Much love to all of my readers and reviewers: Nattie, Alice, eyeliner, Mom2, psion, Chelle, and anyone who's joining me for the first time. I hope to hear from you, either in review or in PM!

Monday night's show went off splendidly, the communication between Joe and Randy was stellar, the win was convincing, the crowd was actually starting to get behind Joe, and things seemed to be turning around a bit. They were convivial toward each other backstage before saying their goodbyes at the hotel, Joe's wife trying to glare down Randy and failing miserably, as he held the elevator door open for her and complimented her perfume. 'Tomorrow's gonna be a different story, asshole. Enjoy this while you can.'

Renee didn't talk to Randy after the pre-taped interview on Tuesday. Jon vacated catering as soon as Randy entered, rather than acknowledge him. Dave did little more than grunt a greeting at him, and Nell hid behind Dave while he did so. Randy almost couldn't have cared less; his night was finally here. 'Well, no. I need to care. I need to set shit right.'

Cornering Nell was the easiest place to start, and it led him directly to Renee as well. He'd moved quietly enough to hone in on their conversation in catering without being noticed, and was unsurprised to learn it was about him and Meg. If it wasn't under such pathetic circumstances, he'd have been willing to smile, even to tease Meg about it in their shower later, but there was too much work to be done between now and his match. Cautiously, he edged around table after table, trying to weave his way toward them without attracting their attention or interrupting them as they sat, knees together, facing each other at a table.

"I just...Nell, I can't understand Randy. I haven't talked to Meg about it. She won't answer the phone and when she does she says she doesn't want to talk about work, but I feel like I'm going to slip and just blurt shit out."

"Blurt which part out, love? The part where Randy is Joe's new best friend? The part where he's got no time for any of us, anymore? Or the part where it looks like Meg's just not important to him, but doesn't know it?"

"Any of it. Jon refuses to talk to him, and I can't say I blame him, even though it's killing him. He lost Joe, he's pretty much only got Colby, and Colby's a neurotic mess. I mean, cracking Randy in the head with the glass at the bar was over the top, but...something's up. Jon said Randy didn't even react, other than to push him out of the way after Dave sewed his head back together. You'd think they would have beat the shit out of each other, and then...done whatever two assholes do to patch things up."

"Renee...I don't know. If we say anything to Meg, we can make it all so much worse for her. What about Sarah? Have you talked to her?"

"Only for a minute, but she said Randy's fine. That he sounds happy, says nothing's wrong here and that we're all getting along fine. I didn't have the heart to disagree with her, because she sounds like she's got her hands full with Meg. Mostly..." Renee trailed off, not sure where to go with the thought until Nell reached for her hands, squeezing them reassuringly. "Nell...she sounds overwhelmed. Mostly, when I call, I just let her talk. She doesn't know what she's doing, either. She's worried Meg's falling apart. She's worried she's not taking care of her the right way. She's worried someone's out there. It's not just Sarah-for-Sarah anymore, it's Meg, too. Sarah's finally got someone she can talk to about what happened to her, but she..."

"But Sarah can't actually talk to Meg." Nell's voice flattened considerably. "And she probably doesn't want to put it on Randy, since Randy's practically paying her to be there. Like a fucking glorified babysitter – and who wants to complain to their boss, right?"

"She can talk to me."

Yanking herself toward Renee's lap, missing, and landing on the floor in true Emma-fashion, Nell vaulted out of her seat and away from Randy's voice, neither woman realizing he'd walked up behind them while they spoke.

"Look...I mean, listen. Whatever." Randy rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck before crouching down in front of the two, trying to crowd them enough to be reassuring without feeling imposing. "Nothing you said was wrong or out of line. I know what it looks like. Jon's pissed off, it looks like I don't give a shit about Meg right now, Sarah probably is in over her head and hasn't said anything to me, Joe's in this big storyline with me where we have to work it safe and cozy and believe me...it isn't...comfortable. Maybe for him, it is, but I'm not. Just...Meg's okay with things. I promise, she is. You just have to trust me on that one. When she left..."

"Randy, you have to tell us what the fuck this all is!" Renee was trying to push Nell from her lap, pull Randy into it, sort things out in and out of her mind, and failing at all three.

"I can't, Renee. Really...I haven't even told Meg what this is. Before she left, I asked her to trust me and she said she would. Every time I talk to her, I ask her to trust me. Then, I ask her if she still trusts me. She says she still does. If that's enough for her, that's gotta be enough for you and for Nell. I'm trying to tell you two that things are okay. They're okay for me and her, and they're okay for you two."

With one leg still sticking up over Renee's lap, Nell piped up from the floor, thoroughly confused. "What do you mean, okay for us?"

"Like you and Renee aren't worried some fucking psycho is out there? Don't ask me how I know, because I can honestly tell you I don't know – but I know you're safe. Meg could come back tomorrow, and we'd all be fine."

"Okay, no, that's bullshit. What do you know?" Renee was angry, and it showed. "You can't say things like that and not tell us what's going on."

"I promise you, Renee. Nell. It'll all make sense. Can you...can you both just trust me? Just for tonight, trust me. I'm gonna talk to Jon, too, okay? I just need you to give me one night."

The girls locked eyes with each other, hundreds of unspoken things flying between them, before they both stood and walked away, leaving Randy still crouched by their chairs, unsure of what to take from their sudden and silent departure.

It proved to be much more difficult to find someone who didn't want to be found, which was the case with Jon. Randy had to circle the locker area, catering, triage, weights and sauna, and monitors and staging more than a few times before he managed to catch up with him, and that was only by literally running after him and cornering him outside of a bank of half-set merchandise tables. Fully recognizing that the situation could end with one of both of them going through the tables and landing in a heap of t-shirts, Randy forced himself to remember to tread lightly – it wasn't just Meg he was talking about, in this conversation, it was Renee as well.

"Don't expect another fuckin' apology. Actually, no. I'm fuckin' sorry I didn't hit your sorry ass harder. I'm fuckin' sorry I didn't get up and go after you down that fuckin' hallway. How about that?"

"Jon, shut the fuck up for a minute. How about, you were – no, you are – right?"

Jon spun on his heels, ready to walk away from the entire conversation, but Randy grabbed him by the arm and shoved him behind a table, taking up a position on the other side of it. 'It's space between us, at least. He's got to go over it, or around it, but it's gonna slow him down enough to listen to me.' "I talked to Renee."

"Stay the fuck away from her, and I fuckin' mean it." Moving from edgy to lethal, Jon leaned over the table until he was inches from Randy's face.

"Now that I have your attention, Jon, can we talk? Can I have thirty seconds of your time, or Ambrose, or Moxley, or whatever you want to give me before you punch me in the face? I didn't say I didn't deserve it. I didn't say you shouldn't lose your shit on me. Though, Renee and Nell were nice enough to just sit and listen, and I didn't even catch a slap at the end of it."

Fingers blanching from digging into the table, wrists shaking from the force he was using to hold himself up, Jon slammed the edge of the table into Randy's legs, knocking him forward, bringing their faces perilously close together. "Clock's tickin'."

Wincing, Randy struggled for a way to continue. "I know how this shit with Joe looks. Meg trusts me, and she hasn't said she has a problem with what's going on. Every way you can think of to ask her about it, I've asked her. I can't just lock him in the back of a lighting and pyro truck and throw in a match, and you know that." 'Well...you know as much as I'm letting you know.' "Imagine what Meg would be like if she had to sit home and worry about me and Joe pulling bullshit with each other, instead of just getting through it."

Jon slammed the table forward again, this time managing to back Randy up a few inches. "You're a fuckin' liar. Meg left, then you buddied up with Joe like nothin' ever happened. Like he never put those scissors through the door, like he never hit Renee, like he never stalked all our girls at that club, like his fuckin' wife never set up that bullshit at the airport, which means it never meant shit to you that Meg coulda killed herself in your hotel room. I hope she leaves your bullshit ass." Jon moved to go the long way around the back of the table, but Randy lunged in front of him, legs aching.

"Listen to me. It does matter. All of it matters. That's why I'm doing this."

"What the fuck are you doing, Randy?" Jon gripped the edge of the table again, fully prepared to slam it a third time into Randy's legs.

"You just have to trust me. I'm trying to fix it. It's safe for Renee and Nell even if you don't believe me, and I'm trying to make sure it's safe for Meg." Randy threw his hands in the air. "I heard you at the hotel, talking to Dave, after Meg got the shit beat out of her. I get it. You're not wrong for feeling that way – that Meg is a liability – but I can promise you, I'm gonna take care of it."

Abruptly, Jon let go of the table and opened his mouth, ready to explain himself, but Randy waved him off. "Nope. No. You weren't wrong. You were afraid. And before you get pissed off – you love Renee, right?"

"Wh – yeah, but what does-"

"Okay. A long time ago, Dave called me out on shit like that. That I loved Meg, but I didn't know how to tell her the right way, or show her the right way, and I was so scared that shit I couldn't control was gonna take her away from me that all I did was react to things. I didn't ever think. Sometimes I got it right, usually I got it wrong. When you said Meg needed to go home, you were mostly right. So...what I'm trying to say is, because I love Meg, and because I know you love Renee, and because we both want to keep Nell and Sarah safe, and we want to try to make sure Dave doesn't have a coronary, you're just gonna have to trust me with this Joe thing. That all this shit I've been doing is for a reason."

"Bullshit. It's too much shit for too long. Meg won't even talk about work when I call her. She doesn't ask about what we're doing, she doesn't check to see who came up or got sent down, nothing. Does that even sound like her? She lives for this place. If I get Sarah on the phone, she's a mess. She's afraid, Randy. Afraid someone is still out there, afraid Meg's gonna fall the fuck apart on her and she won't know what to do – and what is she supposed to do, asshole? Did you tell her what she's supposed to do if something goes south and she's gotta make a decision?" The blank look on Randy's face was the answer Jon expected, and he banged the table on the ground before continuing. "Sarah told me she moves Meg's pills somewhere new every night, because she's scared of what could happen if Meg finds them all, and she's scared she'd have to send her to a hospital – does that tell you anything about how they're doing? Did you even know? She won't tell Renee or Nell because she knows they'll lose their shit. Know why Sarah even talks to me? Meg called me and said Sarah was breaking."

It was Randy's turn to grip the edge of the table, more for support than for the restraint and weaponry that Jon had used it for. "No. No, that doesn't sound like Meg. And no, Sarah doesn't tell me that stuff. Neither did Meg. Just...you have to believe that Meg trusts me. I just didn't know it was-"

"Then fucking stop it and figure out...I don't know! Figure something out!" Jon banged the table up and down, furious that Randy somehow had missed things that seemed so blatant. "Whatever you're doing isn't working! It's killing them! Everyone!"

Flipping the table forward and bolting around it as though Randy might snatch out at him if he didn't move quickly enough, Jon lunged past the end of it, not bothering to elaborate on anything – though certainly mulling over Randy's comments.

'And what the fuck are you doing? What the fuck are you up to that she needs to trust you? Why would you even ask her that – it's prolly a huge part of the reason she's falling apart so bad. Sarah, too. More shit I need to talk to Sarah about. And whatever you told Renee and Nell. Somethin' tells me this is the time for a four-way call, or speakerphone, or whatever the fuck girls do when they all need to talk to each other, but are gonna add me into it, too.'

Randy dug his cell phone from his gym bag and hoped he could catch Sarah, even briefly, before his match. He knew nothing would be televised that evening, but couldn't promise it wouldn't go up on the internet as fast as it went live from the audience on someone's phone at the arena. Ideally, he'd be able to keep Meg from it until he could get home, where his explanation could come next to her in bed with her laptop between them later that night. 'If I time it right, maybe she'll be just out of the shower when I get there. No, better yet – just getting in. I always liked company. So did she.' The phone continued to ring and ring at their house, to the point it was starting to unnerve him, but Sarah caught it before the line kicked over to voicemail.

"'Llo?"

"Sarah? Sarah! Everything okay? It's Randy. The phone rang forever – are you two-"

"Uh...yeah. Yeah. Things are fine." Sarah's tone may as well have said, 'I'm lying outright, just so you know.'

"Sarah...tell me the truth. I'm not having you stay with Meg just to blow sunshine up my ass."

That was all it took. Meg was asleep, curled around Randy's pillow in their bedroom, so Sarah had all the privacy she needed to finally unload everything on her mind. She had been hiding and re-hiding Meg's pills, just as Jon said, terrified Meg would do something drastic due to loneliness or pain. She'd wanted to talk to Meg about what happened in the locker room, but didn't know how to bring it up and didn't want to be a trigger.

"Really...I just want to be able to go to the fuckin' grocery store...go anywhere...without worrying that the world's gonna end."

"Sarah, then just go. Meg's gotta be able to handle herself. Or take her with you. Or make her go on her own."

"Oh, fuck no. She can't handle it. We tried that; the grocery store. It wasn't crowded or anything; we went at a really off-time, but someone brushed up behind her while we were pickin' out ice cream and she damned near got in the freezer. It wasn't intentional, it was just a narrow aisle and that lady had a cart and so did we. Completely innocent, and she about lost her mind. After that, Meg won't go out unless it's to her ortho appointments. She even fired the cleaning lady, Randy."

"Wait, she what?" A tech knocked on the door and called ten minutes; Randy knew he had to press Sarah for details and more to get himself into the right headspace before he went out.

"Don't worry, I caught up to the girl and explained Meg was full of shit. Now she comes when Meg's at her ortho appointments, but I didn't tell her that's our schedule. You know...just in case anyone's...out there." Sarah sighed. "Meg just wants to wall herself off. She doesn't want to go out and she doesn't want to let anyone in. I'll order takeout, and she won't even let herself be in eyesight of the door when it's delivered."

"Is she drinking?"

"Sometimes." There was an obvious shrug in Sarah's voice. "I'm not gettin' into that fight with her. When she does, I cut her off of her meds. She knows upfront she has to pick whether she wants to be shitfaced or wants to hurt. Lately...it's been shitfaced. I can't stop her from everything, Randy. If I start telling her she can do this or she can't do that, she'd put me out of here – and you know it."

"I own the house, Sarah."

"Bye, Felicia. You're really gonna pull that card on her, you own the house so you can decide who stays and who goes? She'll be out that fuckin' door so fast it won't even shut all the way behind her if you tried tellin' her that she didn't have a say. If she told me to leave, I would go, because at least then there's a chance she'd realize she fucked up, can't take care of herself, and ask me to come back. She can't even get her own ass up the stairs unless I help her, and don't you think she's not cussin' me out the whole way. Her leg's a mess and nothin' they do at the ortho is fixin' shit. So, if Meg wants to drink, I make sure she doesn't get the pills. She's too small and too wrecked to fight me on it. Plus, in a fucked-up-romantic way, she says it reminds her of you. She's always tits-deep in tequila." Sarah chuckled dryly, even though Randy had his head buried in his hands.

After a protracted silence, one in which Sarah knew she had to try to steer him back onto a safer mental path, she groped for conversation. "You know what else, Randy? And this one's real fucked up, so you gotta tell me what this means." Another stagehand pounded on his door and called five minutes.

'What could be more fucked up, Sarah? She changed her last name to Jackson?' "What else, Sarah? Surprise me, really. How much worse can it get?"

"No, not worse. Just weird. That tape's still on her. Go fuckin' figure. She showers every night, soap and all. I sit in the bathroom with her because of the hot water and razors and – Jesus fuckin' Christ, that sounds like shit to say out loud – but that tape won't fuckin' come off. The edges are greyed up and all, it slides around and I know she can take it off because the glue's gone and it's pretty much just down to...well, whatever that tape shit is made out of, but you'd think it woulda ripped or somethin' by now, right ? I mean, yours went to shit, didn't it?"

Smiling, closing his eyes and reliving that day in triage, the hot-cold sensation that traveled through him right after Meg had traveled down him, his half-joking request to play with the surgical tape rewinding through his mind, Randy looked at his left hand. His band of tape, while no longer sticking to him, was still sticking to itself, its edges also grey and slightly curled. He could slide it on and off just as Meg could, though admittedly it spent more time on his hand than not. Talent Relations had pointedly asked him not to wear it to the ring, as it was becoming fodder for rumors, but as soon as he'd made it back to his locker room it went back on his hand.

"Actually, Sarah...no. No, it's like hers. Still on. Er, well, together. And on. I can't wear it out anymore, though. They got on my ass about that, but Meg knows. We talked about it. She was cracking up that in some back room, Corporate Kane was crying about the company's stock in fan-girls depreciating."

Sarah snorted. "You two really are some fuckin' creepy voodoo shit, just like Jon says. And a dumbass sense of humor besides. Glen would be so amused."

"Meg would say it's part of her charm." Randy allowed his smile to spread just a bit further. "Hey...is she around? It's too late for an ortho appointment, and I kinda needed to talk to her before I go out tonight."

"She's sleepin', but I can get her. Hang on."

Doors banging, Sarah being ever-cautious to announce her presence and call ahead into the bedroom from a safe distance, Randy felt something from rage to sorrow to hate arrow its way through him when he heard Meg strangle her way through a scream that started with his name and ended with her gasping her way through desperate begging for Jackson to leave. Sarah told Meg again and again that she could talk to Randy, he was on the phone, to just breathe, and slowly, both of their worlds seemed to come back into focus.

"Ran...what...are you okay? What happened?"

"Nothing, Meggie. I just wanted to talk to you. Are you okay?"

"Not worth lying to you, is it?" Meg sighed, heavily. "No. I'm...not okay." Sarah, edging ever-closer toward the door, felt a weight come off her shoulders with Meg's words, and let herself out of the room. "I just want to come back. The company – liability – said it's not a good idea, not til after-"

"You talked to them? What – when did that happen?"

"A couple days ago. Sarah went out to the store for...I dunno. Sarah went out, and I just...Ran, I don't want to be here anymore. You're not here. I don't know what I'm doing, anymore. I want to go back home. I...I called corporate, and...I promise...I was so calm. I was so good. Told them they could have my ortho reports, I'd find a way to pay for my own security if I had to, or I'd stay somewhere else away from the main hotel and just travel over, but," Meg's voice, already pressured, already wild, finally hitched hard and broke, "But they just kept saying no, not til the run up to-"

A stagehand pounded on Randy's door and called thirty seconds. The man's voice hit Randy's ears as a thick and distant echo, the time and sound barely making sense to him. 'Thirty seconds til...okay. No, that's good. Thirty seconds, Meg. Just hold on for thirty seconds.' "Meggles? Breathe for a second, okay? Hold on. Don't...don't worry about coming back, right now. I want to see you. I want you here, too. You trust me, right?"

Trying to force her throat to loosen, to let her speak, she shuddered in enough air to force words back out. "Yeah. Yeah, Ran, I do. Always. I love you."

"Okay, Magdalena. Just hold on, tonight. I know you heard them call the door, so-"

"Be safe, Ran. I'll...be here." Meg dropped the line before Randy could get anything else out, which was just as well – her voice was pure sorrow, and he felt things ice over, shatter, ignite, and then become shockingly still inside him. The next stagehand to pass by opened the door, waved his arm into the room, and waited until Randy came into the hallway.

"Everything okay, sir? You're usually up front much sooner, so if there's anything we can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask. I'd be more than happy to-"

"Kid, go somewhere."

He hadn't meant to scare the stagehand – who he later realized was probably an intern, young, unsure – so badly, but he had exactly one chance. He'd had every conversation he could, offered every explanation that was allowable given the circumstances, dipped himself in the wax of Meg's misery and found nothing left except to light the wick and see what damage the flame caused.

"Where's Dave? Something's not right. Something's really not right." Renee shifted her weight from one foot to the other, nearly bouncing back and forth in the restroom she and Nell had holed up in after their conversation with Randy.

"Well, he's not going to be in here, love. It's a womens' bathroom, not a medic's room." No less edgy, Nell hadn't stopped looking in the mirror, playing with the front edges of her hair, straightening frizz that didn't exist, twirling swirls into and out of the stray locks that dangled limply around her face.

"Let's go. We've gotta find him. Whenever stupid shit happens, Dave is the only person Randy listens to anymore." Dragging Nell by the arm, Renee hauled her from the restroom, both women nearly plowing into Jon. He'd been pacing wide and rapid circles in the hallway, talking to himself, pounding his fists together, oblivious to the women in the restroom five feet away from him.

'The fuck is he doing? The fuck is all this shit that he's doing? I don't want him near Renee. Or Nell. He's gotta talk to Sarah. He's gotta fix all this shit with Meg. How the fuck did he hear me at the hotel? How the fuck did he hear me and not kill me after I said that? I'd kill him if he said that about Renee – to just send her ass home – I do love her. I couldn't send her home. I said that about Meg? What the fuck was I thinking? He said I was right, though. What the fuck is he-'

"Jon! Love, where is Dave? Still in triage? We had the strangest chat with Randy and we're trying -" Nell was cut off by Jon.

"Yeah, me too. He was -" Renee then jumped in over him, trying to be helpful.

"Something about trusting him and fixing things?" She raised her eyebrows and looked hopeful, but her thin smile gave away her thoughts: 'We don't know how to trust him to fix what we don't understand is broken?'

"Jesus Christ. Can we all just fuckin' walk to triage while we half-assed talk? Jon tried to speed the process along; half-sentences weren't helping them find Dave any faster, though they likely all knew where he was.

Pounding on the door brought Dave's usual response about the room being triage and not demolition, which brought Jon's usual response of nearly kicking through the door in order to open it, at which point all three of them started talking over each other about Randy, his odd requests, vague statements, and thinly veiled promises that things would start to make sense after tonight. Dave tried to listen to all three of them at once before looking at them as though they were children and slowly raising one hand in a gesture to stop.

"I'm not the emotional janitor, tonight. Usually that's Meg's job; she's not here. Everyone needs to put their grown-up undies on and deal with their shit. Whatever Randy is doing is probably stupid, likely involves Meg, and I'm one-hundred percent sure I don't care. I can't keep doing this. For you, for him, for her, for anyone." With that, Dave abruptly turned back to the counter behind him, folding and re-folding washcloths that were in perfect order even before his fussing at them.

After a quiet, stunned silence, Jon, Renee, and Nell all started up again, louder, faster, more urgent, demanding that Dave do something – call Meg, talk to Randy, get Sarah involved – just figure out what they couldn't manage to piece together on their own. Nearly wringing the threads in half on a washcloth, Dave finally bowed his head and sagged his shoulders, holding a hand up again in a singular gesture to stop.

"He's dumb, heartbroken, and volatile; what the fuck about that do you expect me to fix? You want to talk to Meg or Sarah, you do it yourselves. And whatever the fuck the three of you know about what's going on, start talking. To each other, not to me. You all know something; figure it out. Wouldn't Meg say that? Figure it out?" He shook his head, and reached for the wall phone with the intent of calling Talent Relations, not just fearing – but knowing – his night was about to get worse, even as the three intruders into his triage bay huddled around his exam table, calmed themselves, and began the first honest conversation they'd had about Meg, Sarah, and Randy since the debacle in Randy's locker room first happened, all of them trying to organize the things they'd hidden into an honest and ugly picture.

Randy was meant to wrestle with Joe against – well, he'd mostly forgotten who, and he didn't care; he had other plans meant to start midway through the bout. It wasn't unheard of for a partner to 'botch' a move as part of a planned turn geared to change the ending of a match, or intended to create staged friction between teammates. In this case, however, there would be nothing fake about it. Randy had taped his hands far more thoroughly than was necessary while he talked to Meg, wanting to be able to continue his in-ring work as long as possible. Going out to the crowd, he was ready to turn everything he'd built in the past weeks on its head. 'Joe's had so much time to buy into what I've been selling. Time to cash the check and go home.'

Halfway through the match, he and Joe were supposed to both be in a corner, waiting for the referee to force one of them out after a tag. Randy made it to two, before spinning to face Joe, shoving him backwards, and connecting with his face in a very enraged, very unscripted, and completely solid punch. Staggered, Joe stood stupidly for a moment, and allowed Randy to connect again. And again. Then came boots and kicks, and Joe realized that not only were they off-script, but Randy was off the reservation, mentally, their opponents long since having vacated the ring.

The fight was very real. Very, very real, and it took the crowd a few seconds to fully understand what was happening in front of them before the chants and screams began. Joe wasn't ready for Randy, for his rage, for the level of preparation that had gone into the attack, for the hisses and screams that came at him – 'You did this to her...She's not yours anymore...Don't touch Meg ever again...Don't touch Sarah...Don't touch Renee or Tenille...I should kill you...' Fighting back became survival, and Joe knew he needed to put whatever he had left in him into making sure he didn't die in front of an audience. Randy had no interest in throwing Joe into padded barricades or making sure he took easy bumps on the ringside mats. Joe's shoulders connected again and again with the ringposts, his legs with steel stairs.

Seeing the camera crews pack it in, and quickly, Randy knew he could – and would – escalate. He could feel the split in his lips deepen when he smiled at Joe; he imagined the expression looked well beyond crazed. Something in Joe's eyes told him so. In that moment, Joe's survival turned from fighting into blocking Randy's attack; blocking the attack turned into trying to run. His attempt to run was a mistake; Randy had made short work of one of Joe's ankles, and keeping balance was impossible. Trying to stumble, then crawl, then force his way to his feet and toward the ramp, to the back, spitting blood the entire way, Joe knew salvation – or at least, security services – were behind the LED board, if he could make it. He also knew his nose was broken; that was the first thing to go with Randy's first punch.

Leaving the ring ended up being a mistake Randy capitalized on. Once in the back, well past the curtains, headed toward the lockers, Joe watched the world swim around him the same way it had back in Glasgow, the night Meg had found him in the hallway, though he knew she wouldn't be there to save him this time. No steel stairs backstage, Randy instead found plywood tables, spools for wires and cables, and chairs that hadn't been tricked to drive into Joe, corners and edges down, his spine and knees all fair game. Once Joe was too disoriented to run any further, Randy chose a chair for simple ease of motion and drove it into Joe's shoulders and ribs as though it was a stamp-press, not bothering to swing it as much as to try to slam it through Joe and into the floor.

Screaming, heaving, Randy finally stopped, as much to wait for the feeling to come back to his own arms as to give Joe the false sense that it all might be over. Medics were beginning to approach cautiously, not having the slightest clue what was going on, and Joe was still trying to get to his feet. Deciding to be helpful, Randy hauled him up to vertical and gave him a gentle nudge forward, up the hall and further into the back of the arena.

"Sorry, man. Don't know what came over me. You might want to get cleaned up, Joe. You're a mess."

"The fuck...The fuck did you...why?"

Leaning in and lowering his voice, the same malicious smile that had widened the splits in Randy's lips reappeared, mirroring Meg's face so completely it was chilling. "Joe, you had that picture. I don't know how I know, but I know."

Terrified, but grateful that Randy hadn't indicated he'd actually heard his wife and wasn't sure of anything definitive, Joe moved as quickly as he could up the hall, shrugging off the medics as he went, mumbling that he – no, they – were both fine, everything was okay, there was nothing wrong, just some shit they worked out and everything was done. Joe didn't want to chance any truth slipping out, any photographs or police reports, any phone cards or break-ins, and knew the best thing to do was nothing at all other than walk numbly forward. Randy followed him, keeping an arm over his shoulders to toy with him, moving with him into his locker room and throwing the deadbolt behind them. Joe was leaning over the sink, still spitting blood, well aware Randy was looming over him. He tried to throw an elbow back toward him, but his sense of balance was so thoroughly destroyed that Randy simply pushed his arm out of the way.

"You ever really looked at the lockers, Joe? Meg did."

Making sure to bang the back of Joe's head off the lockers hard enough to open the same cut on him that Meg had given herself, Randy threw Joe to the floor before pinning his face against the locker vents with his boot.

"What, not a nice view? Try the bench. Meg did." Dragging Joe along the face of the locker vents, opening cuts and scrapes along the length of his chest, Randy lifted him over one bench and threw him across the narrow room, directly into the iron legs of the other bench, sauntering over and pressing Joe's ribs into the metal posts.

"God, Joe. You really are a mess. You know, Meg was a mess, too. Face tore up, body all cut up – she looked a lot like you do right now. You could use a shower, Joe." Dragging him by the hair, Randy started off toward the showers at the back of the locker room, ignoring the pounding at the main door. "Oh, you know what? You can get your feet under you. How about you get up and walk?" Randy hauled Joe up to vertical, his hair still a convenient handle, along with one arm – at least, until Joe's shoulder wrenched away awkwardly – only to kick his legs back out from under him. "Come to think of it, no. Meg's leg was all fucked up. Nevermind. We'll do it this way." Randy ground his heel into Joe's shin and slowly down the length of it, ensuring Joe wouldn't be getting up as they both moved toward the back of the room.

Throwing Joe against the back wall of the shower and setting the water to hot and nothing else, Randy stood over him at the entrance to the stall, continuing his rant. "You know something about what happened to her. She can't remember a thing. Maybe you did it to her. Maybe you know who did it to her. I think you're involved; that's enough for me. You're about to be the most expensive plane ticket I've ever bought, and that's fine. She's worth it."

Randy turned toward the noise at the door; he could hear arena security trying to fiddle the lock open but having no idea what key to do it with. Packing his few things quickly and throwing on a shirt and track pants despite the sticky, sweaty film drying on his skin from the fight, he glanced one last time at Joe, writhing miserably under the hot water but unable to lift his arms high enough to do anything about the temperature.

"Fuck you, though. Fuck you, because we had a friendship. And I trusted you with her. Fuck, I basically gave her to you, and look at what happened. Look at what's left of her."

Randy walked into the hallway, directly to Talent Relations, told them where to find Joe, detailed what he'd done, refused medical attention for his face, and half-jokingly asked how long he'd be suspended. As he suspected and hoped, it was just shy of a week – he'd made for good film and much of the damage he'd done to Joe was cosmetic rather than immobilizing, though the booming echo of one highly-irate McMahon coming through the phone suggested he shouldn't plan on any repeat performances. 'Not that I give a shit. If you fired me, you'd be doing us both a favor and fucking your pay per view besides. Already no Punk, then no Orton? Actually...please continue your wonderful decision-making process. Keep yelling."

As the conversation continued, Vince walked the line closely enough that Randy actually became hopeful, starting more than a few sentences with 'I ought to,' and putting the poor Talent Relations liason in the position of repeating sentence after sentence in a strange game of Telephone-via-telephone. Fortunately or unfortunately, however, starting that night Randy was only to get on a plane and not reappear until the following Monday. After that, the fines, fees, and continued verbal dressing-down were all static and background chatter; his mind was focused on getting back home. He smiled at the threats of dismissal, and then stood up and walked out. It was an early taping; if he rushed to the airport he'd be back in Saint Charles and on the couch with Meg and a bottle of wine in time for a late dinner. Walking out at a trot, dragging his gym bag behind him, planning to grab his suitcase as quickly as possible from the hotel, he called Meg's cell phone and left a message telling her he loved her, not to worry about anything, and to trust him, it would all make sense very soon.

'It worked. It's not enough time for New Orleans, not the way I want to take her there, but it's enough time to see her. To go home.'

"The fuck happened to you?" Joe's wife raised an eyebrow at him after he left himself in the door, not bothering to open it for him, pointed toward his face, then shrugged and went back to their bed in the hotel.

'Well, that was nice.' "I...lost a fight. Over that shit in the locker room with Meg. Randy said he knows I had the photo. Knows I was involved. Maybe he heard you, that day you were mad at me and talking about it. But he lost his shit on me during a match. Got his ass suspended and sent home."

"Well, didn't you hit him back?" His wife was incredulous. "He probably did all that just to go see that crazy-as-fuck thing that he's fucking. Mary Tina, or whatever its name is."

"Uh, yeah, I hit him back, but don't you think I...we...have bigger problems? He said he knows I was involved. You want me to lose my job? If I do, there goes the money and the paychecks, in case you haven't thought it all the way through." 'Jesus fucking Christ, her name is Magdalena. Yours should be Crazy Fucking Bitch, but it wouldn't all fit on a driver's license.'

For a fraction of a second, a very dangerous look crossed his wife's face. "How'd you get the photo? You said the cleaning service, right?"

"Why?"

"Don't fuck with me. You think Randy wrecked you? You don't even know what I can do."

'I know you can't get me ice for my face. Or painkillers. You don't hold me the way Meg did, you don't put me back together. It doesn't matter what you do, because I'm broken either way, aren't I?' Joe sighed heavily, and sat down on the bed next to his wife. "The cleaning service. Can I take a nap? This all hurts. I don't feel-"

"Roll over, first. I get mine, then you can get yours. Nap, or whatever."

To say Sarah was surprised to see Randy at the door was an understatement; he'd texted her after getting a cab at the airport, but hadn't indicated he was back in town. Asking how Meg was, Sarah said she was back to napping, thanks to a good cry and a dose of oxycontin. For Randy, his timing was finally perfect. He could wait for Meg to wake up. He knew he'd have to explain the bruises on his face; further explain his issues with Joe – he knew she'd want to watch the show, which was probably on a hundred websites by now – but he was home. 'And she's going to be angry, and confused, I'm gonna hear about this...I know I need stitches...so does she, but I don't know how to fix what's wrong with her. She can tell me. It's okay.'

"The fuck are you doing here? You look like you went ten rounds with Tyson, and he doesn't even box anymore. Get your ass in here. You got on a plane looking like that?"

"I'm suspended, I went half of one match with Joe, I can't come in til you move, and I sat in first class. It's not like that many people saw me. Oh, and hi, how are you? It's good to be home, assuming you didn't redecorate the place in pigeons." Randy threw Sarah into a teasing, one-armed hug, dragging his luggage in behind him. Meg shifted slightly on the couch, but Sarah waved her hand at her prone figure dismissively.

"Figures; the one time she actually takes the pills like she's s'posed to and you show up. And she didn't take 'em with food, stubborn bitch, so she's knocked the fuck out, but at least she doesn't hurt. She didn't sleep for shit last night, you could tell her leg was just killing her. And forget the brace – you even mention it, she blanks out and starts talking about Jackson. I just leave that one alone. She was so upset – and since I didn't know you'd be here, man-ass, you coulda said somethin' when you called – I really pushed for the pills, and she actually agreed. Murphy's Law; she's sleepin' like the dead instead of awake enough to see you. And of course, it's oxy."

Sarah slugged Randy's arm at the end of her rant and earned an actual wince for her effort. Joe had landed more blows than Randy realized. 'At least it'll be something to keep Meg occupied, when she's done chewing me out for how stupid I was for doing this. It was stupid, but...I missed her so much. It's been too long since they made her leave. I just want her to touch me. It doesn't have to be anything else.'

Somewhere in her dream, Jackson dissolved and was replaced by a scent that became substance, then sound, then form, and Meg was aware of a complete absence of fear and then the feeling of fingertips tracing her collarbones. 'Better. This is better. Too much oxy and I have nightmares. Maybe this means it's wearing off?' Contented with the new pictorial her mind was offering her – and completely unaware it was drawn from reality, based on Randy's cologne and the gentle brush of his fingers against her as he passed by the couch on his way to deposit his suitcases in their bedroom, Sarah still behind him and yammering a mile a minute – Meg curled deeply into the couch, hoping against hope that she could play in this mental possibility for a few minutes before her brain inevitably kicked her back into Jackson's hell.

In her new mental playroom, everything was soft Oriental carpeting and highbacked dining room chairs, textured wallpaper and thick sunlight, she and Randy surrounded by each others' scent of roses and cologne, coffee and croissants, day giving way to night and a moon so broadly silver that it could barely fit the sky, yet still held all the gems from Meg's pendant before Randy pulled it down from the sky for her, sliding along frogsong and warm evening bayou air before coming to rest on their bed, her fingers tracing every line of his body from memory even with her wrists tied neatly, gently, to his. Here, in this space, there was no part of Jackson, no trace of Joe, only sand from the beach in Blaine and bottles of tequila that glowed from campfire light, distant piano and more pressing, more lilting words – Amen, amen, over and over. Slowly, her dream gave her the small pleasure of a smile, and Meg carefully drew the quilt closer to her face, tucking her chin down against the couch, trying to trap the vision against reality.

"She's gonna...shit, I don't even know what she's gonna do when she wakes up. I can't fuckin' believe you're here, never mind what she's gonna think. What the fuck did you do?" Sarah's smile was broadly genuine, and she leaned into the frame of the door, still prattling on, watching Randy float through their bedroom, touching Meg's green-glassed bottle of rose oil, playing with the cords of her headphones, and finally pushing open the curtains that Meg had left closed since she'd been sent home.

"I...handled some shit with Joe." Randy sat on the foot of the bed, unconsciously reaching up for Meg's pillow. "Meg told you we were working together, right? That we ended up in a storyline? I made it look like we were all patched up. Friends. And then I just...when I talked to Meg...I always planned on turning it around on Joe, believe me. But everyone – and I mean everyone – was just a wreck tonight. Renee and Nell couldn't even talk to me. Jon was this close to really hitting me with a table, not just messing around. Then I talked to you and Meg, and it..." Randy trailed off. "Especially with Meg. I didn't just turn it around on Joe, I hurt him. It just had to wait for a house show. It bought me a week off, some bullshit fines or penalties or something, and end result is, I'm home. And luckily, it looks like before she saw any of it online. I wanted to talk to her first, watch it with her, shit like that."

"So it was like, what, a five-grand plane ticket?"

"More like fifty. I think they said fifty? Whatever, doesn't matter."

Sarah staggered and held onto the doorknob. "Fifty? And you paid for a first-class ticket on top of it? Do you shit hundred dollar bills or something?"

Near-positive he heard Meg whine from downstairs, and absolutely sure he didn't know if it was a good or bad sign, he waved Sarah from the doorway. "I needed to see her. And somehow, Joe had something to do with all this. It's not just in my head, Sarah. Or yours." Heading down the hallway, he lowered his voice considerably, but continued. "There's just something that doesn't sit right about it. Everything that happened to you. And to Meg, before you – she went to Jackson because of Joe. Plus, all that crap at the club and the airport because of his wife. The...overdose. Which, yeah, was because I left, but she was so insecure at that point because of all of the bullshit that Joe and his wife put her through."

"Call it what it was, where the pills are concerned." Sarah shrugged. "Meg's a dumbfuck when she wants to be. And no, the way that harpy was treating her, treating Renee, the shit she pulled...I can see your point." She trailed Randy down the stairs, stopping before the den, Meg having stilled considerably.

"My point is," Randy continued, quietly, moving toward Meg, "It always comes back to Joe. Or his wife. Why would this be any different? And what was fucked up was, I called him out on it – I said I knew he had something to do with it, and he never argued. Never said I was wrong, didn't tell me to fuck myself – nothing."

Sarah shook her head as she reached for her car keys, Randy maneuvering himself into the small space on the floor between the couch and coffee table, stroking Meg's shoulder. "Behave, okay? You...gave me a lot to think about. I'll be at my place til you go. Just call me when I need to come back, or if you need me to pick anything up." 'Whatever is wrong, fix it. I tried, it's not working. You're all she's got. And now there's a lotta shit on my mind, where that asshole is concerned. I want our photo back...she never said she had it. Does she still have it? I want my friend – your girl – just...Meg – I want Meg back.'

"Everything's fine, now. We're home. We're going to be fine."

"I know, Randy. Looks like the black eye was totally worth it. Before I peace out – there's all the leftover takeout in the world in your fridge, there's wine and tequila, whiskey, there's-"

Randy had turned back to Meg, hand still tracing her shoulder, the tattered round of tape spinning each time it snagged against the strap of her tank top, not hearing a word Sarah was saying. 'I came home, Meggie. Just wake up. I'm right here. We kept each other, just like we promised.'

He drowsed in and out next to her, still on the floor and awkwardly angled over the couch, not noticing Meg wake up until she'd gasped and nearly folded herself around his shoulders, unfolding herself just as quickly, trying to tilt him gently back to kiss him and inspect the damage all at once, eventually giving up on the couch and sliding down to the floor with him.

"Mmh...Meg...careful. Watch your leg." Too tired, and now too sore, to organize much of an argument, Randy gave up against her hands and pulled her into his lap.

"I died, didn't I? Both of us?" Meg whispered.

"What? Meg, no. The fuck?" Randy, completely confused, tried to work enough feeling back into his arms to turn her to face him. "Meggie, why d'you-"

"Your face," Meg traced a fingertip lightly along Randy's lips, grazing the edge of the splits, then running her thumb under his eye, the bruise that was forming drawing a hiss from him as she skirted it, "And I hurt. And you look hurt. And you shouldn't be home. Something happened."

"Yeah, Meggie. A lot of things happened. I promise you're not dead. And, I'm supposed to be home."

"So...everything's okay now?" Scared and entirely unconvinced, Meg searched Randy's eyes for impossible answers.

"Honestly? Probably not. But for the next week, I'm home. We're gonna have dinner and I'm gonna explain everything, and if you swear – and I mean swear – to me that you're okay for a glass of wine, then we can do that, and I know I need a shower, and-"

Gently, Meg touched the tip of her finger to his lips, trying to still him. "Ran. Shh. One week. Everything's okay." From his lap, she pressed as much of herself around him, nearly into him, as she could, knowing he'd wrap the quilt from the couch around them next, keeping out just as much as he was keeping in. 'Whatever he needs. He went through...whatever all that mess looks like...because he needed something – I need to help him find it. Or I need to stop being the reason he keeps looking. Do what you're good at, Meg, or get good at something else.'