Spawned by wonderful fanfiction by Elizabeth Odessky called Stage Presence that'd I'd recommend to you all in a heartbeat. I used her number 10 as a prompt for this fic. So thank you, Elizabeth Odessky, for spawning this and letting me use your prompt to write it. The idea is all hers, I just thought I'd experiment with it. I'm pretty proud of this one. I've finally gotten Maureen's character!

I do not own RENT or this little prompt-of-sorts. I wish I did…but I'm not that talented.

It hadn't really set in until then. Until she was lying alone in the bed that she usually shared with Joanne the next morning. It hadn't quite…clicked. It really made no sense in the drama queen's mind. Angel's death made no sense. Maureen knew that she had been in the hospital but…Angel was so young, so vibrant, so full of love and life.

It took her a moment to realize why she was lying in the bed in her fancy clothes, her pillow sticking to her tear soaked face. She hadn't had another fight with Joanne that she could remember so why…

…The service…

…Her speech…

…The casket…

…The graveyard…

Tears fell in rivulets as she unstuck her cheek from the pillow. Maureen sat up, stomped her feet and beat her fists into the mattress, throwing the hissy fit of all hissy fits. She had learned to do this when things didn't go her way. It was an almost sure fire way to change things. So why wasn't Angel coming through the door to bring her breakfast and make sure that she'd made it through her night alone alright?

But as she flailed and screamed and cried Maureen recalled something that Angel had once said to her. "Live life, Maureen, and stop trying to control it and make it something it's not."

That had gotten Maureen mad, and she threw one of her infamous fits. But Angel didn't seem to care. She just ignored the pout and went back to painting her nails her favorite blue. Those fits never had worked on her. She was trying to change Maureen's ways, trying to stop the outbursts.

Her bed-bashing and floor-clomping suddenly slowed to a halt. Angel hated this. She hated it. So why was Maureen doing it as an attempt to remember her friend? She was better off doing something productive…something like Angel.

She had barely had time to grab her coat in her burst of inspiration. She was running down the streets of Alphabet city, eyes scanning the sidewalk for a certain type of street performer and ears listening out for a careful beat. There was a pang in her heart as she passed Angel's corner, but she didn't have time for another fit.

There he was, a scrawny little boy rapping on a pickle tub with haphazardly carved drumsticks, homemade, no doubt. He looked so happy, so exhilarated tapping out the beat of his heart for all of New York City to hear. Maureen walked up to him, pulled her wallet out of her back pocket, and vacated it of its monetary contents. Dollars wafted down onto the top of the pickle tub, in front of the astounded young man's frozen face. There wasn't much to give…but…well, he obviously appreciated it, nonetheless. He gave her a heartwarming smile and bright 'thank you'. She tried out one of her dazzling smiles to see if it was still there and, surprisingly, it was.

She turned back to the streets, preparing to walk back to where she knew she'd find Angel to tell her. She'd be proud of Maureen. She was finally trying to kick her little…angry habit.

Turns out, all she'd needed was a little motivation. And then there was the feeling in the pit of her stomach, a good feeling, like she'd accomplished something. Her reaction wasn't hasty, irrational, or drama queen-esque. It was kind. It was Angel. It was validated.