone at Meg again.

Slowly, Meg reached up for the phone, looked quizzically at it, then ended the call.

Randy looked at his phone, the display reading 'Call Ended,' and had a strange, foreboding feeling.

"Meg, no! Call him back!" Sarah snatched the phone back and redialed. "Randy? Randy! Here, try her again."

Meg's expression flattened considerably, but she held the phone to her face, trying to think of what to say that wouldn't worry him. 'Hi, Sarah is right, I wasn't actually fighting anyone because none of my injuries make sense? Hi, you're engaged to a lunatic? Hi, I love you, don't leave me even though I'm crazy?'

"Meggie? Hon? Is everything okay? I mean, I know it's not okay. Fuck, I say the stupidest shit, I meant you hung up and I thought that-"

"It's okay, Ran. I...I didn't know what to say. I'm sorry...I didn't get it, I thought I was supposed to hang up. Things are okay. We're at the airport. Sarah's gonna help get my bags, and then we're going to the house. I still remember how to work the alarm system, and I'll recode it. We're going to be fine."

"You and Sarah?"

"Well, yeah, but I meant us. Me, you. I still have my tape, Ran. You?"

"Of course, Meggie. Always. I'm gonna always keep you. It's kinda funny, it's like the tape should've fallen apart by now, but it hasn't. But, hey – I need you to promise me something."

"Yeah? What's that, Ran?"

"You know how New Orleans was...really stupid, at first, but I kept telling you it would all work out and you just had to trust me, because-"

"Randy, listen to me. Before Sarah force-feeds me vicodin and I'm asleep the rest of the night." Meg was gripping the phone hard enough to turn her knuckles white, not knowing Randy was doing the same thing several states away. "Whatever you have to do, or are gonna do, or I find out you did later – I trust you. I learned...I learned I have to. You'd never hurt me, Ran. I love you. And my tape's still there, too."

"Just remember you said that, Magdalena. Things are gonna look fucked up for a minute, but I promise...there's a reason for it."

Sarah rematerialized, rolling Meg's suitcases behind her, jerking her head toward the parking lot. "We have to go, Ran. Luggage is here, Sarah's ready. Sooner I'm home, sooner I'm safe. Skype later?"

"I promise, Meggie. I'll call you after the show."

Pills taken, a ridiculously large order of Thai on delivery eaten, and Meg agreeing to a temperature-checked and open-door shower with Sarah in the bedroom to keep an eye on her until she was dressed, both women were eventually able to settle into something that resembled sleep once the home alarm was recoded. Meg left the laptop next to her on the bed, wrapping her arms around Randy's pillow in their bedroom. 'Now I can justwait for his call.' The house show was smallish; she knew Randy wouldn't have much to do other than go back to the hotel with Dave. 'And I don't have much to do other than wonder what I'm supposed to be trusting him about.'

"This is much better, baby. Don't you agree?"

"If you don't stop talking about it – because I know where this is going – I'm going to-"

"You're going to buy me another pair of shoes just for thinking that. Don't fuck with me, Joe. I can wreck you, and you know it. All those reports – and that stupid fucking picture – you think corporate won't blame you for that disaster in the locker room? So how about you shut the fuck up, unless you're gonna agree with me, and hand me your wallet?"

Gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw, he passed her his wallet. "Okay. Okay, relax. You asked if this was better. If you're happy, then this is better. You didn't exactly let me finish the sentence. Just stop talking about it when we're at shows, even if we're behind closed doors."

"You were gonna tell me to shut the fuck up. I don't think I needed to let you finish the sentence." Joe's wife patted him on the head and threw his wallet at his feet. "Don't wait up for me. I'll be out shopping. Or something. And you've got your little show thing to do tonight. Have fun!" Her voice was syrupy and fake, and she nearly slammed into Randy on her way out of the locker room door.

'Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck...how long was he standing there? Did he hear the part about the picture? Oh, fuck. I'm dead, now. Everything is over.' "Uh...Randy? What's up?" Joe's tone was cautious, and he was bracing for the fight he believed was coming next.

"Nothing. Script has us together all of a sudden. You set that up?"

"No. I...uh...know you wouldn't exactly...uh..."

"Look." Randy let himself in Joe's locker room, shutting the door firmly behind him. "I know you cared – maybe still do – about Meg. Whatever. We both knocked the shit out of each other, you...eventually...left her alone, Meg and I are...well, whatever you can be when you're us. It's Meg. You know the deal." Randy never moved from staring directly into Joe's eyes. "So...whatever the writers are doing, we need to make it work. It's not like she won't be watching us from home. She doesn't need to be scared that we're going to kill each other on top of whatever else she's dealing with."

"Ri-right...but I don't get why..."

"Some shit with Colby. Who knows. It's the run up to Mania, they pull out every stop they can. I nosed around, you get a better push afterward if you put up with eating shit now. But you didn't hear that from me, either."

'Something doesn't add up.' "Okay. What game are you playing?"

Putting the few inches he had over Joe to good use, Randy stood and backed him against the lockers. "The game where the woman I was going to take to New Orleans – back home, her home – after all this work bullshit was done ended up getting the shit kicked out of her at an arena that was supposed to be safe. The game where now I can't see her because of it, because nobody knows who or what is out there, and it risks everyone else getting hurt. The game where I don't want her sitting in our house terrified that you and I are gonna try to intentionally maim each other because we have to work together."

Joe's brows were still furrowed, and Randy's smirk wasn't doing much to lighten the mood, but he but kept talking as though he didn't see the look on Joe's face at all. "I'd honestly rather beat you until you can't breathe." Backing up a few steps, Randy worked the tension out of his shoulders. "But...I'm trying to do the right thing, here, because at some point you used to love her, and I'm really hoping that means you'll at least respect her enough to make this into a professional interaction instead of a clusterfuck."

'And I made that happen. I made her get hurt. My wife never said if she was the one who hurther, or how that worked out...maybe Meg just snapped...but if I never took that picture, or had those reports...this is the one thing I can do to fix it, and that fucking bitch I married can't stop it. It's work. I have to do it to keep the money coming in. No money, no shopping, and she won't like that.' "Okay. Okay, I hear you. I'll get into the script. Let's just...be calm."

"Let's not be anything. You show up, you work, you leave me the fuck alone. And Meg. I don't want her telling me you've been calling. I'm telling you I want safe matches, and then I want you to disappear with that thing you drag around backstage."

"I hear that, too. I get you, Randy. I won't bother her."

Sliding out of Joe's locker room, Randy's smile was positively disturbing. 'Good. That's the start of a truce. Hostile but manageable. Now all I have to do is turn warm-ups and run-throughs into grudging, tolerable...likeable...things. And keep my mouth shut. And wait for Useless House Show Number Nine Million And Two, or whatever the fuck.'

True to plan, Randy gradually thawed toward Joe. The praise was grudging and took pliers to work from his mouth, but it eventually came. Compliments were so few and far between they practically needed to be caught on film in order to be proven as real. To Joe, it was as though the absence of Meg left him enough room to move back into Randy's life, and he'd honestly missed having him around. Really, he'd missed having anyone around. His wife had alienated most of his friends, and what damage his wife hadn't done, Joe's tumultuous end to his relationship with Meg had taken care of the rest. He was an island backstage; people worked with him as the script called for, and then left him alone.

Jon and Renee backed away from Randy as he moved closer to Joe, not knowing what game Randy was playing at, but read his actions as the ultimate betrayal of Meg. Renee struggled with whether or not to tell Meg; Jon struggled with whether or not to beat the shit out of Randy – an issue which almost came to a head one night at a hotel bar. Randy's attempt to have a quiet drink after a particularly trying day in which his cell phone reception was such garbage he couldn't call Meg turned into having several drinks and thumping his phone end-for-end against the surface of the bar. Jon, unfortunately, caught up to him after having had far too much whiskey himself. Randy wanted to tell him what he was up to, but had to walk away because the whole interaction turned unmanageably hostile.

He didn't manage to leave before he caught the bottom of a heavy glass tumbler to the back of his head, however. Feeling the blood running sticky and free down the back of his neck, Randy saw his way up to Dave's room, praying he wasn't out on a triage call. Dave didn't know what Randy was playing at, either, but if Meg wasn't upset by it, he saw no reason to put his nose into it. At least, not until he was trying to put lidocaine into the back of Randy's head and sew the cut closed while Jon pounded on the hotel's thin bedroom door.

"Whatever the fuck you're doing, Randy, it's enough already. Having fun taking more people on a ride?"

"None of you know what I'm doing, so why don't you all back the fuck off?"

"It looks like you're Joe's new coach and mentor, and after all the shit he put Meg through, that's a dangerous place to be. Half the roster thinks you broke up with Meg, the other half thinks you're just a steaming pile of shit and are back to the way you acted when you were with Sam."

"And since nobody fuckin' knows, and since Meg isn't bitchin' to anyone about it, does it make a difference?"

Dave rolled his eyes and tugged harder than he needed to on his final stitch. "Do you want to find out the hard way that it did make a difference to Meg? Because we all know how that ends, and one of these days she's gonna get that shit right."

"Goodnight, Dave. Thanks for the pep talk." 'Okay. Fine. You win. Sooner instead of later. Time to earn a set of Tuesday-to-Monday plane tickets.' Randy threw the door to Dave's room open, knocked Jon to the floor, and made off toward the elevators, his head spinning for so many reasons. Back in his room, he managed a static-laden call to Meg, who sounded tired and worn. He waited til she fell asleep on the line, then dialed Sarah.

"Hey, man-ass. Your girl's knocked out pretty good. Not eating the way I want her to, and her mood is shitty, so I think the vicodin are hitting her harder than normal. Her leg is a mess. That ortho of yours almost tore into her today, but I shut him down. She doesn't need that shit right now."

"Yeah, no kidding. She's not getting any calls from anyone here, is she? Or e-mail? Texts?"

"Not that I know of, why?"

"Just remind her that I told her to trust me, and if she's getting hassled by work – work from here, I mean – to ignore it. It's all politics."

"Gotcha. You think that's why she's so funny about eating and her mood is such garbage? Other than her missing you like crazy, I mean."

"Could be. Oh, and...well, nah. Nevermind. I'll figure it out. Just keep a close eye on her. The last time she got...unsure...like this...it didn't end well."

"Oh, I know. I damned near beat the shit out of her before the gala. Not that I was supposed to tell you that, but oh well. Water under the bridge. And what are you tryin' to figure out for her, man-ass? Another surprise?"

Chuckling, Randy smiled at his phone. "Yeah, you could say that. Just trust me."