~~~**~~~

Chapter 9: Oatmeal

January 25th

8 AM

"Early morning," Mark narrated, pointing his camera at Roger. "Romeo attempts to cook breakfast."

"Shut up, Mark," Roger muttered, flipping him off.

He was attempting to make oatmeal on their ancient stove, without much success. What he was producing instead consisted of a charred, blackened mass of oats and clouds of thick, reeking gray smoke.

"Who's burning the house down?" Mimi asked sleepily, emerging from the bedroom with Fender in her arms.

"Roger was attempting to be romantic and bring you breakfast in bed," Mark smirked.

"Shut up!" Roger shot back. "At least I *have* someone to act romantic for."

"Zoom in on my narcissistic roommate," Mark narrated, lifting his camera, "This, folks is what happens when romance enters your life. Boy meets girl and wham! Everything else in boy's life gets dropped."

"Hey now!" Roger protested. He lifted the lid of the pot and it belched thick gray smoke toward him. Roger coughed and began waving the oven mitts around.

Mimi burst into a fit of giggles.

"What?" Roger asked, glaring at her, "What?!"

"Two words for you," Mimi said, smirking, "Bitchy mood."

"Two words for *you*," Roger shot back, "Easily amused."

Mark looked was looking at his fingers in confusion.

"Wait, that's three words. . ." He double-checked. "No, wait, you're right. It's two."

Mimi shook her head.

"There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who can count, and those who can't."

"Wait!" Roger muttered irritably, "That's-that's. . .stop it, Mimi, you're confusing me!"

"Wait a minute. . .*you* started it!"

"I did not start it! I was just trying to do something nice for you!"

"Well that's not my fault." Mimi smiled sweetly at him.

"Cut it out, you guys. . ." Mark complained, "You're giving me a headache."

"Aww. . .poor Marky," Mimi crooned.

"Wow, did someone give you annoying pills this morning?"

Mimi laughed.

"The last time someone said that to me I was ten years old."

"And you still are." Roger teased.

"Hey!" Mimi jumped up and ran at Roger.

He spooned up some of the black oat paste from the pot and began chasing her around with it. Mimi grabbed a handful of dry oatmeal off the counter and threw it at Roger. He threw it right back, and some of the oats got stuck in her long curls. Mark and Roger both dissolved into laughter.

Mimi glared back and forth, first at one, then the other.

"Why do men think it's so funny that things get stuck in curly hair?" she asked, hands on her hips.

This only served to make them laugh harder. Mark blushed crimson.

"God, Mark, you're such a pervert!" Mimi teased, laughing at her own words.

"Seriously though, it's not funny! Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain healthy curls?"

Roger and Mark exchanged a glance and burst into laughter again.

"God!" Mimi shouted, and stalked out of the room.

"Good job, Romeo," Mark teased.

Roger flipped him off again and went back to his oatmeal. He turned off the stove, picked up the pot, and carried it over to the sink.

"I hope you're not going to eat that." Mark said.

Roger gave him a look. He turned the pot upside down and started banging on the bottom, attempting to get the charred black mass out of it.

He was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing.

"Mark, get it. . .my hands are all covered in. . .stuff."

"Marky the designated answering machine," Mark grumbled, but obeyed anyway.

He picked it up, cradling the receiver against his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Collins."

"I know." Mark answered. "What do you need?"

"Umm. . .Aimee's in the hospital. . .I just thought you should know."

"Okay. . .I'll. . .be right there."

Mark hung up the phone softly and turned to face Roger.

"I'm going out filming now." He said, trying to sound casual.

Roger just nodded, too preoccupied with his oatmeal gunk to notice that anything was out of the ordinary.

~~~**~~~

Later

Collins walked into the room slowly, trying to force himself to adjust to the sight of his little sister lying in a hospital bed, covered in bandages with an IV needle in her arm. The very sight made his heart hurt.

He knelt at the side of the bed and gently took her hand.

"Aimee?"

"You hate me now, don't you."

Her voice was slightly raspy, but still every bit as full of her usual attitude. She didn't sound the least bit guilty.

"Why would I hate you?" Collins asked softly, "You know I was only trying to help you."

Aimee nodded weakly.

"I don't want your help. I don't want anybody's help."

"Will you at least tell me what happened?"

Aimee shook her head, wincing slightly.

"You don't need to know. It's not important now."

"Yes it is!" Collins protested. "Look, I'm not stupid enough to think this was some kind of accident. Somebody *did* this to you, and whoever it was needs to be punished."

"The whoever it was has been punished enough." Aimee insisted.

At that point they were interrupted by the sound of a loud crash near the door. Both looked up to see Mark looking sheepish and picking up a bed pan that he'd just knocked off one of the shelves.

"Thanks for coming, Mark," Collins said warmly.

"You called him?" Aimee asked sharply.

"Well. . .yeah. . .I mean, I called the loft and he answered."

"And so you told him to come."

"Yes. I mean . . .look, I'm sorry if you didn't want me to, but I thought you'd like to have a little support at a time like this."

"Well you thought wrong," Aimee stated simply.

"Aimee, look," Mark broke in, "If you think I blew your secret or something. . .I swear to God I didn't. . ."

"Give up, Mark." She replied. "That's not what I think. I just can't give you what you want. So I'm not even going to try."

Mark looked as though he'd just been slapped in the face.

A nurse with long, curly black hair knocked on the doorframe.

"Excuse me, sir?" She said to Mark.

"Yeah?" Mark answered numbly.

"This is an intensive care unit, I can only allow immediate family in here. You're going to have to leave."

"Okay."

Mark nodded and walked out, his head cast dejectedly toward the pavement.

~~~**~~~

Okay so I know it's short. More soon, I promise! Reviews make me write faster. . .

Oh, and cookies will be awarded to anyone who can figure out the significance of January 25th.