Eighteen Month Lease

by TechnicolorNina

Alison comes to collect the rent, and takes something else with her during the eighteen months that even Benny can't take away. Mark/Alison.

Title: Eighteen Month Lease
Author: Nina/technicolornina
Pairing/Characters: Roger/Mimi, Roger, Collins, past Collins/Angel, Benny/Alison, Mark, Mark/Alison, Mr. Grey (whom I took the liberty of naming "Alexander")
Word Count: 10 348
Rating: Hard R or soft NC-17
Genre: Romance/General/Angst
Summary: Alison comes to collect the rent, and takes something else with her during the eighteen months that even Benny can't take away.
Disclaimer: I own Anthony's album and did get him to sign it, but I do not own RENT.
Spoilers: Post-RENT, starting in January and continuing onward.
Warnings: THIS IS A MATURE STORY DEALING WITH ABUSE. Other warnings: Main character death (not Roger), adultery, a couple of sex scenes that are actually almost graphic enough to be called that(!), a bit of language, rare-pair, naked!Mark. I *think* that's it. This isn't a story for the faint of heart, though I promise it's not darkfic.
Notes: While the challenge said "based around" the song "Crush" by the Dave Matthews Band, this fic is more "inspired by" it. Why? Because as I read the lyrics, this bunny bit me in the ass as hard as it could and wouldn't let go, and demanded I write a rare-pair showing what Alison might really be like.
Special Thanks/Dedications: Written for rentchallenge on LJ last summer. I don't remember who wrote this challenge, but it is the longest oneshot (by more than 6,000 words, if I remember right) that I've written in almost six years of writing across at least eight different fandoms, and so this one's for you.

---

JANUARY

The first time she comes, Mark is unprepared; does not, in fact, even know she is coming. He's doing the breakfast dishes - which is to say washing two coffee cups and a plate that at one point held a piece of toast made with week-old bread - when he hears the knock at the door.

His first thought when she steps through the door is that she is a no-nonsense kind of woman; she reminds him of a tiger, with her smooth and silent way of walking and innate sense of power and incredibly green eyes. His second thought, in the half-indifferent but appreciative mental register of the natural aesthete, is that she has very nice legs. His third is that he has no idea who she is.

She introduces herself as Alison, and it is then that he realizes this must be the little WASP girl Benny married. Of course. She pulled Benny out, but somebody still has to collect the rent. He offers her coffee, pulls out a chipped and faded mug, pours out some of the little that's left and puts it on the table with a few of the packets of non-dairy creamer and sugar that he and Roger have picked up at a thousand nameless fast-food restaurants with a thousand anonymous condiment bars. She uses a creamer and three sugars, he notes, and then drinks. Mark finds himself impressed almost against his will. Very few people can drink Roger's coffee without watering it down first.

Then the truth comes out, and while its past implications anger Mark to the point that he can hardly sit still, its current consequences are a pleasant surprise. He suspected for quite some time that Benny was gouging them on the rent, but not to the tune of four hundred a month. According to the inspectors who apparently came to the building and made themselves right at home while Mark and Roger were out one day, their rent should be no more than nine hundred a month - once the building is brought up to code. Mark thinks of the work he's done, often hard and degrading, to pull in the thirteen hundred a month and wants to fume. Obviously it's not Alison's fault; she never even looked at the papers on the building until she found out about Mimi, and she at least has the decency to inform him they don't owe rent this month or next month because it has, in effect, already been paid.

There is an unpleasant flip side to this news: they have to move for three weeks. Now that the building has been inspected, it seems there are two choices for Mrs. Alison Grey-Coffin: bring the building up to code, or have it demolished. Mark wonders why she doesn't opt for the latter option - certainly the cheaper of the two - but doesn't ask. Instead he calls Collins after she leaves, asks if it'd be too much trouble to stay for awhile. Collins is glad for the company. Mark is glad for the roof over his head.

When he and Roger return to the loft at the end of the month, Mark discovers that the skylight has been boarded over. He is glad for the extra warmth, but misses the light.

FEBRUARY

Mark does not expect her to show just to inspect the building, but she does. She slips off her shoes as soon as she's in the door, the absentmindedness of long habit, then looks surprised when her stocking-clad feet touch down on a cold wooden floor. Mark is impressed to realize she has no plans to back down. The floor is hard and cold instead of warm and covered in soft carpet, but she refuses to be deterred. She asks permission to examine the changes to the loft. Her voice is low and unagitated and has all the sound of a woman who grew up in the most exquisite comfort. Mark is reminded of the cups of warm honeyed tea his mother gave him at bedtime in the winter when he was a very small child. He thinks of it again when she looks up to the skylight and he can watch the lamp play off the coils in her hair, carefully twisted and turned in the work of an hour.

She takes the coffee he pours, drinks it thoughtfully as she runs her hand lightly over the splintered woodwork on the outside wall. He has grown so used to her silence that when she speaks, he jumps.

"This should have been fixed."

Mark shrugs. "I can probably find some sandpaper -"

She shakes her head, and he watches the honey drip down the coiled hair to collect in little pools of light in the tucks between pieces. "This isn't your job. It should have been sanded and covered." She frowns. "It feels drafty."

Mark shrugs again. "You get used to it."

She glances at him sharply. "It's been like this?"

He nods and shrugs yet again. He wishes he could do something different. "Ever since I moved in."

Alison eyes the wall as though it is something to be attacked, and he thinks again of his first impression of her, a rhyme from his grandfather surfacing in his brain: tyger, tyger, in the night. He doesn't remember the rest of it, or even if it's right. He thinks it is. Just that little bit.

"I'll make sure this is fixed by next week." She knocks on the wall to emphasize.

Apt enough.

MARCH

Now Mark expects her, even knows when she'll show: eleven in the morning on the fourth day of the month. This time she has an umbrella; he sees it, muted wine-red, in just a flash before she manages to get the key to turn and steps into the relative shelter of the lower stairwell. She doesn't come up immediately, and he suspects she's stopped at Mimi's. Mark hopes there aren't any ugly scenes enacting themselves below, and is on the point of going down to check on things when he hears the knock at the door.

She looks unruffled as ever, though her fashionable winter boots have given way today to sneakers and rain-wet blue jeans that are cuffed at the bottom, with black leather patches on them. It's a ridiculous fashion. Mark decides it's cute in a not-quite-unconscious way. He serves up some tea - they are out of coffee - and a treat he got from his mother on her most recent visit, a chocolate cake with peanut butter icing, Mark's favorite. Roger has demolished about half of it entirely on his own, but Mrs. Cohen has, in the finest Jewish tradition, given them enough to eat for the next twenty years with leftovers to hand out afterward, and there is more than enough for Mark to offer to a guest without feeling embarrassed about running out.

She takes a piece of the cake and eats it, not commenting on it at all. At last she puts her fork carefully on the plate that has only a single mended crack in it, and speaks with just a hint of amusement in her voice.

"My compliments to the chef."

Mark smiles. "I'll tell her."

Alison gives him a look he is unable to read, but that is, for all its confusing undertones, undeniably curious. Mark hastens to clarify.

"My mother came to visit a couple of days ago. She seems to consider it her life duty to make sure I never go below a size thirty in jeans. Apparently it's some kind of sin to let your son go without cake for more than a month."

Alison laughs. It's a low and cultured sound that brings to mind Mark's high school, working the tech booth at school musicals and hearing the parents beneath him trying to sound all refined while they talked about how good the singers were, how beautiful they looked. He has always taken a bit of pride in knowing that without him, the singers would have been inaudible and all the makeup in the world would have done them no good without lighting effects.

He gives her the money they owe, Roger's half in cash and his in the form of a check that's a hundred short. He tries to apologize, tells her he'll have the rest in a week. She waves him off and leaves him with the impression that he doesn't need to worry about the money being late. He puts her dishes in the sink to wash after she's gone, and she puts the money in her purse.

He watches her umbrella bob away through the sheets of rain. Later he will think that something is not quite right in the state of New York, to paraphrase some old author, and it will keep him awake until the early hours of the morning.

APRIL

Mark knows something is wrong from the minute Alison walks in the door. He knows because her hair is down. It's not even styled, in fact - pretty much just hanging down the sides of her face. He knows it even more when she pushes the long, honey-blonde locks away from her face as she sits down, clearly unused to having her hair out of its twists and coils, and takes the customary cup of coffee. He asks her how the bruise got there. She laughs lightly, embarrassed.

"I was leaving the house yesterday and my heel got caught in the rain mat," she explains. "I just - I fell right into the side of the door. It looks horrible, doesn't it?"

She displays the bruise for just a second. It's so dark that even her undoubtedly expensive makeup can't hide it completely, and she brushes her hair back over it after only a moment.

"I can't believe I was so stupid," she murmurs. Mark doesn't quite register it until later, but when he does, it bothers him almost more than the bruise itself.

It's not his place to comment - he's just the tenant who happens to keep something to eat and drink handy for these visits - and so he doesn't, but there's something vaguely familiar about the shape, something that strikes Mark as distinctly un-door-like.

Alison takes their money - Roger's cash, Mark's check - thanks him for the coffee and the little Mexican cookie stick things that he thinks might be called churros. He doesn't know for sure - all he knows is that the pretty Hispanic girl who runs the register at his favorite Mexican dive always puts half a dozen of them in his bag if he orders to go, and they keep forever, and taste slightly of rum, and he's eaten there twice in the past week. Alison seems amused that he eats them without knowing what they're called.

As he sees her out the door, he realizes what it is that bothers him so much about what she said. Stupid, not clumsy. But her fall doesn't sound stupid to Mark, or even clumsy, really - it sounds, in fact, too plausible to be true.

He goes into the bathroom to take off his glasses and wash his face.

He always sees better with his eyes closed, and what he sees frightens him.

Roger sees Mark's distress when he comes home, but does not know from where it stems, and Mark gets very drunk that night so he can try to forget about the fact that Alison's front door is apparently shaped very much like a man's hand.

MAY

Mark isn't home when Alison comes in May; he waits until fifteen minutes before she usually shows, then hurries down to Mimi's with an envelope containing their rent and asks her to give it to Alison for him. He goes out and walks the city streets until dark, then returns to the loft.

Mimi catches him on the stairs.

"I gave her your money," she says. Mark nods and wonders why Mimi has to stop him when he already assumed she would do as he asked.

"She seemed really upset you weren't in."

Mark processes this information and is on the point of going upstairs when something occurs to him.

"Mimi, what was she wearing?"

Mimi looks at Mark as though he's lost his mind, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he has. Then Mimi answers, and he knows better . . . and wishes he didn't.

"Black skirt and a long-sleeved blouse. Funny, isn't it? It was almost seventy degrees today."

JUNE

He goes to Catscratch the night before Alison's usual visit; her last two visits have unnerved him, and he wants to chill. He appreciates the beauty of the female body, nobody could deny that; he is, after all, a young American male with a relatively healthy set of hormones. But unlike the majority of men who seem to frequent the place, he takes his true enjoyment from the fact that these are women dedicated enough to take physical art to an almost-perfect form. They do things he thinks he would probably do every single day if he were more coordinated. Flexible he can manage - nobody has ever asked him to, but he knows he is capable of a full split - but coordinated has always been just a hair's breadth out of his reach. He can barely balance on one leg without hopping around like some kind of half-assed cricket. Dancing like a strip of silk in the wind? The very idea is laughable.

He's nearly ready to go when he sees some new girl standing up on the top level of the stage, preparing to join the dancer below. She is wearing a red silk kimono, and when she turns her head, he can see the wooden sticks holding her honey-blonde hair in an elaborate twist. And when she makes her way down the stairs, stripping off the kimono to reveal a black and red outfit that Mark thinks must defy all the laws of physics, he can see her eyes are bright green and her cheekbones high and smooth.

The resemblance is slight, but it is enough, and he doesn't sleep that night.

JULY

Mark forgets Alison is due in July. She doesn't show on the Fourth, reasonable enough, but somehow it manages to slip his mind entirely. So on the fifth, he is laying around the loft wearing nothing but a pair of jean cutoffs that look like they were made for a male stripper. He's even put in his contacts in an effort to keep the wires on his glasses from making him sweat any more than he has to.

When he hears the knock on the door, Mark is still too spaced out from last night's celebration - including lots of pot and alcohol, courtesy of Collins and Roger - to register the fact that it might be anyone but Mimi, who will probably poke him playfully in the stomach and then ignore his almost total nudity while asking where she can find Roger.

As he opens the door, he remembers that Mimi stayed upstairs last night, but it's too late to do anything but hope it's not his mother on the other side of the door.

Alison looks nonplussed.

"Is . . . is this a bad time?"

Mark blinks in confusion before realizing what Alison must think.

"Um. No. I just . . . hot. It's hot in here. Come in." He finds a shirt thrown over a chair and pulls it on quickly. He's instantly stifling, but at least he's dressed. Alison sits tentatively at the table, her pantsuit light and breezy. Mark envies her. They don't make clothes like that for guys. Angel's face swims into his mind, unbidden, and it's as though they've lost her all over again. Mark turns to the kitchen to provide him a chance to collect himself, pours iced tea, and brings it to the everything-else room, which is what Mimi has taken to calling the large room in which they don't sleep, cook, or take a piss. They just do everything else there.

Alison takes the tea and sips it. Her visits have stopped being short and formal; now they talk about her vision for this part of the city (she wants to make it a cultural center of a kind; no condos need apply) and his vision for his work (he's working on an AIDS documentary with actual facts and narration; maybe it'll protect someone, if it's ever finished). They talk sometimes about what Alison does with her friends (tonight she is going sailing, then to a Broadway play) or what Mark does with Roger and Collins and Mimi (last night they plied Mark with four bottles of beer, then tried to talk him into getting a tattoo). Mark hasn't failed to notice she never mentions Benny, but is still wearing a wedding ring. He wonders if they've separated. It has, after all, been two months since Mimi's observation of Alison's incongruous long sleeves on a hot day, and since she has no reason to tell him every little facet of her life, they could well have split in the past two months.

He knows that assumption is wrong when he sees the marks on her arm, dark and ugly against her pretty tanned skin, but he can't help wishing it were true and then wondering why.

As she leaves, she touches the side of his face in a way that nobody has since before Maureen, and he shivers, and is suddenly terribly afraid he already knows.

AUGUST

When she shows up she's agitated, restless, a caged bird instead of a prowling tiger, near tears. She tries to master herself and can't. At last she opens her mouth to speak. Mark hates the words he hears.

"I'm - I'm sorry. It's just - it's been a very - trying - day, and I'm . . . " she gives him a weak kind of smile - "I'm not feeling my best. Don't worry about it, it's stupid."

Mark noticed the limp when she came into the room, and he suspects he might know why Alison isn't feeling her best.

"What did he do, Alison?"

She gives him a look that is intended to be sharp, but Mark sees the truth hiding behind it and knows that she knows he can see it. She tries to hide it anyway.

"Who?"

Mark could continue this line, but he knows it will get him nowhere. So he tries a different approach.

"How many doors are you going to walk into before you realize marriage vows don't say 'to hit and neglect?'"

She turns her head away, all traces of a smile gone.

"My marriage is none of your business."

Mark sets his cup down.

"You're my friend. It's my business if you're getting hurt."

She's silent. At last she lowers her head, and Mark sees a tear fall and land on the table. Alison's voice is barely a whisper. Her hand goes to her stomach, and though her words could be interpreted any of half a dozen ways, Mark is pretty sure he knows what she's talking about.

"I didn't want to . . . he made me."

Her eyes are haunted when she finally looks back up at him, and there are small streaks in her makeup where her tears have run. Mark wipes the few remaining tears from her face with his thumb, then rests his hand on hers.

"That's not stupid, Alison," he tells her, and it is as though she is a china cup and he has hit her with a hammer; her entire face breaks open and she sobs. Mark knows that what he's doing is against all the rules, she may be abused but she's still Benny's girl, and he decides he doesn't care. He sits next to her, pulls her head to his shoulder, and lets her cry in the relative privacy of his arms, away from his eyes and his questions. At last she quiets, and when she does he feels like he should offer her a washcloth for her face, but he's missed this kind of contact and even though he knows it probably would sound like he's capitalizing on a tragedy, he doesn't want to let go.

And for a long time, he doesn't.

SEPTEMBER

Mark is on the verge of calling the police before she finally shows up, a week late and looking as though she hasn't slept in at least that long. He supposes it sounds stupid, but after what he's seen and heard and what he knows of her, he can't believe she wouldn't show on time without a good reason, and it bothers him that she didn't call. It's unlike her. She takes her coffee silently, and drinks it in the same somewhat uncomfortable silence of their first meetings. Mark imagines he's blown it. Blown what, ha-ha, isn't that the question? Why is he hurting so much for this woman he couldn't stand twelve months ago?

Because then she was a name, and now she is a face and a history and she likes cheesy horror movies just like Mark does and her favorite song is by the Beatles and the man Mark used to consider his best friend married her and then backstabbed him and Mark blamed it on her but she didn't know anything about it, and after all the shit she went through she still wanted his baby and Benny took it away from her without giving her any say at all because he's really only ever been in it for her money and her name, and he doesn't give a shit about kids because in Benny's mind all they do is make noise and cost money.

"It still hurts," she murmurs, and Mark jumps. He imagines it does, and feels awkward and doesn't know what to say. She raises her eyes to meet his, and they are still haunted and beautiful and Mark really shouldn't be thinking these things. She breathes.

"I don't mean . . . " she trails off. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

There is another long and empty pause.

"You're the only one who knows," she finally admits, and it is at once as though a heavy load has been lifted from Mark's shoulders and another burden put in its place. She trusts him . . . but only him, and that's a hard load to carry.

She nearly forgets the money, leaves it on the table, and it is because she does that it happens.

Mark sees it, and goes after her, catches her wrist lightly to keep her from falling when she turns on the very edge of the stairs, and her hand folds into his and he kisses her, standing on the landing outside the apartment that she owns and he rents, and she needs someone to do what Benny won't and he can feel her trying to melt into him, and this is a line he never intended to cross but right now someone could tell him down is up and he'd believe it, because anything can happen in a world where he can fall for his ex-friend's wife.

OCTOBER

He doesn't mean for it to happen, but the minute she's in the door they're kissing and her hands are in his hair and down his back and he can smell the sweet citrus of her cologne and her hands are incredibly small and Mark is suddenly very, very glad that Roger chose this weekend to go on some kind of trip with Mimi that will have them out of the building until Monday, and he knows he really shouldn't be doing this and he cares for a couple of seconds and then Alison kind of steps around him so she's not standing with her back almost pressed to the door, and when she finally pulls away Mark is extraordinarily confused and only knows that he really kind of wants her to kiss him again, Benny be damned, and he sees the look in her eyes and knows if she does kiss him again it won't stop at kissing. It's gone too far for that.

It doesn't stop either of them, and Mark hates himself a little for doing what he knows is called cheating when he takes her hands and leads her into his room, but as she slips her blouse off he can see the latest damage, what looks suspiciously like a blow from a fist on her back and marks on her shoulder, and while he knows two wrongs don't make a right he can't help but think maybe she's never had what he can offer her, gentle hands and gentle kisses, and maybe he can keep her from becoming some kind of hollow shell because of Benny's fuckery.

He knows it hurts her when she lays on her back in wait for him, but he doesn't know how to move her without drawing attention to her injury and he doesn't want to do that, so finally he just finds a way to support himself so he's not adding any weight to her injuries. The idea works until she pulls him down so they're skin-to-skin all over, and then he hears her breathe sharply as his weight lands on her so he just links his arms around her waist and rolls over, pulling her on top of him, trying to land at least somewhat close to the middle of the bed so they won't fall off - Mark has been known to have balance issues, and once upon a time Maureen very much enjoyed teasing the hell out of him for doing exactly that.

Alison moves slowly, almost reluctantly, and Mark suspects the bruises on her back and shoulder aren't her only injuries - just her only visible ones. He sits up and slides back before she can be given the chance to harm herself further, then reaches for her when he sees a look of hurt confusion cross her face. He kisses her, runs his fingers over her breast and down her arm.

Mark is afraid of causing her pain, and so in the end he goes down on her, the only way he can think to offer her what she needs without hurting her. He can tell from this angle that yes, there is more damage, and he thinks that either Benny has been forcing her to have sex too soon, or that maybe the bastard just hasn't gotten the word that making love is supposed to be good for both parties involved. He kisses the wounds he can see, bruises everywhere, hears the hiss of her breath and feels her tense all over. He puts his hands in the small of her back and massages her skin with his fingertips, trying to make her relax. No, she's never had this kind of contact before, at least not in the past couple of years, he's sure of it. He finds it unlikely in the age of mass media and oversexualization on television, but she might not even know what he's doing. He can't see her face particularly well - his glasses are folded neatly on the nightstand, out of the way - but he tries to catch her eyes, let her know she won't be hurt.

This room has been a place of sanctuary for Collins after his positive diagnosis, both Roger and Mimi in withdrawal, and it will be a place of sanctuary for Alison away from the hurts of the daily life she probably didn't even know she was getting into. He won't scare her. He won't let her be scared. If he has to sit here all day and half the night, she'll know she's safe with him. She'll know she can trust him.

At last she relaxes, and when it is over and Mark has her folded carefully in his arms, she falls almost immediately asleep. Mark suspects it is the first true sleep she has had since Benny's last big bastard act, and so he leaves her there, goes and makes a cup of tea for himself, and considers what the hell he's gotten himself into now.

NOVEMBER

Roger is there, and Mark wishes he wasn't. There's nothing he can send Roger to do and no way to ask him to leave the loft, though, and so when Alison comes in and sits down at the table with a cup of coffee he has to sit across from her as though they are nothing more than the most tentative of friends, as though the slight flush in her cheeks is nothing more than her makeup. They make strained small talk, long pauses between her questions and his answers and her answers and his questions.

She's barely out the door before Mark feels Roger's rage descend on the room, an almost tangible presence. The silence spins out for close to a minute, Mark resolutely keeping his back to Roger, trying to pretend nothing's wrong. Sometimes it works. But then Roger speaks, his voice dangerously soft, and Mark knows he's lost that battle.

"How long have you been fucking her?"

Mark turns around and does his best to school his face into a mix of indignation and surprise.

"What?"

Roger doesn't need to get up to fill the space; he manages to seem ten feet tall even though he's sitting in the window seat, leaning back against the wall.

"How long have you been fucking her?" Roger repeats. Mark opens his mouth with no idea what's going to come out, but before he can say a word Roger cuts him off.

"I thought you didn't want anything to do with corporate people." He looks out the window, but it's clear the conversation isn't over. "Guess I was wrong." He looks back at Mark coolly. "How much did she cut your half of the rent?"

Mark can feel his cheeks flush; he's angry, angry that Roger would think he'd sleep with someone so he wouldn't have to pay, and hurt, hurt that Roger of all people could believe that of him.

"I'm paying the same you are, Roger. Four fifty a month. And I'm not fucking her." Which is technically true; he can't lie to himself, he's imagined it several times since last month, but what they did can hardly be called fucking. Sex, maybe, depending on who's defining it, but not fucking.

"Sure you are," Roger retorts. Mark isn't sure if it's a straight agreement with his first statement or a sarcastic rebuttal of his second; it works both ways.

When he goes to bed that night he has a bruise on his jaw; Roger has a couple bruises of his own, but Mark keeps his fingernails kind of long, and Roger has more scratches than bruises. He's also got a girlfriend to send Mark scathing glances and kiss it better.

Mark falls asleep imagining Alison kissing the side of his face.

DECEMBER

Alison doesn't show up when she should; Mark knows it's happened before, but it still alarms him. Two days after she's due he gets a phone call from her. She wants to know if Mark wants to go see a show. She has two tickets, and Benny's on a sudden business trip that he described as "completely unavoidable." Mark knows better, knows that what Benny's really doing is fucking some young girl too naive to know he's lying when he says he's getting divorced, but it's probably easier for Alison to believe a business trip than admit the truth to herself.

So Mark goes, tells Roger he'll be out for the night, ignores the venomous glare that answers this statement, and at six-thirty he's in a restaurant he never imagined he'd go to in his wildest dreams. He's afraid to even order anything; it all looks incredibly expensive, and probably is. Then he remembers the money in his pocket, Roger's half of the rent, and realizes why Alison never showed up. They are going to pretend that Mark can afford to take her out like this, because Benny probably never does unless he thinks it'll look good for him.

They eat, they leave for the show. Mark finds it an irony better than an opera that the show Alison has tickets for is West Side Story. It's good - at least, he's pretty sure it's good, he has a hard time concentrating - but he can't help thinking about Roger in the loft, and Benny in some nameless hotel room with some faceless girl he'll use and throw away like so much trash, the mess his life has become.

They go back to Alison's apartment in Westport after the show, have a cup of coffee, and then throw pretense out the window. They are two lonely people living lonely lives in barless prisons of their own making, but for just a few minutes they can pretend there is a key that will render them free to go.

JANUARY

The phone rings, and the voice on the other end is for a moment totally foreign to Mark; it sounds as much like Alison as he himself sounds like Humphrey Bogart. Then he realizes it's her, she's just horribly panicked, and the idea that Alison can panic scares the hell out of him. Finally he manages to get her calmed down enough that he can understand her, and what he hears is just as bad.

"I'm at Mimi's. She went to get her money out of her room and collapsed."

Mark runs into Roger's room and shakes him violently, all but screams at him that Mimi is ill, and pelts toward the stairs without waiting to see if Roger is following.

Alison is sitting on the floor with Mimi cradled haphazardly in her lap; they are too close in size for Alison to pick Mimi up and move her. Mark carefully takes Mimi out of Alison's arms and is on the point of moving her to the sofa when Roger skids into the room. He completely ignores Alison, simply looking at Mark with Mimi in his arms, somehow horribly accusing.

Alison speaks first.

"We can take my car."

Roger turns on her.

"Take your car where?"

Alison thankfully ignores the accusatory tone in Roger's voice. "We have to get her to a hospital."

Mark shifts Mimi in his arms so he has a tighter hold. "Roger, get a blanket. And Mimi's coat."

The blanket is easy to find - Roger just takes one of Mimi's bed - but he can't find her coat, even after Mark puts Mimi on the sofa and starts hunting with him. Alison's voice breaks through their hunt.

"Let's go already," she urges. Mark turns to tell her they can't just take Mimi into the cold with no coat and realizes that Alison herself is coatless; she has somehow managed to get Mimi into the jacket she came in. He opens his mouth to argue and then knows there's no argument to make; every second is precious. He picks Mimi up again, holds her tightly so she won't slip, heads for the door. Roger looks incredibly sulky, but there is a definite undertone of panic to his expression, and he hurries to open the doors ahead of Mark.

Mark has never been in a car with Alison before, and he knows before they've gone a single block that she is a fearless driver. Either that, or she's simply afraid for Mimi.

They are sent home, told that they can come back to see Mimi tomorrow, and Alison returns them to the loft in silence. Mark takes their money off the table and tries to give it to her. Alison waves it off.

"I think you're going to need it," she murmurs quietly, clearly so Roger won't hear, but Mark knows what she's talking about.

They're probably about to start planning a funeral, and they'll need every penny they can get.

FEBRUARY

Mark is sitting alone with Mimi when Alison comes in; Mimi has been slipping in and out of a coma for nearly a week, but Roger has been here so long and so often that he's becoming ill from lack of sleep. Mark sent him home this morning.

Alison sits down next to him.

"How is she?"

Mark shakes his head and tries to hide his tears. "It's only a matter of time now."

Alison nods and kisses his forehead, then holds him when he finally loses it. She seems to know somehow that it's nothing personal; Mimi's just one of his best friends, she celebrated - if that is the right word - her twenty-second birthday in this hospital bed, and now they're just waiting, waiting for Mimi who is so much more alive than any of them, to die.

Mimi's eyes open and she gasps for breath in spite of the oxygen line she's been connected to.

"Roger - "

Her voice is nothing more than a cracked and dying whisper, but Mark still hears her perfectly. There's never enough time, never enough, Roger will never be able to get a subway fast enough in time, and then Alison slaps her keys into his hand.

"Get him."

Mark stares at her.

"I'm parked on the fourth level," she says. "Get him. I'll stay."

Mark thinks they must make it back to the hospital in record time; he urges Roger to go ahead while he signs them both in, then catches up to him as Roger all but runs down the hall. Mark can hear Alison's voice, low and calming, as they approach the room.

"Just hold on, honey, he's coming," she murmurs, and though Mark can't hear the response there must be one, because there is a pause and then she repeats herself.

As they turn into the room, Mark sees Alison, and it is a nightmarish kind of deja vu: she is sitting on Mimi's hospital bed, cradling Mimi in her arms to keep her upright and breathing, her coat spread over Mimi's shivering form. She sees Roger and slips off the bed, still supporting Mimi carefully until Roger has taken her place. She lays Mimi's head gently against Roger's chest and then turns to leave the room, let them have some privacy in what will likely be their last minutes together.

Mimi grabs at her hand with a strength that's surprising.

"I'm sorry," she mouths, and Alison shakes her head, touches the side of Mimi's face in an attempt to comfort her.

"You were forgiven long ago, honey," she says, and Mark watches Mimi's fevered eyes relax just a little. "Don't worry about me now."

She leaves the room. Mark follows her. They stand in the hall and look at each other bleakly. There are no words.

The beeps from the machines slide together into a single long tone, and Mark sees the orderlies on their way. Five minutes later Roger is standing with them, and Mark hugs him tightly. Alison touches Roger's shoulder, slides a ring off her finger, and puts it in his hand.

"She asked me to make sure it got back to you," she explains, and it's then that Roger starts to cry.

MARCH

Mark is startled but tries to not be alarmed when Alison's father shows up in her place. He's tolerably pleasant, his attitude that of a man who knows he shouldn't be rude no matter how much he wants to, and Mark is forcibly reminded that the last time he saw this man, he was dancing on a table singing about alcohol and body parts and Angel and Mimi were still alive. He looks down at his hands and chokes back his tears before offering some coffee. Alexander Grey is the last man alive Mark really wants to have coffee with, but there's no point in being rude.

Her father thanks him, takes the cup, and sips it. Mark tries to stave off his curiosity, but finally he can't anymore.

"Where's Alison?"

Mr. Grey sighs, and Mark sees for the first time that the man looks exhausted.

"In court."

"Why -"

"Mr. Coffin," he spits, as though the name is a bitter poison, "attempted to break her jaw last month." He pauses, the truth an unpleasant one for high-ups like him, then continues. "Alison thought it might be in her better interest to file for divorce on grounds of criminal activity and cruelty."

The language that comes out of Mark's mouth is probably not the kind Mr. Grey hears on an everyday basis, but what it boils down to when it's cleaned up is that he's royally pissed and concerned on Alison's behalf, and when he can control himself again, he asks after her welfare.

"She'll be fine," is the answer he gets, and for that he's grateful. Mr. Grey looks as though that's not the end of the story, though, and Mark presses him for it, observing the slump of his shoulders when he answers.

"He's perfectly within his rights to demand that she prove the . . . actions . . . she claims he took against her, and she has no way to back herself up." Mark thinks the man looks pissed as a mother bear, not that he's ever seen a mother bear, of course. "Her friends seem reluctant to enter into the debate."

"Nice fucking friends," Mark spits, knowing in some small part of his brain that the man in front of him is probably shocked at his language and really not caring. "I'd do it. I'm not afraid of that bastard."

Mr. Grey looks at him with a new light in his eyes. "Would you?"

Mark looks up at him, meets his gaze. "Why wouldn't I? I saw. I knew. Nobody deserves to be treated that way. I just didn't know what I could do about it."

Mark has never in his life expected to be looked at with gratitude by some corporate big guy, but he's been doing a lot of things in the past year that he never expected, and so he supposes it really shouldn't shock him all that much.

The next words he hears scare the hell out of him.

"You do know that they may ask about the exact nature of your . . . relationship . . . with my daughter," Mr. Grey states, and no, Mark didn't know that. "Under oath, you'd be required to answer truthfully."

Mark is silent. He wouldn't have to worry about Benny; Roger would kill him before Benny ever had the chance. But Alison's done so much for both of them, and for Mimi, and he can't let Benny get away with this shit.

Mr. Grey is also not accustomed to slang, but when Mark looks up again his eyes are determined and on fire and there can be no doubt about the meaning behind his words.

"Bring it on."

APRIL

Mark leaves the courthouse in something of a state of trepidation. Benny was led away in handcuffs; Alison is somewhere behind him, and so is Roger.

He feels the blow on his shoulder, a slap hard enough to almost send him wheeling, and turns to face whatever punishment Roger has in store for him.

Instead, he sees the first real smile Roger's made since Mimi died. Roger whoops.

"All right!" he all but yells. "You walked it to him, man!"

Yes, Mark walked it to him, all right. He doesn't think he's ever seen an expression as surprised as Benny's when the bastard found out about . . . well . . . things. Apparently he never expected Mark would have whatever it takes to attract anyone, especially a woman so rich she could probably buy a small island somewhere and then build a town on it. Alison and her father catch up with them. Mr. Grey looks nervous. Alison looks nervous, too, but Mark suspects it's for a very different reason.

He's right. She asks, somewhat shyly, if she can treat him and Roger to lunch. Mr. Grey looks ready to protest but says nothing. Mark makes sure to yank Roger aside at the first opportunity and tell him to behave. Roger rolls his eyes but complies. Mr. Grey looks somewhat shocked to discover that yes, Mark and Roger really do have table manners, and really do know how to use them properly. Bronx-born Roger is a bit clueless when it comes to navigating the multiple pieces of silverware, but he still spreads a napkin over his lap and manages tolerably well.

It's when they order the main entree that Mark encounters problems. Apparently, he and Alison have somehow managed to know each other more than a year without her ever realizing Mark's Jewish. He doesn't make a huge deal out of it, but he does keep kosher, and when he tells Alison he doesn't eat veal she looks at him like he's from another planet. She turns back to her own menu and looks hurt. Mark bites his lip. Mr. Grey gives him a look that says he should really order it anyway, to please Alison, but he can't do that. The only time he ever broke kosher after leaving home, he had nightmares about a pig biting its way out of his stomach. He really doesn't want to repeat the experience.

He's torn, not sure what to do, when Roger - whose big mouth is really going to get him in serious trouble some day - speaks up for him.

"Mark doesn't eat meat that's cooked with milk. He's Jewish," Roger says, as though this explains everything. In his mind, it probably does - Mark explained the rules of kosher to him a long time ago, and though Roger will happily scarf a rack of barbecued pork ribs if they're set in front of him, he at least tries to respect Mark's confused religious beliefs and has long since stopped offering Mark things like pepperoni pizza and bacon.

Unfortunately, Alison apparently hasn't come into contact with very many Jewish people. She just tilts her head and looks confused.

"Jewish people don't eat veal?" she asks, and Mark feels horrible. He's confused the hell out of her, and after the bullshit Benny pulled she'll probably start calling herself stupid again just because she didn't know something nobody could expect her to know. Mark tries to smooth things over.

"Well . . . no," he says, and realizes just how idiotic the statement sounds. He hurries to clarify. "It's part of kosher. A lot of people think it means just not eating pork, but there's more to it than that." He offers her what he hopes looks like a friendly grin. "Don't feel bad, Roger found out about the milk and meat thing when he ordered a pepperoni pizza and couldn't understand why I wouldn't eat it." Mark decides he probably shouldn't mention that Roger didn't know why he wouldn't eat it because he'd eaten it once before. That was the time with the nightmare pig from hell. He simply forges ahead. "It's no big deal. I mean, well, it is, but it's not. I mean -"

He breaks off, frustrated at his own inability to articulate, and Mr. Grey breaks in.

"I'm sure if you want a kosher menu, we could ask for one," he says, and Mark nods gratefully. Eating out in a new place is always an ordeal; the waiter invariably never knows if what Mark's ordered is kosher or not, so the waiter will go get a manager, who will have to go check with the chef, and by that time Mark's always wishing he'd just stuck with chicken noodle soup or something.

Alison checks out the new menu with him, and when Mark gets some kind of chicken, she orders the same thing.

Mark hears Roger mutter something under his breath that sounds like the kind of good-natured teasing Alison wouldn't understand, so he just elbows Roger in the side. "Roger, stop being a dork."

Roger snickers and elbows back, but when Mark gives him The Look, he subsides.

Mr. Grey looks indescribably grateful.

MAY

It is the first time Mark has been in Alison's home since December; now that Benny is gone, there's no reason for him to wait for Alison when he can go visit her. They sit in her kitchen and drink tea. Mark gives her their rent. Roger has apparently forgiven her for whatever imagined slight he had against her, and Mark thinks that may have something to do with their last visit to Mimi, when she finally slipped away from them and went to be with Angel.

When Alison sets her empty cup on the table and looks at him with a question in her eyes, he can't answer no. He's supposed to do the laundry today and go shopping for groceries, but those things can wait an hour. This can't. Or maybe it could, but he knows that if he leaves and comes back he will have broken something vital somehow; now is the time to capture the moment before it's gone.

She leads him this time, because the last time he was here they were in the guest room, Alison afraid that Benny would find red hair or some article Mark might leave behind, and now there is no need for such fears. Mark is somewhat in awe that the apartment is so large that he has to actually be led; it's not immediately apparent where Alison's room is.

They go inside, and she pulls the blinds and drapes. They are twenty-three stories aboveground, but there are other buildings just as high all around them, and anybody could be looking where they shouldn't.

They make love slowly in a bed that is not the bed where Benny hurt her in the worst way any man can hurt a woman; Alison has since had it replaced and, for all Mark knows, burnt. She holds him and whispers his name and pretty much gives him free rein of her body, and Mark takes advantage of it to offer her whatever pleasure he can. She is a willing recipient, giving as much as she takes, and finally it's over and Mark rests his head on her breast, curls up close to her. She does the same, and it is with genuine regret that Mark leaves. He would happily stay the afternoon pressed against her side, but the laundromat fills up rapidly when normal work hours are over and, because it is Friday, if he waits to leave he probably won't be able to find any unleavened bread at the little bakery where they know him and sometimes give him little things to take home for free.

Alison rolls over to follow his progress as he pulls his jeans on.

"When will you come back?" she murmurs, her voice soft and thoughtful. Mark considers giving her an indefinite answer, because indefinite is pretty much as good as he can get sometimes, and then sees the look on her face and knows that as long as he's with her, that's not an option. She's afraid of being left again, of being caught again in some kind of loveless relationship that won't let her go until the meshes are cut completely, and though he would never do that she has no way of knowing that. So he gives her the most definite answer that he can.

"I don't have my work schedule yet," he tells her, sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulls his shirt on. Then he lays back down, puts his arms around her, and kisses her. "But sometime in the next two weeks. I promise."

She kisses him back, runs her fingers along the waistband of his jeans, and Mark pulls back gently.

"I've gotta get home," he almost-whispers, a quiet voice against her neck. "Sabbath is tonight and I want to go to temple. That means I've gotta get laundry done before sundown." Technically he also has to have it done before sundown because that's when Shabbat starts and he'll be forbidden to work, but Mark kind of figures God will forgive him for working on Saturday when he's paying four-fifty a month in rent, plus the majority of his room mate's living expenses - which, thanks to the fucking pharmaceutical companies, come to more than two thousand a month - and earning just barely above minimum wage on days when the tips are decent.

He's almost to the door when Alison speaks again.

"Can I come with you?"

He turns, confused. "Come with me?"

"To temple. I've never been in a synagogue before."

Mark considers, then nods. "Make sure you wear a purse with a strap. You're not supposed to touch money inside the . . . what you'd call a sanctuary," he says, not wanting to confuse her. She nods.

"I will," she answers, and then: "What time?"

Mark considers. "Be at the loft by six." The synagogue he attends, when he attends, usually begins somewhere between seven and seven-thirty, and he wants to have time to get there without being rushed.

She blows him a wistful kiss as he leaves, and he holds his hand up to catch it.

JUNE

Mark is sitting around with Collins and Roger when Alison shows up; though they're all in a somewhat subdued mood, today is Angel's birthday and they've determined that they're going to celebrate in her honor whether they're subdued or not. There is a small devil's food cake, Angel's favorite kind, and a tub of vanilla ice cream. A framed picture of Angel sits on the table with her drumsticks. And all of them have, for twenty-four hours, sworn off the alcohol she couldn't have in the last months of her illness. Tonight at five they'll open a bottle of merlot, courtesy of Joanne, in her memory and share it with the chicken dish that she loved to spend hours making and nanoseconds inhaling. Maureen and Joanne will be joining them.

Alison knocks and comes in; though it still makes her somewhat uncomfortable, she's learned that this is standard practice in the loft, and if she knocks and stands outside the door, she could be waiting until her second or third knock before people realize she won't just open the door and walk in. She sees them, Roger sitting under the newly-replaced skylight playing one of Angel's favorite songs on his guitar, Mark standing in the kitchen doing his best to replicate the chicken, Collins sitting on the sofa, eyes closed, letting himself be lost for a few minutes in memories. She stands awkwardly at the door until Mark turns around and motions her in.

The song ends, and Collins opens his eyes. He has never met Alison, but he knows from descriptions who she must be, and several years ago the person they are all here to celebrate killed her dog. He stands up, and for a moment they are two very awkward people staring at each other across a very tense space. Finally Mark steps between them, puts his arm around Alison's waist. He supposes there's no point trying to hide it; they're a couple now, at least tentatively, and he refuses to be ashamed of this very strange turn his life has taken. Alison lets him lead her to a chair, then looks around herself at the people assembled in the everything-else room.

"Did I - did I interrupt something?" she asks, and the silence is deafening. Mark finally speaks up.

"It's Angel's birthday. We're celebrating. You're welcome to join us - if you want," he adds awkwardly. Alison knows who killed Evita; Benny made a point of telling her. She looks at the photograph on the table, the drumsticks that to her might as well be knives or poison, and closes her eyes. They wait for her to decide, and at last she opens her eyes and touches the picture.

"I've heard too much good about you to think you could be as horrible as Benny wanted me to believe," she says, her voice clear and clearly meant for none of them. She closes her eyes again, and when they open Mark sees tears in them, but they do not fall.

"You were forgiven long ago," she whispers, and lets her fingers drop from the frame. She raises her head, looks at all of them, most especially Mark. Angel is everything her father is against - loud, flamboyant, trans, in love with "another" man, a bohemian to the core. At last she speaks.

"So - so what was she like? Angel?"

They share a smile among each other; it flits between them like Angel dancing, and then Collins opens his mouth to speak.

JULY

It is the first time anyone with an East Village extension has ever called her, and it frightens her when she realizes Roger is on the other end of the phone. Mark is ill - won't let Roger in the room - having problems breathing.

Alison flies to the loft on wings, and as soon as she rests her head against Mark's chest she knows the problem. Pneumonia.

She gives Roger her wallet, tells him to take what he needs and go buy juice - real fruit juice - orange juice if he can find it, and whatever kind of soup broth he can find in a can or packet. Then she asks for the phone.

Nowhere is too far when you have the money to pay for a house call, and within an hour Mark has a penicillin prescription laying on his bedside. He has been coherently awake just long enough to tell them that no, he's not allergic to it. Alison holds him up to keep the fluid out of his lungs, and when she grows tired she simply leans against the head of the bed and tugs him into her lap.

She stays for three days with almost no sleep; at last Roger presses his bed on her one night, afraid of what could happen if she makes herself sick by staying awake. He is painfully aware of the things that can suppress an immune system.

He stays on the couch, and that night when he hears the rattle in Mark's breathing he is on his feet in a time that he thinks is almost instantly, but Alison has already flown past him. Mark's breathing stops, and takes Roger's heart with it. It's not supposed to happen this way.

He hurries into the room, ready to beat whatever he can out of Mark's lungs, and stops short. If it weren't for the fact that they both know Mark is incredibly ill, Roger would probably be laughing his ass off at the situation. Alison is pretty much kneeling by the bed wearing nothing but a matching black underwear set, her mouth pressed against Mark's. This, Roger thinks, is the funny part. She looks like a Princess Charming who was so eager to find her prince in this fucked-up fairy tale that she didn't take the time to dress.

What comes next isn't nearly as comical; is not, in fact, comical at all. Even as Roger comes in she pulls back, checks his throat, listens for his breathing, and then clamps her mouth back overtop of his. Roger is at her side in seconds, and while it could be better, he thinks the hideous coughing noise Mark makes as he spits out a huge wad of . . . something or other is the sweetest noise he's ever heard in his life.

It is a week before Mark is sufficiently recovered to be considered not contagious; nearly two before his lungs clear. Alison stays by him the whole time, though the night that he is declared healthy enough for Roger to sit, Alison takes Roger's bed gratefully and sleeps close to ten hours.

When Mark becomes fully coherent and can hold a conversation, he asks why she stayed.

"You did for me when I needed you," she answers. "Now it's my turn." She pauses, uncomfortable, then forges on. "That's what family does." It's the only answer she can give; his health is back, more or less, and that's all the reward she needs.

They have a long discussion one day while Roger is out; he returns in the middle of it, and stays quiet while they speak.

"I . . . can't," he hears Mark say, and then Alison's question in reply: Why not?

"Because . . . " There is a pause, and Roger wonders if Mark is catching his breath or simply trying to think of the best way to word his answer. "Because we're too different, you and me," he finally says. "And more than that . . . I don't want you to think I'd marry you for your money."

Mark's voice becomes very low then, and Roger decides it's time for him to go to his room and stay there until he hears Alison moving about again.

Alison brushes hair off Mark's forehead. "I don't think that," she murmurs, and Mark leans into her touch. "If you were in it for my money, you would have given up a long time ago . . . when you thought I wasn't going to leave Benny." She brushes his hair with her hand again. "I didn't ask Benny to change," she tells him. "He did that all on his own."

Mark closes his eyes - he still tires easily - and nods. "I'd like to keep seeing you," he finally says, and then opens his eyes. "It's been a new lease on life being with you."

She knows it's the best she'll get from him just now; he's tired, and she's not going to push him. Maybe, someday . . .

"I'll think about it," he says finally, and she kisses his forehead.

Maybe he'll let her renew that lease.