Disclaimer: I own none of the rent characters. Thank you, Jonathan Larson,
we love you.
A/N: Thanks to CandyAngel for cowriting.
Chapter 1: New in Town
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mark looked up from his blank notepad when he heard the coffee mug hit the table. The alluring smell greeted his nose, and the taste was incredibly reassuring. At least he could still enjoy a steaming cup of coffee. Some things never changed.
"I hope you'll be able to pay for the coffee this time." The waiter had a very sarcastic tone that grated on Mark more than usual.
"I see my reputation precedes me." he mumbled and he rolled his eyes. The waiter only raised an eyebrow and then whisked himself away.
"Whatever," Mark sighed. Whatever. That sounded familiar. That was just the way Mark had been acting lately. Just whatever. It's not that he had stopped caring about everyone. Things were just the opposite: he cared more than ever. So what was his problem? Why didn't he show it?
Maybe it was just his filmmaking instinct kicking in. He guessed that it was just his way of dealing with things: to just disconnect. The words came echoing back: "You're always preaching not to be numb when that's how you thrive. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive." Sad but true. Ever since he was little, mark had always been the one watching, observing. It was just the way he lived. Sometimes it worked. He'd just observe everyone else dealing with their problems. He didn't need any of his own. If he didn't put himself out there, he couldn't get hurt, right?
"Sir?" A waitress Mark didn't recognize stood before him, her presence suddenly pulling him out of his thoughts.
"Hmm?"
"Sir? Are you okay? Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you--"
"No, no. It's fine."
"Can I get you anything else? Another cup maybe?"
"Sure."
"Great. I'll be right back."
Mark sank back deeper into his thoughts. He knew Roger was under a lot of stress now. Mark couldn't stay angry with him, even if he was freaking out over stupid things. Poor Roger. ~~Flashback~~ Roger had strolled into the apartment earlier than usual. It wasn't even 2:00 in the morning. "Mark?" He had a surprised tone in his scruffy voice. "You waited up tonight. What's the occasion?" Mark shot a deadly glance in Roger's direction. He stood from the beat up couch and approached Roger, clutching something in his hand. Mark looked hurt as he searched Rogers eyes. "How could you?" Mark scolded the unaware Roger with a shake of his head. "What?" "I thought you stopped." Mark said quietly, but obviously irritated. "Uh, stopped what?" Roger hesitated a bit and seemed confused. Mark handed Roger spoons, some dirty needles, and an empty plastic baggy with the remnants of a white powder.
"What the hell?" He still seemed utterly dumbfounded at what Mark was trying to get at.
"I found them in your room," Mark said slowly in a hushed tone, but oozing with anger.
"They're not mine."
"In your room?" Mark turned away in exasperation.
"I don't know what you want! Do I look like I have any idea? They're not mine. My word should be enough for you! Or are you also calling me a liar, too?" Roger screamed back.
"Roger, no, but--"
"Am I accusing you? Not yet! But maybe now's a good time to start. Since we're on the subject of my room, what the hell were you doing in there? Why do you suddenly not trust me?" "Roger-" Mark sighed. "What on earth possessed you to go through my stuff? I never go into your room." Roger countered. "I wasn't going through your stuff, I was going to do the laundry this afternoon. I decided to do a load of your stuff too. Thought I'd do you a favor. This crap was strewn across the floor. What am I supposed to think?" "I don't know. But it's not mine." "Then who's is it?" Mark retorted incredulously. "I don't know," Roger threw up his arms in frustration, "I'm just as lost as you. For all I know it could be yours." "I never used smack. You did." "And I stopped. Isn't that enough for you?" "How do I know you've stopped when I find drug trash all over your room?" "Because I'm telling you!" Roger exploded, "Look, Mark, those bags and needles are not mine. My saying that should be proof enough for you." Roger returned Mark's look of disappointment with pure disgust. "I just worry about you sometimes, Rog," Mark said quietly, no longer making eye contact. "Well, don't. I can take care of myself, so fuck off." Roger stalked off angrily to his bedroom, slamming the door. A chill ran down Mark's spine as he suddenly felt very alone.
~~End Flashback~~ "Sir? Is everything alright?"
"Wha--?"
"Well, it's just that I brought you that coffee twenty minutes ago and you haven't touched it yet. Is there something wrong with it?"
"Oh, um.sorry. No. It's fine. I've really gotta stop zoning out like that," he added to himself.
"Okay. Would you like a fresh cup? That one is probably cold."
"Yeah." Mark mumbled absentmindedly. Wait! That was his third cup. Did he have enough cash on him? Mark reached for his back pocket only to realize his wallet wasn't there at all. Shit. Apparently this coffee was going on the long list of debts he accrued at the Life Café, which was getting pretty long.
"Here," the waitress set the fresh coffee on the table. "Mind if I join you?" Mark could only raise an eyebrow. "I've got the next half hour off, supposedly for dinner. I'm not really hungry though. I guess I filled up on all those fries I snitched from peoples' platters," she grinned at Mark. "Besides, you look like you could use some company."
He only shrugged and motioned for her to sit across from him, even though he wasn't really in the mood for talk. For the first time he looked up to see who this unusually friendly waitress was. She had big brown doe-like eyes and wavy dirty-blonde hair. She certainly wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Maureen, but her warm smile made up for that.
"Are you new here, in the city, I mean?"
"Yes, actually I am. Is it that obvious?" she asked, almost worriedly.
"Well, for one, you're extremely friendly; a quality that many native New Yorkers lack. Also, you're not asking me about whether I'll be paying or not. That's all aside from the fact that I've never seen you here before," Mark put frankly.
"Oh," she murmured, "that's all very true." Her eyes glazed for a moment as she sipped her coffee. Mark could only wonder what was going though her mind. "You come here often?"
"All the time." There was another rather awkward moment in which silence seemed to surround them.
"I just moved to New York a few days ago," She started, hoping to break the silence. "From Scotchwood."
"Where's that?" Mark asked. It was more of a reflex than anything else.
"It's a small town in Illinois."
"Oh," Mark managed reply to without enthusiasm.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Too long." Why couldn't Mark be friendly to her?
"Too long? Why do you say that?" She asked while a quizzical look crept over her face.
Mark returned her question with an icy glare. He knew he was being mean, but he wasn't in the mood for twenty questions. His day had been far too long.
The girl across from him looked completely surprised, "Okay. You don't like it here. Where else would you rather be?"
"You ask too many questions."
"You're too grumpy to answer any of them, so what's your point?" She wasn't the least bit put off by Mark's sour mood. Maureen would have been bitten back. Why did he just compare her to Maureen again?
Mark ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. When he looked back at her inviting milk chocolate eyes he broke, "I'm sorry. I've had a really rough day, not that that's a reason to be such a jerk. Can we start over?" Those eyes gave him a calculating stare before softening again. After a moment she held out her hand. Taking her hand, Mark introduced himself, "Mark Cohen. Starving filmmaker." Paige's entire face lit up when she grinned at him. Mark couldn't help smiling back.
"Paige Clifton. Starving writer...and broke." She chuckled.
A/N: Thanks to CandyAngel for cowriting.
Chapter 1: New in Town
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mark looked up from his blank notepad when he heard the coffee mug hit the table. The alluring smell greeted his nose, and the taste was incredibly reassuring. At least he could still enjoy a steaming cup of coffee. Some things never changed.
"I hope you'll be able to pay for the coffee this time." The waiter had a very sarcastic tone that grated on Mark more than usual.
"I see my reputation precedes me." he mumbled and he rolled his eyes. The waiter only raised an eyebrow and then whisked himself away.
"Whatever," Mark sighed. Whatever. That sounded familiar. That was just the way Mark had been acting lately. Just whatever. It's not that he had stopped caring about everyone. Things were just the opposite: he cared more than ever. So what was his problem? Why didn't he show it?
Maybe it was just his filmmaking instinct kicking in. He guessed that it was just his way of dealing with things: to just disconnect. The words came echoing back: "You're always preaching not to be numb when that's how you thrive. You pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive." Sad but true. Ever since he was little, mark had always been the one watching, observing. It was just the way he lived. Sometimes it worked. He'd just observe everyone else dealing with their problems. He didn't need any of his own. If he didn't put himself out there, he couldn't get hurt, right?
"Sir?" A waitress Mark didn't recognize stood before him, her presence suddenly pulling him out of his thoughts.
"Hmm?"
"Sir? Are you okay? Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you--"
"No, no. It's fine."
"Can I get you anything else? Another cup maybe?"
"Sure."
"Great. I'll be right back."
Mark sank back deeper into his thoughts. He knew Roger was under a lot of stress now. Mark couldn't stay angry with him, even if he was freaking out over stupid things. Poor Roger. ~~Flashback~~ Roger had strolled into the apartment earlier than usual. It wasn't even 2:00 in the morning. "Mark?" He had a surprised tone in his scruffy voice. "You waited up tonight. What's the occasion?" Mark shot a deadly glance in Roger's direction. He stood from the beat up couch and approached Roger, clutching something in his hand. Mark looked hurt as he searched Rogers eyes. "How could you?" Mark scolded the unaware Roger with a shake of his head. "What?" "I thought you stopped." Mark said quietly, but obviously irritated. "Uh, stopped what?" Roger hesitated a bit and seemed confused. Mark handed Roger spoons, some dirty needles, and an empty plastic baggy with the remnants of a white powder.
"What the hell?" He still seemed utterly dumbfounded at what Mark was trying to get at.
"I found them in your room," Mark said slowly in a hushed tone, but oozing with anger.
"They're not mine."
"In your room?" Mark turned away in exasperation.
"I don't know what you want! Do I look like I have any idea? They're not mine. My word should be enough for you! Or are you also calling me a liar, too?" Roger screamed back.
"Roger, no, but--"
"Am I accusing you? Not yet! But maybe now's a good time to start. Since we're on the subject of my room, what the hell were you doing in there? Why do you suddenly not trust me?" "Roger-" Mark sighed. "What on earth possessed you to go through my stuff? I never go into your room." Roger countered. "I wasn't going through your stuff, I was going to do the laundry this afternoon. I decided to do a load of your stuff too. Thought I'd do you a favor. This crap was strewn across the floor. What am I supposed to think?" "I don't know. But it's not mine." "Then who's is it?" Mark retorted incredulously. "I don't know," Roger threw up his arms in frustration, "I'm just as lost as you. For all I know it could be yours." "I never used smack. You did." "And I stopped. Isn't that enough for you?" "How do I know you've stopped when I find drug trash all over your room?" "Because I'm telling you!" Roger exploded, "Look, Mark, those bags and needles are not mine. My saying that should be proof enough for you." Roger returned Mark's look of disappointment with pure disgust. "I just worry about you sometimes, Rog," Mark said quietly, no longer making eye contact. "Well, don't. I can take care of myself, so fuck off." Roger stalked off angrily to his bedroom, slamming the door. A chill ran down Mark's spine as he suddenly felt very alone.
~~End Flashback~~ "Sir? Is everything alright?"
"Wha--?"
"Well, it's just that I brought you that coffee twenty minutes ago and you haven't touched it yet. Is there something wrong with it?"
"Oh, um.sorry. No. It's fine. I've really gotta stop zoning out like that," he added to himself.
"Okay. Would you like a fresh cup? That one is probably cold."
"Yeah." Mark mumbled absentmindedly. Wait! That was his third cup. Did he have enough cash on him? Mark reached for his back pocket only to realize his wallet wasn't there at all. Shit. Apparently this coffee was going on the long list of debts he accrued at the Life Café, which was getting pretty long.
"Here," the waitress set the fresh coffee on the table. "Mind if I join you?" Mark could only raise an eyebrow. "I've got the next half hour off, supposedly for dinner. I'm not really hungry though. I guess I filled up on all those fries I snitched from peoples' platters," she grinned at Mark. "Besides, you look like you could use some company."
He only shrugged and motioned for her to sit across from him, even though he wasn't really in the mood for talk. For the first time he looked up to see who this unusually friendly waitress was. She had big brown doe-like eyes and wavy dirty-blonde hair. She certainly wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Maureen, but her warm smile made up for that.
"Are you new here, in the city, I mean?"
"Yes, actually I am. Is it that obvious?" she asked, almost worriedly.
"Well, for one, you're extremely friendly; a quality that many native New Yorkers lack. Also, you're not asking me about whether I'll be paying or not. That's all aside from the fact that I've never seen you here before," Mark put frankly.
"Oh," she murmured, "that's all very true." Her eyes glazed for a moment as she sipped her coffee. Mark could only wonder what was going though her mind. "You come here often?"
"All the time." There was another rather awkward moment in which silence seemed to surround them.
"I just moved to New York a few days ago," She started, hoping to break the silence. "From Scotchwood."
"Where's that?" Mark asked. It was more of a reflex than anything else.
"It's a small town in Illinois."
"Oh," Mark managed reply to without enthusiasm.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Too long." Why couldn't Mark be friendly to her?
"Too long? Why do you say that?" She asked while a quizzical look crept over her face.
Mark returned her question with an icy glare. He knew he was being mean, but he wasn't in the mood for twenty questions. His day had been far too long.
The girl across from him looked completely surprised, "Okay. You don't like it here. Where else would you rather be?"
"You ask too many questions."
"You're too grumpy to answer any of them, so what's your point?" She wasn't the least bit put off by Mark's sour mood. Maureen would have been bitten back. Why did he just compare her to Maureen again?
Mark ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. When he looked back at her inviting milk chocolate eyes he broke, "I'm sorry. I've had a really rough day, not that that's a reason to be such a jerk. Can we start over?" Those eyes gave him a calculating stare before softening again. After a moment she held out her hand. Taking her hand, Mark introduced himself, "Mark Cohen. Starving filmmaker." Paige's entire face lit up when she grinned at him. Mark couldn't help smiling back.
"Paige Clifton. Starving writer...and broke." She chuckled.