A/N: I know it's been ages since I last updated, and I know this chapter is short, but I felt this part of Mo's plotline had to stand on its own rather than being paired with a development in Joanne's. The length should hopefully increase next chapter.

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The third glass of wine was what made Maureen remember Joanne; the first two had been excellent at helping her forget. She wasn't a fan of drinking alone, but since Joanne was out seducing her assistant or whatever, there weren't many other options available to Maureen. She stared mournfully into the bottom of her glass, unable to remember if it was her fourth or her fifth, a fact of which she had been more than sure a moment ago. She tried to think, but gave up after a moment or two as the effort she was expending only made her want to drink more, and she was pretty sure that was a bad idea.

Maureen was staring down her wine bottle, daring it to offer her another drink, when Mark walked into the loft. He looked at Maureen for a moment, then took up a position opposite the counter from her.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Fuck," she replied, eloquently.

"Hey, if you want to drink yourself into a stupor alone, feel free," Mark shrugged. "I was just offering you some company that won't leave you with a hangover in the morning."

Maureen shrugged and pushed the bottle towards him. The last thing she felt like doing was talking.

Twenty minutes and another glass of wine later, Maureen had moved to Mark's side of the counter and was sobbing into her glass, clutching his pale had in her clammy one.

"I love her," Maureen hiccupped. "I love her, Marky, why is it so hard for me to tell her that? Why can't she just know that I really want to be with her?"

Mark caressed the back of her hand with his thumb and bravely did not mention that she was cutting off his circulation. "I don't know, Maureen, maybe… Maybe you just need to say it more often," he offered.

She looked at him like he had suggested she jump into bed with the nearest stripper. "Jesus Christ, are you stupid? She doesn't believe me! She never believes me!"

"Probably because the only time you ever actually tell her you love her is when you're trying to get into her pants," Mark suggested, more bluntly that he'd intended. As soon as the words left his mouth, he looked over at Maureen, ready to apologise, only to find her looking at him with huge eyes, her mouth slightly open in wonder.

"Mark, Marky Marcus, you are smart!" Maureen gasped, slapping the table with an open palm. "You are so smart," she repeated. "How did I not see that?"

Mark shrugged. Maureen grinned at him, and he smiled back at her, a little sheepishly. "I… didn't really mean that in a good way," he confessed. Something about the way she was looking at him made him nervous, like she was about to…

… to lean in close to him, whisper, "Thank you," and kiss him.

Mark closed his eyes and allowed the feeling of Maureen's lips on his, so familiar and yet after so long, so alien, to pervade him. Just this one single second was all he needed to transport himself back to happier times, back when he and Maureen were still together, when they shared the loft and Collins still smoked too much weed because most of his will to live had been sapped after he found out about the HIV, and Roger and April were still together and still doing all that heroin…

Mark snapped back to reality. Maureen's tongue was pushing up against his mouth, searching for a way in. She tasted like wine and sorrow. The strangeness of the moment won out, and Mark pulled away.

"Maureen," he said softly, watching her confused and lonely eyes flick over his face again and again. "I can't. We can't. Not again."

And he walked out of the room, leaving Maureen to her wine and sorrow, feeling strangely proud of himself.