A/N: Okay, perhaps I lied and the real, gah angst is coming next. Now I just hurt Roger a bit (sorry!), but it just worked for me and I hope my readers agree :).


Another couple of months went by, Roger and Mimi settled into their new roles, and Mark briefly considered moving so that the two of them could have their own space. However, he quickly realized that he was spending most of his time at the hospital so most of time Roger and Mimi did have their own space.

Mark was lucky if he made it home more than a couple of times a week. He was itching to film, so much so that during one trip to the loft, he'd retrieved his camera and brought it back to the hospital, spending precious break time filming whatever he could. He was in the mist of his pediatric rotation and the kids loved the camera. He quickly found it did wonders to morale when he showed a group of them how it worked. Perhaps he even inspired a future filmmaker or two.

His supervisor loved him and told him he should seriously consider pediatrics as his specialty. Mark was thrown off track by the comment. He'd never considered himself comfortable around children, but at work, it was hard not to smile back when a kid smiled at him.

But, still, not everything was happy. The day one of the patients Mark saw on rounds died unexpectedly, he was crushed to the point where considered giving up. Even ventured out to Angel's grave and sat there a while, camera in hand, contemplating his goal and if he'd lost sight of it.

It helped. But still, death was hard. And made even harder when he finally dragged himself back to hospital and by the neonatal intensive care unit.

It was torture. The newest addition was a premature girl, barely three hours old, born to a heroin addicted and HIV positive mother. Early tests indicted she gotten the virus from her mother, but that was actually the least of her problems. She weighed a mere three pounds and her lungs were underdeveloped to point that she couldn't even attempt to breathe on here own. Her outlook was grim.

He couldn't help thinking about Roger and Mimi as he looked at her, so small and covered in tubes and wires. Mimi was clean, he told himself. If Mimi and Roger ever had a child, she wouldn't end up like this. But there was guarantee. And it was only a matter of time before both Roger and Mimi would meet a similar fate – small and weak, barely holding on.

Dying. Just like Angel. Just like Collins could be in another six months.

No, he thought. New drugs were being developed and lives were extended.

Still, looking at that little girl, it was hard to remember any of the positives and easy to focus on every single negative. Drugs, HIV, AIDS, it all ended very, very badly.

Reality sucked. He knew that, realized that as he trudged up the stairs towards the loft that evening. Didn't stop it from happening eventually though.

"Mark! Thank God you're home!"

Or from happening right now.

Mimi was standing just outside the door, shouting down the stairs. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the fear written all over her face. Mark immediately began taking two stairs at time, reaching the top faster than he thought possible.

"It's Roger," she told him. "He's been throwing up since yesterday and he's in a lot of pain. He refused to go to the clinic. He's being an stupid asshole, but I'm," she passed a moment, swallowing, "I'm afraid he's really, really sick. He hasn't moved from the couch in an hour."

Sure enough, when Mark entered, Roger was curled up in the fetal position on the threadbare couch. His eyes were closed, but the pain he was in was plain as day.

Crap. Mark had a feeling of dread hit him. "Roger?" He reached the couch, touching the back of his hand to his friend's forehead. Warm, but not too bad. Of course.

Eyes opened. "Mimi's overreacting" were the first words out of his mouth, but they were immediately contradicted by a spasm of pain that had Roger curling tighter into himself. "Oh shit," he muttered.

"Yeah, she's overreacting," Mark mumbled. A million things ran through his head. He was only a third year student and Roger definitely needed medical attention. Mimi was right – Roger was a stupid asshole whose stubborn streak was the longest Mark had ever seen.

"You should have gone to the clinic, Roger."

"I hate the clinic," Roger replied. "Figured if it got worse, you'd come home."

"And do what, Roger? I'm not a doctor, yet, but both you and Collins seem to forget that little fact." Collins hated the medical profession as much as Roger did. Ever since his close call and AIDS diagnosis, he'd turned to Mark long before seeking any other form of treatment. Mark was somewhat flattered, but he hoped such a choice wouldn't hurt him in the long run. Trust Roger to take those odds.

"What hurts?" Something hurt, most likely Roger's stomach from the way he was positioned, but Mark wasn't taking any chances. With Roger's fragile immune system anything could happen.

"Gut," Roger mumbled and Mark pried Roger's hands away, running through every single fact he'd ever learned about stomach pain in the last three years. It didn't help and Roger drew in a breath the second Mark's hand made contact with his stomach.

Fuck. He glimpsed over his shoulder. "Mimi?"

Mimi was hovering a few feet away, lips pursed. She nodded.

"There's a package in my room. It has a return address from Scarsdale. Can you get it?"

Mimi was heading towards his room before he even finished his sentence.

"You're a stubborn, stupid asshole, Roger." Mark starting gently pushing down into Roger's stomach. "Tell me where it hurts before I drag your ass to the ER."

Roger winced particularly when Mark headed towards the right side of his abdomen. "Fuck, there." He twisted away from Mark's touch. "There."

Mark closed his eyes a second. One possible diagnosis hit him and it had nothing to do with HIV. It was complicated by HIV, was still extremely life threatening, but was treatable. But he couldn't diagnosis on a hunch.

"Here." Mimi plopped the box he'd asked for on the floor next to the couch and Mark reached in and looped the stethoscope on top around his neck before digging deeper. His father was trying again, sending several medical items in the mail. Mark had come last week to the package on his bed and had wondered just what his father expected to achieve with it, if he expected to achieve anything at all. But it was a moot point now; at least Mark could put the items to good use.

"Open," he told Roger, shaking down a thermometer.

"What the hell—" Roger started, but Mark took that opportunity to stick the thermometer in Roger's mouth. A moment later he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Roger's arm and hooked the earpieces of the stethoscope into his ear. Roger, for his part was silent, but Mimi looked both somewhat surprised and concerned.

Double crap. BP was lower then it should be and Roger was running a low-grade fever.

"You're going to hospital."

"Why? Can't you fix it?"

Mark put everything back into the box it came in. "Did you not understand the first time I said I'm not actually a doctor yet, Roger? And even if I was, you need to be treated. At a hospital."

"What's wrong?" Mimi asked, visibly nervous. "Is it bad?"

It certainly could be, he thought, but kept that sentence in his head. "It might mean surgery, but honestly, I'm not sure. I have cab fare, so better safe than sorry."

Getting Roger downstairs proved quite a task and twice Mark stopped, telling Roger he was calling 911. Roger refused, saying he'd sent them away. Roger prevailed and a cab was found. Mark wanted to go the nearest hospital, but Roger insisted they go to where Mark worked.

"I have no insurance anyway, and I figure wherever they put you has to be good, right?" he'd weakly joked.

It won't matter if you're dead, Mark thought. It wouldn't come down to that, he tried to convince himself. Roger was in pain, but lucid. Fever was low. An IV could do wonders and they could back at the loft in a few hours.

No such luck. The wait was long, Mark bullied to get Roger triaged, and the ER doctor didn't like any of Mark's input. Roger's pain was increasing, he was vomiting again, and his fever was up. Mimi was extremely worried, rubbing Roger's back and the ER doc was telling Mark there was no infection.

"No leukocytosis," the doctor stated, filling through Roger's chart. "We'll run more tests."

"There's no leukocytosis because he's HIV positive," Mark countered. "I may only be a third-year, but they shoved that fact down my throat a while back. There's rebound pain."

"Which can mean a million and one things, Mr. Cohen." The doctor was sure to emphasize the word "Mr." Mark felt like punching a wall. Did he really work here, only three floors up? "The pain is not completely specific to the right side and a sonogram showed us nothing. We'll run more tests."

Right. Why again did he go to medical school when his opinion meant absolutely nothing? He sighed and gave Roger a tight smile. "I'm going to make a phone call."

He wasn't sure he was right, but he just wanted someone to listen. And if he was right, they were wasting time. He searched his pockets for a quarter and dropped in into the slot before picking up the phone and dialing.

It went to Andy's machine. Fuck. That left only one other option if he wanted another professional ear. He picked the phone up again, dropped in another couple of quarters to cover the toll call, and dialed.

Four rings passed before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry to be calling so late, but I need another opinion."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. "Mark?"

"Yeah, Dad, it's me."

"It's almost eleven, Mark. Where are you? Working?"

Mark sighed. "I'm at the hospital, but no, I'm not on call. Like I said, I need another opinion. A professional one." He hated this conversation already, but he had this feeling that if he didn't do something, it wouldn't be good for Roger. Sure, HIV meant Roger didn't have forever, but his time wouldn't be cut short because he spent too long waiting for a proper diagnosis.

"Okay."

Mark outlined the issue. He thought it was appendicitis, even thought Roger could be close to perforating, but since not all the signs were there, the doctor was dismissing it and hadn't even followed though on a surgical consult. Roger's white blood cell count wasn't up and that didn't help at all.

"Sonogram showed nothing," Mark finished. "Am I wrong? Is it something else?"

Again, the other side of the line was quiet for a minute. "It could be. Listen, Mark, I need to check something. Call me back in ten minutes."

Before Mark could even ask why, the line was dead. Abrupt, as always, and left Mark wondering if that phone call had done a damn thing. He wasn't calling back, he decided, as he walked back towards Roger. Even his father had admitted it could be something else, so maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Roger would be fine.

Roger wasn't fine. Roger was worse. After another fuss and another twenty minutes, the doctor finally came back, saying that they were still waiting on test results. That's when another man, older and dressed in blue scrubs, stepped in and read the chart over his shoulder.

"Dr. Pace?" the scrubbed man asked. "No surgical consult?"

Dr. Pace reddened. "Um, I was just getting to that."

"Over the past six hours, his vitals haven't improved with antibiotics and fluids," the man continued, "and the tests are still inconclusive. I need to get in there and take a look."

Mark wanted to hug the man.

"Right," Dr. Pace agreed, handing over the chart. The man smiled and took over, introducing himself to Mimi as Dr. Ritter. Within ten minutes, an OR was booked and Mimi was signing Roger's life away, it seemed.

Mimi walked with the gurney out into the hall, but Mark followed, Dr. Ritter stopped him.

"You must be Mark."

Mark blinked. "Um, I am. But I don't think I told you my name."

"You didn't," Ritter confirmed. "But you're Andrew Cohen's son."

Suddenly he realized why his father had hung up on him so quickly. "You know him?"

"We went to school together a million years ago. Have you done your surgical rotation yet?"

"I start next week. Why?"

Ritter just shook his head. "Good. How would you like a sneak preview?"

"Um…" Mark's mouth went dry. This was Roger, this was…

Yet at the same time, it meant his father had listened and maybe even believed in him. Roger could just very well be okay after all and he may have helped that along. There were too many things to consider here. "He's my…"

"Friend?" Ritter finished. "I know, it's hard. But I'm sure his wife would feel better if you were there." He paused and studied Mark a moment. "Your father speaks very highly of you. Though the last I had heard, you filmed."

Filmed? When the hell had his father even admitted Mark ever filmed? Or, more accurately, when had he admitted it without disdain in his voice?

"So?"

Ritter was waiting for his answer and Mark pushed his father out of his brain and concentrated on finding his voice. He wondered if he'd even be able to make it through without passing out.

It was Roger. Roger was his best friend and he needed to make sure he would be okay.

He nodded and followed Ritter down the hall.


Roger's hospital room overflowed with get well soon cards. Maureen hadn't been able to choose just one card and bought dozens instead, each one cutesier than the previous. Roger insisted she was just trying to annoy him. Mark wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

Roger was recovering nicely. Surgery had been just what Roger needed and not a moment too soon, either. His appendix had burst and Roger had spent three scary days in the ICU during which neither Mimi nor Mark slept a wink. But Roger held on, much like Collins had during his last hospital stay. Roger told them he wasn't going anywhere soon and Mark sure as hell hoped it stayed that way.

"That will work as long as you're not a stupid asshole about being sick," Mimi pointed out.

"I don't need to be anymore. I have Mark," Roger pointed out.

"Who is still not a doctor," Mark reminded him yet again. He shifted his camera, focusing on Mimi, who was perched to right of Roger, on the very edge of his hospital bed. He figured he could swing another twenty minutes and still finish rounds before he needed to report in.

"Yet you still knew more than the idiot down in the emergency room I heard," Collins commented. "So I'll take you, Mark, over anyone else with a full-fledged MD any time."

"Oh yeah," Roger agreed. "So, Tom, you bring me anything?"

"I come all the way out here and that's what you ask me, Roger? I would have thought being at death's door would have you be more appreciative of the things you already have."

Roger looped an IV'd hand around Mimi's waist. "Trust me, I know I'm lucky."

"Very lucky," Joanne said, entering the room bearing flowers. Behind here was Maureen, showcasing three more Hallmark envelopes in her hand and a wicked grin on her face.

"Not more cards," Roger groaned.

"This time they're all pink," Maureen said cheerfully, dumping them onto Roger's lap. "One of them has an adorable little fuzzy pink bear inside." Mimi started giggling.

"You know I hate you, Maureen."

"Love you too, Roger," she shot back, giving him another wide grin before looking Mark's way and posing in front of the camera. "You should get my gift on film, Mark."

Roger shoved the cards away. "Don't waste the film."

Maureen gave a mock pout in Joanne's direction. Joanne just shook her head.

"No appreciation," Maureen sighed dramatically. "By the way, Mark, great white coat you got there. You should get that on film."

"Now that would be a waste of film, Maureen," he told her. Despite what Collins had hinted about focusing his footage on, he was still reluctant to let himself be filmed, especially by friends.

But Maureen never took no for an answer. The camera was yanked away again and aimed directly at him. "Look at Mark, all professional. Say hi Mark."

"Maureen, please." He couldn't help blushing. Even though he'd gotten used to the coat, the idea even, seeing the footage later would still take some getting used to. He reached out for the camera and caught a glimpse of his watch. "Shit, I have rounds."

"Ooo, rounds," Maureen said, inching away from him. "Now that definitely needs to go on film."

"No, it doesn't. Now, come on Maureen. Shut it off."

From the bed, he saw Mimi and Maureen grinning and he was sure in the corner, Collins and Joanne were amused as well. Mark needed to find a way to stop being entertainment.

But for now, he had to work. Roger was doing well and he expected to be able to move to his next rotation in a week, he needed to get his ass moving and up to pediatrics.

Unfortunately, it was with Maureen on his heels as he nervously hoped she didn't drop his camera. Maureen never backed down.


Maureen had followed him for almost an hour that day before she got bored and moved on. The footage was interesting, to say the least, and as he viewed on another rare day off, he realized that at some point he'd forgotten she was there and just done his job.

It was certainly a profound observation and odd because he wasn't used to observing himself. Not ever. Yet here he was, watching himself with a detached curiosity.

Strange. There was no other way to describe it. And if he coupled it with the footage he had of his father, it was almost eerie.

Mark stopped watching at that point.

He went back to work, instead, starting his surgical rotation and fighting more nausea than ever. He'd almost passed out during Roger's appendectomy, how the hell would he make it through this?

He was, slowly, and he spent many long nights at the hospital, observing and observing procedure after procedure. On the plus side, however, he got more nights off and spent a little more time filming, even interviewing colleagues and shooting random other footage. That's when he bumped into Kara and through a few questions found out her boyfriend was no more. He had to make sure Roger never saw that little snippet of film or he'd never hear the end of it.

Still Kara aside, Mark was excited about said footage and was ready to tell Collins all about it. He was meeting the man for dinner and he was running a bit late.

So late that he was definitely surprised when he got there first. That surprise turned into worry when another half hour passed and Collins didn't show.

Worry turned into fear and Mark found a pay phone. Rummaging for quarters, he found enough change to call both Collins' apartment and the loft. There was no answer at the loft and a busy signal at Collins' number and Mark, now fighting a feeling a dread in his stomach, jumped on his bike and peddled as fast as he could towards Collins' place.

Collins lived in a tiny studio on the edge of Soho and when he got there, he locked his bike and rummaged through his bag, remembering Collins had recently given him a key - just in case, he had said. Mark had thought it a luxury since it meant Collins didn't need to drop it off a fire escape every time Mark dropped by, something they were still doing at the loft. Even when keys were given out, they kept getting lost, so it seemed pointless to keep making copies.

He found the key and climbed up for flights. A knock yielded no response, so he used the key and opened the door.

That's when he met one of his worst fears. Collins lay in a heap on his bed and the phone was knocked ever so slightly off the hook.


A/N: Took some dramatic liberty in the ER for plot (mainly with the ER doc and such), so I am noting that :). But on the medical fact and research end, HIV positive patients that suffer from appendicitis often do not have an elevated white blood cell count (leukocytosis), which can be a key disgnostic tool and often delays findings (and even can lead to a burst appendix and complications, which I picked...oh, poor Roger...).