A/N: Open to interpretation. This is a 5am-8am production so… enjoy :)
Water
A cat crossed the street between A and B, its paws leaving nano-second lasting indents in the water below its feet. By the time its paw had lifted, the indentation had already disappeared, drowning in the element. Water was not something it enjoyed, either pelting or puddling. Although it had stopped raining a couple hours prior, the dampness still lingered in the air in a determined sort of way and the cat's whiskers twitched, sensitive to all that surrounded it.
But for once the street seemed quite and with that the cat was content. Or, as content as one that loathed the rain could be. Quickly it scampered onto the sidewalk, evaluating the state of the dumpster. Deeming it safe and relatively dry, the cat maneuvered its way between the overflow garbage and into its depths. Settling down on a dry patch of cement, the cat lowered its head onto its paws.
Its whiskers twitched and it closed its eyes but its ears remained alert, pivoting atop its head like a sonar dish.
From the open window three stories above it, it heard the shrill piercing ring of a telephone. The noise wasn't unfamiliar, but it also held no meaning to the cat and so it relaxed its tail, waiting for the dampness to dissipate.
- - - - -
"Third time this week!" Collins yelled from the depths of black and Mark grumbled incoherently as he struggled to fall out of bed- gracefully.
It was always the same and he was groping blindly for his sweater even before the answering machine picked up with the traditional, "Sppp-eaaak." They'd long ago stopped racing to the telephone to pick it up the second it rang, a decision that subconsciously translated into their every-day life. No point in exhausting yourself when you knew what fate awaited you.
An angry bartender, owner or policeman, the odd annoyed mistress- even a man every now and then: all demanding whoever this miserable belligerent drunk belonged to 'come and get him immediately!' complete with snobbish accent or addicts drawl. The phone calls Mark didn't mind; the one night that someone forgot to call and the drunk managed to get himself killed, or worse- that was what Mark was dreading. And even more so was what Mark dreaded to find every time the drunk made the call himself in the morning.
Still, he dutifully kicked the debris away from his feet as he balanced the prescription glasses on the bridge of his nose, sighing. Sometimes he wondered if they would ever get through a week without going through this routine. It was getting a little old.
"When the fuck is enough going to be enough, Mark?" Collins yelled at him, unknowingly echoing his own concerns. From the volume Mark deduced Collins was somewhere in the vague vicinity of the kitchen. What Collins was doing there at this hour wasn't something Mark felt hell bent upon figuring out and he was out the door the second the voice on the machine uttered the location, 'Life'.
With no proper lighting to illuminate the stairway, Mark relied on his touch and memory, feeling the sides of the staircase and silently counting the steps. This journey he'd made many times in the dark, one he was able to make without the assistance of eyesight. At least tonight's escapades wouldn't lead him far away from home- sometimes it took over two hours to get to some oddball, sketchy uptown, downtown den that made the East Village look tame.
It'd been raining earlier in the night and Mark shoved his hands deep into his pockets, wishing he'd had the foresight to think ahead and bring a light coat. It wasn't exactly cold, but the damp was making the already dense air feel even heavier in his chest, the tinge of pollution that much more pronounced. The calm after a storm made everything seem more intense; Mark had enjoyed it in Scarsdale, but not here.
On nights like this he sometimes longed from a call from his Mother, just so he could be reminded why he'd chosen this lifestyle, this City… these friends.
But had he really chosen his friends? Or had they just been the first ones to accept him, the first ones to lend a helping hand. Had he just settled for what had come easiest, now burdened with a Jewish guilt that kept him from leaving?
The Life Café, a small corner shop where his friends often gathered was just up ahead on the street. Mark had to wonder what would greet him on the other side of the brightly lighted windows. Would he be angry this time? Violent? Deranged, melancholic, suicidal or giddy?
Looking both ways before crossing the street, Mark broke into a light jog; this was one of the situations where earlier was always better. The door to the small restaurant opened with a chime and Mark stepped in, eyes already searching for his charge. There weren't many people remaining in the shop, not that it was surprising. Such a late hour didn't bring out the biggest, or best crowd.
"Finally!" a young man behind the counter exclaimed and Mark's attention was drawn to him. "Five more minutes and I'd call the police!"
It was an empty threat and they both knew it- the man, a server named Gerry, wouldn't call and even if he did, the police wouldn't come.
So Mark asked the obvious, "Where is he?"
The obvious earned him a cold scowl and another empty threat; "In the bathroom. And if he missed the toilet you're cleaning it up."
Ignoring the enraged under breath monologue Gerry had engaged in, Mark pushed past him and towards the bathroom. Good, he thought to himself, at least he wasn't causing irreparable damage to others. Usually he didn't trust himself to look on the bright side of things- too many times in life he'd been disappointed. This time, however, it was easy to see.
Close to home, not attacking anyone, not screaming at anyone, not being hauled off by the police- this cloud was made of silver, not just lined with it.
"Roger?" he called tentatively as he opened the door.
All he got in response was a low, pitiful moan.
"Roger, where are you?" Mark asked, checking the first stall and finding it empty. "Roger?" Second stall, empty. But he was sure the moan hadn't been a subliminal creation of an unrested mind; the walk had woken him too much for that. Third- empty, and he was starting to get worried.
"Roger, I've come to take you home…" If he interpreted the sound properly, Roger needed to hear that. He needed to know that someone was there to take care of him and he could stop putting on a charade. Start being the person Mark had come to know, the person Mark came to rescue from the sinister seemingly inescapable vices and confides of the City, and, Mark liked to think, his mind.
"Mark…"
The whisper was weak but it caused Mark to turn around and see what he'd previously overlooked- and there, under the sinks, Roger was huddled.
"Mark," he whispered again, his throat hoarse. There was a small, vile looking puddle beside him and Mark wasn't sure if it was his own vomit or someone else's. Either way, they probably wouldn't be welcome back to the Life anytime soon.
It was impossible to hide the disappointment in his face as he crouched down in front of Roger, a hand resting on the sink above. "Roger, you gotta stop doing this," he said softly, hoping not to provoke Roger into a more evocative mood.
Roger nodded slowly, his arms still wrapped tightly around his shins, his eyes looking at nothing. Mark had a feeling Roger's mind was somewhere else entirely and anything he said would be forgotten come morning. So instead he held out a hand, offering a truce until then, "Let's go home Rog."
There was no response, the truce was rejected and Mark could feel the frustration of the past months catching up with him and boiling over the top. "Roger, take my hand," he ordered. When Roger didn't comply he took a deep breath, promising himself he wouldn't snap.
After all the fight's he'd broken up, the needles he'd snatched away, the bottles he'd thrown, the sharp metal he'd hidden, the people he'd apologized to, he promised himself he wouldn't snap at Roger doing something as harmless as sitting under a sink.
He tried to think what Collins would do in this situation, but it didn't help. Collins had different means than him and a different demeanor. Mark couldn't get away with a fourth of the stuff Collins did just because he knew it. Collins didn't understand limits, or didn't care and that gave him more freedom than Mark could even imagine experiencing.
The joints that connected his feet and his legs were beginning to burn and he offered his hand once more. "Roger, we've got to go."
And Roger looked straight at him; it was the most sober Mark had seen him in a lifetime, and Roger said, "No."
"No?" Mark asked, uncertainly at first. Then he started laughing. "No?" he asked again, the absurdity of the answer setting in. "There is no 'no', Roger," he tried to explain, nearly falling over from the effort of controlling his laughter. "There is no 'no'." When he finally stopped laughing, he saw that Roger was being serious.
And he snapped.
Grabbing Roger's wrist he yanked, jolting his best friend forward and out of the cubby the sink and enclosing walls had provided. Because this was his best friend, and right now, Roger needed him to be the strong one. Needed him to be the one who took control, provided stability and reintroduced order into a world that had fallen apart.
"Get up," Mark hissed, taking Roger's arm and heaving him onto his feet. Roger swayed for a moment and Mark gave him three seconds to realign himself with the upright world. "This is over right now Roger," he stated, "This being an idiot, being a moron, it finishes now, got it?"
Again, Roger answered with an infuriating, "No."
With strength he didn't remember having before, Mark whirled Roger around and pushed back. For a moment Roger stumbled before colliding with the wall, his head bouncing as his back connected. The dead eyes looked at Mark and Roger lifted a hand but Mark had it against the wall in seconds, his forearm pressing against Roger's chest, his knee pressed between Roger's legs to prevent any movement.
"You don't get to say 'no', Roger," Mark snarled in a voice he didn't recognize, "After all the shit I've done for you, you don't get to give up just like that."
"Leave me alone," Roger muttered looking away and Mark realized that Roger wasn't high. He wasn't even drunk and he would remember this encounter, this clashing of wills in the morning. And he would remember because Mark was bringing him home.
Mark moved himself so he was in Roger's face, raising his arm so Roger couldn't look away. "Hey," he said, waiting until Roger looked up at him. Roger was sober- the most sober he'd been in a lifetime. "This isn't about you."
Roger struggled, wiggling and pawing at Mark's hands but Mark had him pinned against the wall again in no time. "Let me go you fucker," Roger demanded heatedly and Mark scoffed. Let him go- what did he think Mark had been doing, letting him wander around through the nights, giving him the space and time to find himself. But that was over now; it wasn't an option any longer.
"I did, but now I'm taking you home."
This time Roger went as far as aiming below the belt, which Mark stopped with a surprised hand.
This time he had to move his forearm up to Roger's neck before Roger would stop squirming.
Mark was extra careful in making sure he didn't press too hard against the throat.
Roger was looking him square in the eyes and Mark held his gaze steadily. "I don't want to go home," Roger insisted stonily and Mark couldn't help but feel cheated. After all he'd done for Roger, after all he'd forced other people to do for Roger. He couldn't help but think it wasn't Roger's decision whether or not he wanted to. Roger shouldn't be the only one deciding.
So he decided for Roger.
"I don't really give a fuck," he said, moving his arm and pulling Roger's shoulder forward with his hand, catching the wrist that lashed out from the momentum in his free hand. Mark pressed gently against the shoulder while pulling firmly on the wrist, pinning Roger front-forward against the wall. "You're coming with me one way or another," he warned and he felt Roger slump over and relax in his grip.
There was no more fight left in Roger, Mark knew it. For the moment he'd won. Mark let go of him, taking hold of his upper arm instead, pulling him away from the wall and through the door.
Gerry looked up from the last lingering customers, looking relieved and for once not saying anything. Mark steered Roger through the tables like a lifeless puppet. If he were to lead Roger to the Hudson and push him in he had no doubt Roger would oblige. If he was to drag Roger into a church and throw him into a confessional, he was sure he'd be met with no resistance.
And it sacred him, because Mark knew it wasn't the first time Roger had acted like this. Roger like this would do anything for anyone- from bending over to shooting up. It wasn't healthy and it scared the fucking hell out of him. It scared him to think what the evil people of the world would do to Roger in this state, what kind of cruel and wicked fantasies they would fulfill while Roger floated somewhere between reality and unconsciousness. What Roger would remember when they were done with him.
Roger was as close to the undead as the living could be and it allowed Mark to steer him through four streets and up three flights of stairs.
"You find the bastard?" Collins asked scornfully from a couch somewhere by the Perch.
For perhaps the first time since Mark had known Collins, he told the professor to "Shut the fuck up". It seemed that somewhere in Roger's mind his surroundings registered as 'home' and he lightly disengaged himself from Mark's grip, heading toward his customary position on the couch. Mark grabbed him again before he could get very far, dragging him off in the direction of the bathroom.
"Mark, whatcha doin'?" Collins called from his bed concerned and Mark ignored him.
It wasn't hard to tip Roger into the bathtub and he promptly turned the water on. It spluttered through the pipes and came out through the leaking showerhead first in dribbles and then in full force. Faced with the sudden cold, Roger tried to grip the sides of the bathtub and hoist himself out but Mark jumped in on top of him, holding him by the edges of the leather coat, his body between his legs.
The water hit the back of Mark's head and he winced at the cold. It trickled under his sweater and down his back but soon he couldn't feel it. Mark couldn't feel anything but indignation towards Roger. Roger's mouth was agape and flapping, trying to make words but Mark couldn't feel anything but anger and contempt towards him. "You can't just fucking give up Roger," he snarled, shaking Roger, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
"You can't fucking GIVE UP!"
Roger didn't make any move to throw Mark off of him- he just sat there.
How long he was on top of Roger screaming he couldn't recall, but he remembered two warm hands wedging themselves under his armpits and pulling him out of the tub. Everything around him was floating and he couldn't stop shaking. The water had stopped running and he couldn't feel his feet. Someone picked him up and carried him to the sectioned off 'room', stripped him down until he was nude and toweled him off. They pushed him into the bed and before leaving wrapped the covers around him so tightly he couldn't move, but he still couldn't stop shaking.
Soon another body was tipped into the bed and he felt the mattress decompress. The cocoon he'd failed to warm was unwrapped and a warm blanket or piece of clothing was laid on top of him. Another body (nude as well) wiggled nearer to him with it's own warm piece of fabric. Blankets encased the both of them and then they were alone.
"Mark?" the voice was tentative and scared, and even though it sounded familiar, it was disturbingly strange. "Mark, I'm sorry," the voice whispered and Mark nodded, his teeth chattering into the pillow. A cold hand touched him and he wondered which one of them was really the mad one. Hopefully he hadn't succeeded in killing the both of them- even when he was screaming at Roger, murder had been the furthest thing from his mind.
All he wanted was for Roger to understand, for him not to give up and make it all for nothing.
"I promise I'll try."
- - - - -
There was noise- dangerous noise and although the cat was dozing it still had enough sense to know when its habitat was being disturbed. The wood above it started to shake and vibrate and it stood, extending its claws, ready for the attack. A piece of wood was lifted away and the dampness of the air seeped into its cozy hide-away and the cat hissed a feebly warning.
A human voice swore at it but continued to wreck havoc on the shelter, pulling the wood away and discarding it on the ground. Very dim light filtered through the opening and the cat darted the other way, under the dumpster. Beneath the dumpster a cold puddle of water had formed and the cat's underbelly dipped into it as it crawled towards its escape.
Popping out of the opposite side through which it'd come, the cat glared at the big black man pillaging its once sanctuary. Knowing the balance of power in the world, the cat once again took off down A and B, thrown back into the hated dampness, its soaked underbelly chilling its entire body.
But the cat knew that soon the water that clung to its fur would dry, that the dampness of the air would lift and that summer and spring would come; seasons which brought many mince, and many warm nights. One shelter had been taken away, but soon another would be found and there was no point dwelling on the losses of the past.