Chicken Soup

A/N: I don't know what inspired this story, really, I just wanted to write a story about the next year of their lives.

My first attempt at a many-plotted story. :)

There's a shade come over
this heart that's coping
with laying down to rest.
"Dying" Five For Fighting

The rain pelted down on the tall, hunched form of the man struggling down the street—in his hand he clutched an immature pumpkin-shaped Halloween trick-or-treating container. Though it was Halloween, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be mistaken for a trick-or-treater. He hadn't even seen many kids outside, just because of the terrible weather.

"That's Halloween," he muttered to himself. The fact that it was unfair suddenly struck him—there was no rescheduling Halloween. Sure, some kids might go the night after, but people might not be handing out candy then. And the next day of school was never canceled for the kids, so they had to be home early.

Raindrops trailed down his forehead and onto the bridge of his nose, where they made their way to the tip and then dripped off. His long coat was hunched over his shoulders and now, he noticed, his little pumpkin was filling up with more water by the moment.

The cemetery was as grave as usual, and he didn't care about the odd glances he was getting from children double-dog-daring each other to go in and kick a tombstone. "It's bad luck to visit someone on Halloween, mister," said one kid, his white-blonde hair down in his face. "Just thought you should know."

Any other day, Collins would've loved this warning and probably given the kid a clap on the back, but tonight, his eyes reduced to slits and he bore his teeth, his hands balling into fists. "Thanks, kid, but I'll be okay," he snapped, and then continued into the darkness.

Censor lights that were attached to various street lights flickered on and showed him the path, but did not help much—twice he almost tripped on roots that seemed to be pulling themselves up from the ground, telling him to go back. The trees were trying to tell him something.

The cold winds licked his shoulders and his body gave an involuntary shudder. Angel wouldn't want to hear this, said a soft voice, coming and going with the breeze. The trees swayed in his direction, the world seemed to close in. This is not what Angel wants to hear on this anniversary.

"She would want to know as soon as possible, no matter what day it was," Collins mumbled.

Once again the gentle wind nipped at his ears, and he pulled his coat closer to his neck. The coat that was, day by day, getting baggier. The coat that Angel gave him. The coat that he'd clutched at her funeral—

He shouldn't be out in these conditions, he thought, as he wrung the handle of the pumpkin basket, he shouldn't be out in the cold.

"Collins?"

Collins squinted—he didn't have his contacts in—and saw a small frame of a woman before him. Her curly brown hair was now nearly straight because of the downpour, and her voice made her sound like she had a cold. "Maureen?" Collins asked, unsure—every Halloween, Maureen wore her catsuit. Now she was wearing a jacket and jeans.

"Hey, baby," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around Collins. "How are you?"

"Uh—fine," Collins lied, keeping his voice soft. "Could I—" he motioned to the headstone he'd been looking for. "Just—could—"

Maureen looked puzzled, but then she caught on. "Oh, yes! I'll leave... I think we're all getting together at Mark and Roger's tonight—should I count on seeing you there?"

Closing his eyes, Collins chewed on this thought in his mind before deciding, "I think I'm just going to hang out at home, okay, Mo?" he asked, trying to keep the tears out of his voice.

"That's perfectly fine," Maureen said softly. "I'll see you later, okay, honey?"

"Bye, Maureen."

Turning back to the tombstone, he took in a shuddery breath and got to his knees, oblivious to the mud he was now going to be covered in. He laid his head against the cool granite and stroked it, begging some form of Angel to greet him, begging to smell her perfume, begging for anything.

"I went to the doctor's today, Ang," he whispered, and pulled the pumpkin closer to him. He took a lily out and placed it on top of her grave. Next, he pulled out a piece of wet paper, trying not to tear it, handling it with great care. As he was laying it down it next to the lily, a small tear formed in the corner, and at that time, the tears cascaded down his face.

"It's not looking good, love," he admitted, and then he rested his face against the tombstone again. He ran his fingers over Angel's name, kissing it, running his tears down it. When he pulled back, his body let loose a strangled cry so loud that he hoped the kids at the entrance had heard him. He hoped they could feel his pain.

Staring at the stone, he exhaled and shook his head, laying it back down on top of the stone, knowing that he could fall asleep right then and there, if he wanted to.

"Angel, I'm dying."

A/N: I understand that it's short, but it's just a prologue really.

This is not going to be a huge humor fic, more of a realistic post-RENT story with a lot of plot lines. Since Cuffed is over, and TLB's almost done, I decided I would start this and see where it went.

Review?

–Steph.