This chapter is shorter than the other two, I'll admit. This is mostly because I'm a little stuck on this fic. There was originally an extra scene at the end, from Roger's perspective, but I didn't feel like it flowed with the rest of the chapter. I might put Roger at the beginning of the next one, though. Enjoy!


Maureen is there waiting for him when he finally makes it back. It's past two in the morning and he's beyond fucking tired, he's exhausted to the point where even the grimy floor looks comfortable, and Maureen is there. And somehow, with her make-up smudged everywhere, her hair a tangle and a huge run in her tights from mid-thigh to ankle, she is the most beautiful thing he has seen all night.

She's drunk. He guesses that, if not from her slightly unsteady gait when she walks towards him, then definitely from the fact that she grabs for him and misses by a good centimetre.

"Mark!" she chirps, kissing him swiftly on the mouth before he can process anything else. He can taste alcohol on her breath. "Where have you been? You weren't here when I got back from the club…" She sways a little on the spot and blinks sharply three times before continuing. "And neither was Roger! I was worried…" She pouts with those lush, flawless lips in their smeared lipstick, and then kisses him again. "But you're back now, so that's fine. It's fine." She pats him on the head, and Mark thinks she's so happy in her vodka-shot bubble that he can't bear to tell her, but just thinking about it, now he's home, is enough to bring those tears back to his eyes

She spots them, somehow. Seems to sober up a little at the sight. "Mark? Is everything okay? Are you okay?" Her words run together, slightly panicked before he can even speak.

All he does is shake his head. That's all he can manage because his throat's so damn tight.

"'s Roger," he finally manages, the syllables snagging on each other and tearing. "He overdosed. I just got back…" He breaks off, can't say anymore, physically can't unless he wants to start crying again, which he does not. Maureen embraces him, soft and sincere and gentle now, and he lets himself be held, lets himself cry a little against her shoulder, tries to tell himself that he's imagining the smell of another man's cologne on her collar.

She straightens him up then, delicately. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. Is he gonna be all right?" Mark just shrugs; it's too complicated. Will Roger live? Probably. Will he be all right, though, that's not so clear.

The shrug seems to be enough for Maureen. She brightens, if only fractionally. "Go take a bath, baby, I'll make you tea."

He leaves, shuts the bathroom door silently behind him, confronts his reflection in the mirror. He's tear-stained, red-eyed and more tired-looking than he's ever been. He turns both the taps in the tub, and only briefly wonders if they've actually got hot water. He looks at the mirror again, with its spots of rust, the dull patch across the centre where a month ago there had been a message scrawled in lipstick.

He watches the water rising in the bath, remembers it clouded red, remembers the body, head thrown back, eyes open staring staring staring at the cracked ceiling, one arm barcoded with livid red cuts while the other hand still grips a razor blade…

Mark strips hurriedly, shaking his head to clear the images. He dips a foot in the water; it is blessedly warm. He sinks, and tries to forget.

When he comes back, she's made him tea. Kinda. She's found one of his teabags from the back of the cupboard, put it in a mug and poured boiling water on top. The teabag is still in there, floating like a dead thing. His stomach turns. He takes a sip while she watches him eagerly, burning his tongue. He sets the rest down, watches the steam rise and rise until Maureen sits beside him and leans her head on his shoulder. She is warm and soft and drowsy and he remembers how bone-tired he is.

He takes off his jacket and shoes while she does the same, and allows her to guide him backwards until they're lying together, nestled together like the only two spoons in the kitchen drawer. His head aches and the couch is as uncomfy as ever and there's really not enough space for two, and Maureen reeks of alcohol...but he relaxes. He's home now, and everything is going to be okay.

Eventually.


By this point, constructive criticism would be gratefully accepted. So would reviews of any kind, tbh. Please, don't be shy! Tell me what you think, what you like, what you hate and anything you'd like to see next!