Author's Notes: The inspiration and basic, basic plotline for this story comes from a movie (featuring Anthony Rapp) of the same title. I do not own it. Nor do I own RENT.

On a chilly March afternoon, Roger Davis and Benny Coffin, best friends, can be found in the former's bedroom, paging through books and magazines and chatting about their respective plans for the evening. The latter, who this evening has not a date but a meeting with his father and therapist, has experienced happier moods in his sixteen years of living thus far, and might even be classified as grumpy.

"I hate him," Benny wails. "I can't believe he's making me do this."

"I know, Ben," Roger replies. "You've only told me ninety-seven times."

With the tiniest smirk, Benny repeats, "I hate him."

"Ninety-eight. Look, do you want to just not go? You can hang out with me and April tonight."

Benny shakes his head. "I'd be a third wheel."

The phone rings, but the twosome merely continues on with the conversation. Roger, slightly frustrated, suggests, "Why don't you just tell him you have plans?"

"I can't," Benny replies. "He's had this planned for, like, a month. I just have to go, I guess."

Roger sighs, annoyed. "Then quit bitching about it, okay?"

"Roger!" calls someone from another part of the house. "Roger!"

With a groan, Roger yells back, "Yeah, Mom?"

The door opens, and Mrs. Davis pokes her head inside. "Roger, the Cohens called. They were looking for a babysitter, and I told them you could do it."

Wrinkling his nose, Roger inquires, "Cohens – isn't their kid, like, my age?"

"Oh, you mean Mark? Yes, he's thirteen, but they're really looking for a babysitter for someone else too – the daughter of a very close family friend, I hear. Her name is Maureen, and she's seven. And since you don't have plans tonight…"

It is not because Roger has anything against the Cohen family, or babysitting in general, that he says this, but because it is true: "No, Mom, I have a date tonight."

Mrs. Davis looks skeptical. "With who?"

"April Ericcson," he replies promptly.

"She's a little shit, you can cancel," Benny mutters dryly from the bed, where he is flipping through a magazine.

Decisively, Mrs. Roger declares, "I'll call the Cohens back to confirm. You're going whether you like it or not, Roger."

The door closes behind her, leaving the two friends alone. "You're an asshole," Roger informs his friend. "For your information, she is not a little shit."

"My bad," Benny mutters, sounding wholly insincere. "Anyways, someone at school told me she's cheating on you."

"With who?" yelps Roger.

"Half the football team," Benny replies smoothly.

Roger tilts his head. "Boys' or girls'?"

"I don't know. Maybe both."

Roger shoves him. "Shut up," he tells his friend playfully, and peeks over to the magazine Benny is reading. "What is that?"

"I found it under your bed," he answers. "It appears to be porn."

"Give it back!" Roger yells.

Benny laughs. "No way, it's hot."

"Fuck off."

Cackling, Benny responds, "No, Roger, that's what you do with the magazine."

"Oh, Benny," says Roger, choking back laughter, "you're such a bastard sometimes."

"But you love me anyway," he points out. Looking out the window, he announces, "Look. April's here. Want me to go tell her you had to go somewhere and needed to cancel?"

Roger collapses on his bed with a tremendous sigh. "If I'm not here, why are you here?"

"Okay, so you are here, but you're sick. Dying, even," he suggests. "Can I go tell her? Please?"

With a loud groan, Roger shrugs. "Yeah, why not?"

Benny scampers out of the room to do just that, leaving Roger temporarily alone as he decides what revenge to wreak upon Mark and Maureen.

---

Ding-dong.

"MARKY!" shrieks a little girl. "MARK-Y! I wanna play!"

The thirteen-year-old makes his way down the steps. "Mo, do you ever stop?" he asks, plopping a Monopoly onto the kitchen table and tucking the lid under the box.

"Nope," she says delightedly. "And guess what? Guess what guess what guess what!"

Mark sighs deeply. "What?"

"Your mommy got us a 'sitter! His name is Woger," she expands, stumbling over the name. "Nuh-uh. R-roger. Roger."

"Roger Davis?" Mark demands. His heart beats incredibly fast. Please, god, don't let it be –

Maureen giggles. "Yep!"

The next things that are heard in the Cohen household are Mark's squeaks as he scampers up the stairs. "Fucking hell," he mutters to himself as he slams the bathroom door behind him. "Where the hell is my zit cream?"

The only answer is Maureen's cackling as she stretches out on her stomach on the floor just outside the bathroom, using Mark's cosmetics to illustrate a picture in her coloring book. "Jesus fucking CHRIST!" roars Mark, who is Jewish. "MAUREEN?"

Knuckles drum on the bathroom door, and Mark, mistaking the sound for Maureen kicking the door, yells, "Fuck off!"

"Um, hi to you too," says a new voice, "I'm Roger Davis, I'm babysitting tonight…"

A hissed "Shit!" is heard, as well as the clattering of several items to the floor. "Yeah," Mark calls back, "I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," Roger responds, and settles down on the floor beside Maureen.

---

Mark has been in the bathroom for exactly nineteen minutes by the time he emerges. As he opens the door to exit, he hears a hissed "Ow!" as the door bangs into Roger's thigh.

"Oh, shit," Mark mumbles as he steps over Roger and Maureen. "Did that hit you? Sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"No big deal," Roger says sleepily. "So you're… Mike, right?"

"Mark," Mark corrects him. "I mean, you can call me Mike if you want."

Maureen pipes up, "Jeez, Mark, you're really obvious."

"Shut up, Maureen," Mark mumbles. He holds out a hand to Roger. When the babysitter merely watches him questioningly, Mark flushes and returns his hand to his pocket. "Yeah. Um, nice to meet you, Roger."

"Likewise," the other boy replies, but he sounds insincere.

Settling down on his heels, Mark inquires conversationally, "How did you get roped into babysitting tonight?"

Roger sighs. "My mother thought it'd be a nice gesture" is all he says, but the bitterness in his voice is enough to tell Mark that there is far more behind it than that.

"Got dumped?" Mark asks sympathetically. "Plans cancelled, needed something to do?"

In a low voice, Roger growls, "Don't be an asshole."

"Oooh!" shrieks Maureen. "You said a bad word, Woger!"

Without another word, Roger stands up. Quietly, in Mark's ear, he mutters, "Got any beer?"

"Just wine," Mark replies, almost regretfully. "I'll go get you some, if you want," he adds, and here his voice contains a tinge of enthusiasm, as though he is entertained by the prospect of helping Roger with something.

"Yeah," Roger agrees. "Why don't you do that?" He looks over to Maureen. "You wanna play with a puzzle?" he asks her sweetly.

Maureen's head flies up and down. "Uh-huh!" she squeaks. "Can I, can I go pick one? They're in the basement, where it's cold and shiny."

"I'll go down there with you, actually," Roger decides, not lastly because he feels uncomfortable around Mark. "Oh, and kid – " he adds, turning to Mark abruptly, "meet us downstairs, and make us some food, 'kay?"

Mark nods. "Sure." He descends the stairs towards the kitchen, followed by Maureen and Roger, who branch away from him to go down to the basement. "Red or white?" he asks hastily.

"Red," Roger replies instantly. "And get soda or something for Maureen, 'cause I don't think she's energized enough." He laughs, turning to the little girl, and skates his fingers over her ticklish spots. She giggles madly and squirms in Roger's arms as he starts carrying her down the steps to the basement.

Mark, left to his own devices, takes a wine glass and a plastic cup out of the cabinet and pours the requested liquids into each, then fills up a regular glass with water for himself. He sets the three drinks on the table, then grabs a box of macaroni and cheese from the pantry, sets it on the counter, and begins to boil water in a pot. At that moment, however, the phone rings. Mark is sent zipping across the room, skidding in his socks, and manages to achieve the title of King Irony when he stumbles over the telephone wire. Regaining his balance, Mark grabs the phone and puts it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hi," comes a crackly voice on the other end. "Roger Davis, please?"

Mark sighs. He leaves the boiling water on the stove, praying he won't regret it for some reason, grabs the three drinks, and says, "Hold on" into the phone. Having been raised with manners, Mark does not scream into the basement for Roger to answer the phone; instead, he carries the three drinks downstairs, sets them on the table at which Roger and Maureen are working on a puzzle, and announces, "Roger, there's someone on the phone for you."

"Really? Weird," Roger muses, and he pushes past Mark to scamper up the stairs. "Where's your phone?" he yells, obviously lacking Mark's manners, but adds, "Never mind!" upon locating the dangling receiver. "Roger speaking," he says into it, audible to the caller as well as Mark and Maureen, who now make their way up the stairs to return to the boiling macaroni.

"Oh, yeah, hey, Benny," comes the voice of the babysitter, distracting Mark as he continuously flickers his gaze back to Roger's rear end. "Wait – you're where?"

Mark's ears perk up. So this isn't a purely social call. Or is it?

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Roger growls. Mark belatedly slaps his hands onto Maureen's ears, though he doesn't really care. What business is it of his if she goes tattling back to her parents? All it means is that she won't visit as frequently, which can really only be a blessing. But again, his thoughts are interrupted by Roger's inane chatter. "God, Benny. Do I have to?"

Benny. Mark knows Benny Coffin all too well. Even though Mark is but a lowly ninth-grader and Benny is with Roger in the high school's junior class, Mark has heard of the older boy, and has, in fact, has been beaten up by him on several occasions. Case in point: one day, Mark's curiosity got the better of him, and he strolled through the juniors and seniors' parking lot, hoping to see exactly why it was the most popular hangout among the upperclassmen, even those without cars. While strolling between parking spaces, he found himself hoisted into the air by the back of his collar, his life threatened in a low growl, should he ever deign to touch a particular car again. Of course, Mark hadn't touched the car, but, terrified, he had had no choice but to scuttle away in fright.

"Okay, well, yeah. Sure. I'll be there in an hour, 'kay?"

Roger hangs up the phone. Mark turns an inquisitive gaze to him, and Roger hurriedly asks, "Either of your parents have a car they didn't take to the… whatever?"

"Yeah, in the garage," Mark replies promptly. He doesn't want to pressure Roger, but he can't help but ask, "Are you… leaving?"

"Yeah," Roger answers, poking his head into the door that leads to the garage. "Excellent," he muses. "Keys?"

Mark points to a spot on the counter. Roger gives him a look, and Mark nods. "Right." He crosses the room to retrieve said keying, drops it into Roger's hands, and turns his attention back to the boiling water.

"Wait!" Maureen shrieks. She scampers across the room. "Woger! Don't leave!" she wails.

Roger sighs. "Look, my friend Benny got stuck in a train station, okay? He was in New York tonight, and he was supposed to take a train home, but… well, it didn't work out."

"Clearly," Mark drawls. Roger snaps his head around to fix a glare upon Mark, who blushes. "Sorry."

"Whatever," Roger snaps. "So yeah, Mo, I gotta go." He turns towards the door and takes a step closer to it, but is interrupted by Maureen's shrill wail.

"No-ooooo!" she howls. "Take me with you!" Then, a devious grin forms on her face. "If you don't take me with you, I'm gonna tell Mommy and Daddy. Or Marky's Mommy and Daddy. Then they'll be mad at you."

Roger growls low under his breath. "Listen, Maureen," he says slowly, enunciating every word. "This is not the time to fuck with me."

Maureen giggles. "I could tell them you said that, and you'd never get a job again!" she shrieks. At the same moment, an oblivious Mark crosses the room, retrieves three bowls, and begins scooping pasta into each one.

"Fine," Roger growls, and he yanks a bowl away from Mark, as well as the spoon he used to divide up the macaroni. "Fine, Maureen, you can come. Cohen – you stay here, and don't tell your parents, okay?"

"Sure," Mark replies calmly. "If they call, I'll just tell Mom and Dad you went out for ice cream, and I wasn't feeling well. That okay with you?"

Roger nods. "Fine."

There is a rap at the front door. Mark scampers to it, knowing that the chances of Roger doing so are highly improbable. The familiar face of Tom Collins pokes its way into the door. "Hey," says Mark's best friend cheerfully. "Maureen still here, or is it safe?"

"She's just about to leave for a road trip with her babysitter," Mark mumbles vengefully.

"And you turned that opportunity down?" Collins asks incredulously. "I thought he was hot."

Mark nods. "He is," he whispers, hoping Roger doesn't hear. "But, um, you know… I didn't want to bug him. I was making him macaroni and cheese and pouring wine for him and stuff, and I thought maybe if I did that, he'd like me, so it would be stupid to ruin that by being an asshole. Even if he thinks I already am one…"

"God, Mark," sighs Collins. "You really need to start standing up for yourself." He grabs his friend's wrist and drags Mark towards the driveway, where Roger and Maureen sit in the driver and front passengers' seats in Mrs. Cohen's car. The two are halfway down the driveway, but that does not stop Collins from interrupting their trip.

Collins taps on Roger's window. "Let us in," he orders Roger. "No way are you making Mark feel like shit over your power trip. Unlock the doors."

Roger turns to Maureen, who explains, "That's Mark's best friend Collins. He's nice but weird."

The lock clicks open, and without another word, Collins pulls the stammering Mark into the car. "Drive," says the former, and Roger does not hesitate to do so.

"I'm Roger Davis," he says into the mirror allowing him to see Mark and Collins. "We are going to Penn Station to pick up my friend, who's kind of stranded. If I get any grief over the next two hours, you three children will not live to tell the tale. Clear?"

Roger either does not notice or does not care that Mark is filming him, the lens of his camera poking out and gazing into the car mirror. Roger's eyes sparkle due to an unrelated cause as Mark murmurs his signature date and time into the movie.

"Clear," Mark says brightly, and he hopes Roger doesn't think he's being rude, because that's just something he doesn't know if he can handle right now.

"Wait," Collins interrupts. "How are you planning to kill us?"

Roger shrugs, mildly entertained by this kid's gall. "Stabbing? I don't know."

"How about raped?" Collins mutters to himself, too quietly for Roger to hear. In Mark's ear, he whispers, "You're right. The boy is hot."

"Hey," Mark protests weakly. "He's mine."

Collins laughs. "Profess your love for him by the end of the night and you can have him, Cohen. If not…"

"I'll do it," Mark interrupts.

Maureen, bouncing up and down in her seat, wails, "Woger! Let's do something fun!"

Roger, whose anger is slowly ebbing in the presence of cheerful little Maureen, suggests, "How about a sing-along?"