She'd been sitting at the window. No idea how long. After she'd breathed the last words of her song, it was as if the tragedy of the day had finally caught up with her, overwhelmed her. Numb, frozen, she'd sat, unable to form even the thought of moving, doing.
She, who lives by the mantra of no day but today, knows she is wasting away, the weeks of fighting and her Angel's fading taking their toll on her. She had flung open her arms to embrace those she loves – in defiance of the death that looms so near to some of them – and they are still slipping away from her. Some unintentionally. Some not.
There's a knock on the door. Did she lock it when she came in? Can't remember. It wasn't important. She'd needed to reach that window, to watch as his car pulled away, to make herself believe that he was really going. If she hadn't been sitting there since he drove into the darkness, she might almost imagine that it was him at the door. Even so, her breath still hitches, her stomach still twists, as the knock comes again. No. No, it isn't him, and for all of her she doesn't know if it will ever be him again.
She draws up her knees to her chest at the thought, recoiling physically from it. No Roger…no Roger…gone…goodbye, love… She balls her fists, presses them to her dry eyes, her temples. Her fingers twine into her hair, trying with the painful grip either to drive the truth away or force it into her head. No more, love…
It must be Benny. Her head turns slightly at the third knock, but she does not respond to it. Benny – a good man, really, and kind to her, but she can't see him. She knows what he would love to be for her – with her – but it's different now, different even from when she would fight with Roger and go to Benny for consolation. She knows he would come in and stroke her hair, and caress her arms, and murmur empty comforts. And she knows she would scream at his touch, as even the gentlest treatment is agony to raw wounds. His kindness and his desire, bravely repressed, remind her of all she has lost. She shrinks from that reminder, clinging instead to this numbness, as long as it will last. Although it is terrible, it feels safe.
The door suddenly squeaks open. Not locked, then. She folds tighter into herself as her eyes cut sideways, peering through her tumbled hair at the intruder. Benny wouldn't be fool enough to mistake this for any sort of welcome.
Only, it isn't Benny who stands in the hallway. A weathered leather jacket, blond hair—
"Mimi…"
—glasses…
Mark's face is contorted. For himself, or her, or Roger, or Angel? Or all of them? She doesn't know that she's ever seen Mark cry before. A flutter in her chest of something not quite deadened – her instinctive response to someone's sadness or pain, to make it all better with a hug or a smile. Just like Angel. But Angel is gone too, and reaching out to Mark would open her up to this other, bigger thing behind the numbness. It's too frightening, too much. I'm so sorry, Mark… She closes her eyes against the silent entreaty in his, turns away and wishes that he will understand.
"No, Mimi—"
And his footsteps thud swiftly across the floor, and his arms are suddenly around her, holding her tightly to his chest. She inhales deeply, involuntarily – he smells like Mark, but Mark smells a little like the loft and the loft smells a little like— A small, whimpering sound escapes her, and she buries her face in his sweater.
His breath stirs her hair as he rocks her gently. Who's comforting who, here? She wonders if, holding her, he somehow hopes to find a piece of Roger left behind.
He's muttering something that, it seems, is not one of those mindless platitudes, repeating it over and over in time with his rocking.
"Don't detach…don't detach…don't detach…"
"…but you really detach from feeling alive…"
From that overheard confrontation, she understands. Roger had hit a multitude of nerves with his savage characterization of his best friend, but none of the knives sank so deep as that one. Mark sees himself as a buffer of their group, against the fights between her and Roger and Maureen and Joanne. To be accused of using their friction to shield himself from his own…Mimi can feel the tremors running through him, can almost sense the conflicting denial and guilt in him. She pulls herself smaller still, afraid to be held by this trembling, hurting man, afraid that it will crack her shell.
His arms tighten around her at her movement. "Please, Mimi – the clinic. You have to. I can't…"
I can't survive without a reason. She can hear his thought as clearly as if he'd said it out loud. He can't survive with his life falling apart around him; it's one thing to nurse someone through mourning and withdrawal and sickness, but the anger among them all is the real death that he fears. He needs to know that he isn't the only one trying.
"Mimi."
He is kneeling at her feet, and all she sees is a sweet, loving, frightened boy, desperate for reassurance.
Despite herself, her heart thumps again painfully. "Mark…"
"Benny will pay, Mimi. And he'll be here for you. And so will I. Please."
It's so hard. So much easier to say goodbye, to run away…
"Okay," she hears herself say, and, "okay, Mark."
For his sake, she will go through the motions. Until the shaking and sleeplessness are too much, until the aloofness of the clinic staff remind her of the one who first brought her through withdrawal, until the pain in her body lays bare the pain in her heart, she will submit to the rehab.
And when it grows too real - then, she will detach.