Title: Yesterday's Tomorrow
Author: Nina/TechnicolorNina
Pairing/Characters: Mark/Angel, mentions of Collins, Roger, and Mimi
Word Count: 2 613
Rating: PG-13 for general RENT-ness
Genre: General/Drama/Romance/teeny hint of angst
Summary: A phone call sends Angel spiraling into depression. Why?
Disclaimer: If it were mine, this is what would have really happened, 'kay? Also, the works of Agatha Christie and Stephen King belong to their respective owners.
Spoilers: It's a total A/U.
Warnings: Mentioned character death (of a main RENT character). I promise it isn't Roger.
Notes: Written for a rentchallenge prompt dealing with HIV testing being only 99% accurate. Also, this is part of an arc of oneshots that was never finished, so you should know that Mark got picked up by NBC to do camera work, and "Dix" is his boss. (If you think he sold out, I'm pretty sure I have the stuff somewhere dealing with how they helped him make his documentary, etc., etc.) Also, Bobbi and Gard are Angel's goldfish.
Special Thanks/Dedications: When this challenge (Weekly Challenge #6) came out, I was going through some severe personal issues that made it pretty much impossible for me to write, no matter how much I wanted to. This particular challenge was one I really, really, really wanted to do, and if you look at the comments for the original challenge you'll see that I actually did try to work on something for it. (Alas, the plot bunny was killed and viciously ripped apart by rampaging coyotes.) I was upset at missing the chance to write it. So, a huge THANK YOU must go out to the Rentchallenge mod who created a challenge that gave me the chance to write this.

"Hello?"

Angel hopped up on the table and sat, her legs dangling, kicking absentmindedly.

"This is - Angel." Mark felt an inner twang. Angel was so used to answering with "this is she" when somebody asked for "Angel" that the call almost certainly had to be from someone important - a parent, her boss, somebody high up there.

"Yes. Yes, I just - yes."

Suddenly her legs stopped kicking.

Mark had never seen such an expression on a human face before, ever. It was as though whatever emotion was inside her was so great she couldn't express it. Mark had once read a book in which that expression had been called "the Lady of Shalott" look. Within minutes, the woman who had caused the look was dead. Mark had a horrible sudden certainty that something had happened to Angel's sister or perhaps to Abuela, that sweet and sassy old lady who had welcomed Mark into the family without question. Someone was hurt. Someone was dead. At last Angel spoke again.

"I - yes. Tomorrow. Mm-hmm. All right." A pause. Then: "Thank you."

Angel hung up the phone as though in a trance and slid slowly off the table. Mark followed her to the sofa, where she sat down, then bounced back up restlessly. She plunked down in the window seat and turned her head so she could see the table next to it. On top of the table, Bobbi and Gard swam endlessly in their bowl, flicking their long orangey tails back and forth contentedly, occasionally darting through the little blue and black castle Roger had bought for the bowl.

She kicked the table listlessly.

Mark, made quick and agile by years of dodging bullies on the playground, was even so not fast enough to keep the glass bowl from hitting the floor and shattering. Bobbi and Gard lay on the floor, flopping horribly, their mouths working as they tried to process the alien air. He scooped them up and put them back in the small amount of water that remained in the tilted bowl, then quickly hurried for the bottle of distilled water and transferred them to it. He put a towel over the mess to soak up the water, then led Angel - miraculously untouched - away from it before going back to clean up the glass. He offered up a silent prayer to the powers that be for Bobbi and Gard to not die of shock. Angel loved to watch them, tails flicking, chasing each other around the bowl. Bobbi and Gard, along with the bowl that now lay in shards on the floor, had been one of Roger's more inspired gifts.

Angel was shockingly quiet, simply sitting on the couch until Mark was done. Then she got up and walked, dazed, not for the bedroom they shared but for her own room, the tiny single bed little dresser miniscule closet that had once belonged to Benny.

He heard the door lock.

It was a nasty shock to Mark a week later when he came home and found Angel on the sofa, in neither his clothes nor in a pretty skirt and blouse, but in a pair of Roger's ripped-up blue jeans and a faded green T-shirt - no wig, no makeup, large circles under her eyes. She was doing nothing.

If it had been Roger, Mark wouldn't have spared him a second glance. He'd lived with Roger long enough to know that those periods could mean something very, very good -some of Roger's best songs had been crafted after two days of complete silence. But "nothing" was not a normal state for Angel. She was like a hummingbird - flitting here and there, sometimes sewing, painting neat little pictures on the small squares of wood that had replaced some of the glass tiles in the windows, sweeping, cooking, taking a catnap, putting together a jigsaw puzzle - but she never, never, ever simply sat and stared at nothing.

She'd been moody all week long, that much Mark knew. He'd tried to draw her out about her phone call from the clinic - the phone call that had started the whole thing - and had been met with a seemingly uncomprehending stare. It hadn't had to do with Julia or Abuela, he knew that much, but that was all. He'd gone to both Roger and Mimi for advice and had been told that the best course of action would be to let Angel alone; she would come around in her own time.

Accordingly, he'd gone out and purchased a new fish bowl and gravel and transferred the fish to it without comment. Bobbi and Gard had, thankfully, survived their trip to the Land of Hardwood Floor and then to the Province of Distilled Water Jug, and were at this moment swimming lackadaisically, picking at the gravel on the bottom of the bowl. He never bothered asking why she'd kicked the table over; he suspected she either hadn't meant to and was embarrassed to say so, or else was ashamed that she'd tried, for some as-yet-unknown reason, to kill the fish Roger had so happily given her for her birthday.

He started dinner quietly - canned soup with crackers and a fruit salad made of whatever had been cheap when he'd gone through the market that day. Three apples, a small bag of grapes, a bit of watermelon, an orange. Angel stood up and made for the cupboard, silently setting out chipped bowls and cups for the iced tea Roger had brewed earlier that day at Mark's request. Mark mentally contrasted this with a time not so long ago - two weeks at most - when Angel would have jumped off the sofa to kiss him hello the moment he walked in the door. The smell of something good to eat would have been in the air, and she would have been eager to share the story of her day - a piece of clothing she'd finished, a stray cat that had wandered in shortly after lunch - and to hear about his own. Now he was lucky if she even said good morning and good night. It was a mood unlike any he'd ever seen her in, and it frightened him.

After dinner he loaded up the sink, did the dishes while Angel washed the table and then sat down listlessly on the couch again. It was another disturbing change - two weeks ago, her after-dinner ritual had consisted of wiping the table and chairs, pushing them back into their own little corner by the window, then sweeping the floor to ensure there would be no ants or roaches invading the loft. Mark swept the floor, put the broom away, and then sat down on the sofa with his notebook. He was working on a new piece for Dix, and he wanted to have it done soon. If Dix could get it aired before October or at least get Mark his advance by then, maybe they could talk Benny into actually replacing the skylight instead of just covering the hole with plywood. The loft was too dark without the skylight.

When he reached out to pull Angel against his side, the way they always sat, she - or maybe "he" - pulled away and curled against the opposite armrest.

Mark pretended to not notice, but something inside of him cried out in warning protest.

A month.

One full month.

Mark had had enough.

He could handle Angel's mood swings; he could handle the idea that she'd been mistreated in the past and needed someone to be gentle now. But this - this - silence - he couldn't handle it. This was no mood swing. This was all-out depression, and he had no idea where it had come from. And to make matters worse, she'd stopped taking her AZT. Sometimes - usually when Angel was crossing the street without watching the traffic lights, but the current situation also seemed to qualify - he wondered if Angel had some kind of death wish.

And so when they had eaten, he cornered Angel on the couch.

"Angel."

She didn't look at him.

"Angel, talk to me." He crouched down in front of her and took her hands. They were limp, unresisting, apathetic. He looked up and realized her hair hadn't been washed in at least a week. There was a smudge of dust across her cheek from her leaning against the window, which hadn't been washed since she'd fallen into this state. It hadn't occurred to Mark to do it, and apparently it had never crossed Roger's mind, either. Mark recognized these things and hated them. She was falling to pieces and he had no idea how to help.

He couldn't put it off any longer. He tried for the gentlest tone he could. "Angel . . . are you sick?"

She laughed then, a high, thin, yodeling sound that wasn't much like real laughter at all. Mark stared at her wide-eyed, alarmed.

"No, Mark. I'm not sick." That strange, yodeling laugh again. "I'm not sick."

She pulled her hands away from him, was up and away before he could even comprehend. She headed for her room. Mark was on his feet in an instant. He intended to follow her if he could, to keep her from locking herself in yet again, but the door didn't close. Instead he heard her jewelry box open, the pretty wooden one his mother had given her, and then the shuffle of papers.

She returned with several of them in her hand. The bottom ones were older, slightly yellowed. She handed him the first one from the bottom.

NOVEMBER 27, 1984

SCHUNARD, ANGEL DUMOTT

HIV-ANTIGEN TEST: POSITIVE

Mark looked up at her blankly. She'd made it clear within an hour of knowing him that she was HIV-positive. Why was she showing him this now?

She took the one that was now on the bottom of the stack and put it, too, into his hand.

MAY 14, 1985

SCHUNARD, ANGEL DUMOTT

HIV-ANTIGEN TEST: POSITIVE

The pattern continued. The next dozen sheets or so were T-cell counts and other varied and sundry tests. One was a paper on the proper usage of AZT.

But then it changed.

JULY 19, 1994

SCHUNARD, ANGEL DUMOTT

HIV-ANTIGEN TEST: NEGATIVE

Mark stared at the paper. Negative? Angel slid a final paper on top of it. Mark scanned the words, not really taking them in. Clinical error . . . no sign of HIV antibodies . . . full exam showed no problems . . .

"You're negative?"

He sensed Angel's nod, though he couldn't actually see it. He was too shocked by the paper in his hand. All the times she'd pushed him away for fear of infecting him . . . the time at his mother's, when she'd almost had hysterics after cutting herself and bleeding while chopping onions . . . the endless trips to the clinic for tests . . . all for nothing. All because the tests weren't, couldn't be, completely accurate. Angel had been put through so much because of a fucking clinical error. Something in him wanted to rage and he pushed it down. Angel didn't need rage. Angel needed . . . he didn't know what she needed, but it wasn't rage. Suddenly he realized she'd been talking to him.

"Huh?"

Angel sank back down onto the sofa. "I said I don't know what to do."

Mark stared. "Don't know what to - Angel, you're clean! You can do anything! We can do anything!" His mind retrieved a valuable piece of information and he seized on it. "Angel, this means you can go back to school for your nursing degree! You're going to be fine!" He hugged her fiercely. Angel pulled away halfheartedly. Mark let go, perplexed.

"Mark . . . when I . . . became who I am . . . it was because I figured I wasn't going to live very long anyway, so why shouldn't I be who I wanted to be? And now . . . now . . . "

Angel gestured at the paper in Mark's hands.

"How can I keep going on that way when I know it was all a lie?"

Mark pulled her close again. Angel struggled, but without any real volition behind it. At last she relaxed against him.

"It wasn't a lie, Angel. You are who you are because it's who you are. It would have happened sooner or later anyway. So just - just let it go, okay? You're no different now than you were a month ago. You're just . . . " Mark searched in vain for the proper word and finally gave up. "You're still Angel."

She shook her head, took the papers from him, folded them back into their neat little bundle. Once again there was space between them.

"I'm not. Mimi . . . Roger . . . "

Collins' absence hung in the air between them. For Collins, school was canceled. Forever. For Angel, there had been a clinical error that was some kind of fucked-up Get Out Of Jail Free card. Suddenly Mark understood. Mimi and Roger - the sister and brother she'd chosen for herself - were still sick. They were still positive.

"Angel . . . blaming yourself isn't going to help."

Angel looked away from him. Mark turned her face back to himself.

"No day but today, Angel. No matter whether you're positive or negative or anything in between. You can't take the rest of the world on your shoulders, you know? You'll break."

And then she did break, or so it seemed. She fell against him, sobbing, crying until his shirt was wet with her tears and there was nothing left. Mark petted her hair gently, tried to ignore the greasy feel of it through his fingers, got up, got her a cup of iced tea, returned, pulled her head gently into his lap. It wasn't great, but he didn't want to leave her alone long enough to make a cup of anything hot. After a long pause, Angel reached out, took the cup he'd put on the table. She curled up in his lap and sipped the tea he'd given her, finally twisting to look at him.

"I must seem like such an idiot."

Mark shook his head. "You're not an idiot, Angel. It's a lot to process at one time." He kissed her forehead before she turned back around, and she wrinkled her nose.

"I think I need a shower."

Mark smiled. "You go do that. I'll get you some clothes."

Angel scampered away toward the bathroom. Mark listened to the sound of her little bare feet, so sweet and adorable against the floor. He turned his gaze to the window-seat. Kitchen table stored neatly on one side, fish table on the other. Bobbi flicked her tail and dived into the castle. Mark stood up, headed for their room, picked out a pretty red sundress for Angel to put on. He took it to the bathroom, hung it on the door hook, put a towel on the toilet lid for her to use when she stepped out.

It would be a long time before Angel was really all right again, Mark thought. He knew from experience that depression wasn't something that would just go away. He'd have to talk to Paul about whether or not Angel should maybe see a counselor or something.

But then, he thought as he stepped out of the bathroom and left Angel to finish, they did have a long time to work with.