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Chapter Three A/N: Chapter three, where we finally learn what happened to Mark! Well. Where you learn. I already know. And I feel horrible for doing it. But I did. Perspective switch again: third person, centered on Roger.

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Chapter Three: Fear's My Life

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Mimi was sleeping. Roger knew he probably should be too, he might not get a chance later. But he found himself just watching her sleep, watching the pain lines fade on her forehead.

A soft tap on the door brought him out of a gentle stupor. He turned to see Collins in the doorway.

"Hey." He whispered. Collins silently gestured for him to come out in the hallway. Roger nodded, kissed Mimi's hand, and left the room. "What's up?"

"Rog, Mark's in the hospital." Collins came right out with it. "I brought him here an hour ago, haven't seen him since they took him in."

"What happened?" Roger could feel himself becoming simultaneously furious and worried. Mark's not sick. Why's he here?

"I don't know. I walked in the door . . . God, Roger, at first I thought it was a repeat of the April incident. There was blood . . . he was passed out in the bathtub. I don't know if he's woken up yet." Collins's voice sounded wooden.

"Where -- " Roger cleared his throat and tried again. "Where is he?"

"Still in the ER. They wouldn't let me in -- not family. Just tell them you're his brother." Roger nodded and started towards the ER, then hesitated. "Don't worry. I'll look after Meems." Roger nodded again and left.

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"Can I help you, sir?" The girl at the counter gave him a brief smile.

"Yes, I'm looking for Mark Cohen. In the ER. I'm his -- " Roger almost said room-mate, bit it back, and said " -- brother."

"You sound a little uncertain of that." She remarked and clicked on her computer. She tapped away for a second as he tried to think of a reply. Then she flushed bright red. "Oh! I'm sorry, Mr -- Ms -- Cindy."

Roger grinned, not even pausing to wonder how they had a record of Mark's family. Sure, he could be a drag queen for a while. Bonus if it sullied Cindy Cohen's pristine name. Wouldn't that piss her off?

"Oh, honey, don't worry about it!" He tried his hand at gushing and noticed her discomfort. "When I heard what happened to Marky, I rushed on over here and didn't have time to put my glamour on. And heaven knows I can't wear my dress without my make-up!"

" . . . right . . . " She was still blushing furiously. "He's in Curtain 3. Go right over to that door and I'll have a nurse guide you in."

"Thank you, honey. You're a doll." He smiled at her sweetly and moved off. If only Mark could have caught that on tape . . .

Thinking of his friend brought him back from the frantic and detached area his mind had been occupying with the impromptu Angel impersonation. Mark's in the hospital. Mark's sick . . . but NOT dying . . . and not suicidal . . . he's sick. He'll be okay. He's gonna be okay. Fuck, he's gotta be okay!

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"Here." The curt nurse-bitch the receptionist had graced Roger with opened a curtain the smallest bit. "You can stay as long as he's in ER. But once he's admitted, you'll have to obey hospital visitor's policy."

He nodded silently and stepped into the curtained section. She closed it off behind him. He looked at Mark and felt his stomache debate how much it liked what he'd had for breakfast. On the one hand, he's seen others just as bad off in his junkie days. On the other, this was Mark. This wasn't some random fucked-up crackhead. This was his best friend.

His face was one massive bruise. His nose was broken and swollen. His right hand was completely wrapped, up to the elbow. His neck had raw red marks, not quite burns but not bruises, and his left shoulder was a putrid greenish-yellow. Through the thin hospital sheet, Roger could see Mark's right thigh was wrapped and a bit of blood had seeped through the bandaging. His right foot was in similar condition, but with a little less blood.

Unlike Mimi, Mark's pain was evident on his sleeping face. Every few moments he'd let out a whimper or wince. If he could have been sure it wouldn't cause more pain, Roger would have taken Mark's hand. As it was, he just collapsed in the chair beside the -- not even a bed, really, a cot.

"Jesus Christ, Mark." He breathed. To his surprise, pale blue eyes faded open.

"You trying to convert me?" Mark asked. Roger just blinked at him. Mark gave the smallest little smile, shifted a bit, then gasped in pain and promptly passed out agian.

Roger jumped up, knocking his chair over, and flung open the curtain. He grabbed a passing nurse by the arm and began babbling to her. "He woke up! Did he wake up earlier? But then he passed back out and it was so sudden and I don't know what to do and will he be okay and my God that's Mark, for Christ's sake (even though he's Jewish) --"

"Sir!" She interrupted. "Please. My shift just started, but if you'll give me a moment I can find a nurse or doctor who can help you. Which curtain is the patient in?"

"Um, this one." Roger pointed, not remembering the number.

"Okay. Just wait right there and I'll be right back." After a few nervous moments, an older woman came up to him.

"I'm Kathy Armstrong. You're here with Mark Cohen?"

"Right." He didn't elaborate the relationship: she didn't ask.

"All right, why don't we go in here for some privacy?" She gestured to the curtained area. He followed her in.

"What happened to him?" Roger again sat in the chair as Kathy checked Mark's chart, IV, and various instruments.

"To get the full story, we'll have to wait. He's on heavy narcs, so he'll wake up every now and then and spew some nonsense. I understand that's what worried you a moment ago?" He nodded. "It's perfectly normal. And we can make a pretty good guess about what happened by the condition he was brought here in." She paused, then made an abrupt switch. "Are you lovers?"

"No."

"Siblings?"

"Room-mates. Best friends . . . why? Where is this leading?"

"You may need to be tested for HIV."

If Roger had not been already sitting, he would have fallen over.

"Oh God." He whispered. "Please tell me he hasn't got it too."

"Test results are not back yet. But you need to prepare for that possibility." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know this is a lot all at once, but does he have a history of suicide attempts? The gentleman who brought him in was unsure, but Mr. Cohen was found in the shower, unconscious, beside a razor. The bandages on his right leg are from razor cuts."

"He . . . not that I know of . . . but he might have when, when he was younger."

"Okay. Thank you -- feel free to stay as long as you need. In cases like this the police are called, so they may wish to speak with you later. And with the other gentleman also."

"Th-thank you." He managed. Kathy gave his shoulder a squeeze and a pat.

"Try not to worry too much." She said.

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