Author's Note: This is a rewrite/combination of Jagged Edges and Moonlight, two fics that I started last fall and ended up dropping. Moonlight is based on the old Chbosky screenplay. If you haven't read it, all you really need to know is that Mimi goes to the hospital at the end of it instead of staying at the loft. If you notice differences between this and the musical/movie, that's why. I'm not sure how far this is going to go, so let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

The Beginning

It is barely a week after New Year's and already the world is made of graying sludge. Crystalline tree branches are sagging, crying a silent lament for the passing of Christmas cheer. The wheels of the car squelch in the muddied snow as Mark pulls the car alongside the curb. He clears his throat and glances sheepishly at Mimi over the rims of his glasses. "I-um…I have to get Maureen's car back to her and be back at work in half an hour. Will you be okay?"

She nods and climbs out of the car, slinging Roger's ratty old duffel over one shoulder and shivering a little in the cold. The fresh air feels good, especially after days of hospital staleness. The stairs creak as she starts the long way up, and for a moment she is thrown by the likeness of the hallway to a jail—has she really lived here for three years and never noticed the stench before? She pauses for a moment, shifts the bag with an unaccustomed awkwardness, then knocks on the heavy metal door to the loft. The sound echoes through the hallway for a good thirty seconds before dying down to a low rumble like far off mountain thunder. Nothing happens. Mimi sighs, digs through the bag with her free hand, and pulls out a very worn key.

The loft is silent and dark, and she pauses for a moment, listening. At first there is nothing, just weak snow-day light coming in through the filter of grimy windows. Then there is the sound of bed springs creaking, and she realizes that the shower curtain which serves as Roger's bedroom door is drawn. So he must be here. Asleep, or otherwise distracted sufficiently to have missed the noise of the door opening. Biting her lip, Mimi makes her way toward the grimy piece of orange plastic that marks her target.

Roger is lying on the bed asleep, but fitfully. The covers are strewn all across the floor and his long eyelashes are matted with drying tears. His red guitar is lying out of its case on a chair next to the bed and there is a large mound of crumpled paper on the floor around the trashcan. Mimi walks cat-like and silent over to the side of the bed then stops, afraid to upset him worse. But then the reckless part wins out and she touches him lightly. A hand on his shoulder is all it takes.

Roger gasps and sits bolt upright, and for a moment looks like he's going to lash out. But then his eyes focus again and he relaxes a little, though his shoulders are still heaving. Mimi suddenly notices a bottle of sleeping pills on the bedside table. The lid is off. It's empty.

"Roger—God, talk to me." Her voice rings painfully in the quiet of the empty loft. She has a feeling that she is intruding on something of the utmost privacy. It does nothing to quell the sudden burst of acidic anger. She snatches up the pill bottle and waves it at him accusingly. "Are you all right?"

He doesn't answer, just looks back and forth between her and the pill bottle, stricken.

"Roger," she repeats, louder this time. "Please, please tell me you didn't try to—"

Roger shakes his head. Starts to cry again. Mimi sits beside him on the bed, tries to touch him but he flinches away.

"I-I did," he manages at last, "but I…I took them to fast and I…God, I always fuck everything up."

For a moment she just stares at him, learning to breathe again. Then a funny thing happens. It is as if a breath of spring has crept into the loft, and Mimi feels a smile tugging at her lips.

"What?" asks Roger, looking confused but a little calmer.

"I'm glad," she mutters at last, stifling a fit of nervous giggles.

Roger raises an eyebrow, still not understanding.

"I'm glad you're a fuck-up," says Mimi, laughing even harder at the absurdity of her own statement. "Mind you, just this once."

Roger manages a weak smile at that, the life returning to his blue eyes. "So…" he says after a moment.

Mimi breaks into a fresh fit of giggles at that; Roger never has been good at carrying on a conversation. Odd that he can be a songwriter and yet so completely unable to express his emotions.

"What?" he asks again, looking a little hurt.

"Nothing," she gasps, clearing her throat, "I just…I missed you."

Roger opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again and turns away quickly. He's trying not to cry again but she pretends not to notice, knowing he'll be ashamed, as always.

"Yes, I know, you missed me too," says Mimi, attempting to make him laugh, but somehow it only seems rude once she's said it. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

Roger remains silent, his back turned. Mimi takes him by the shoulders and slips her arms around his neck; she's never allowed his sulks to put her off. He doesn't move away this time, but turns and pulls her against him. He's sobbing openly now, something she never would have imagined him doing before the funeral. Angel's death has weakened them all.

"God," he whispers, shuddering. He pulls away after a few moments and wipes his face with the back of one hand, looking sheepish. "Sorry."

"For what?" Mimi leans to kiss him and notices how pale he is even in the dim light.

Roger sighs and shakes his head. "How are you feeling?" he asks, ignoring the question.

"Like shit," says Mimi dryly. "But less shitty than before."

Roger grins at that, a real grin, the first in a very long time. "Join the club," he says dryly, and leans back against the pillows, pulling Mimi on top of him.

"You sure you're going to be okay?" she asks gently.

Roger laughs, a short puff of air. "That should be my line, babe," he mutters.

"Too bad. You missed it. I got to it first."

"Hell no, I'm not sure. But I think so."

She reaches up and tousles his bleached blond hair; it's starting to grow out again, the barest hint of dark brown visible next to his scalp. Ordinarily he would never let himself slip so far—Roger is one of the few men she's known who's absolutely anal about his appearance.

"I got out," she says softly, not sure why.

Roger stiffens again, then visibly forces himself to relax. "Yeah. Yeah, you did."

Mimi gently detaches herself from Roger's grasp and gets out of bed, making her way over to the chair and gently stroking Roger's red guitar. "I didn't think I was going to," she whispers, almost afraid to admit it. She picks up the guitar and cradles it in her arms like a child.

"Mimi?"

She turns back; Roger's sitting on the edge of the bed watching her, his eyes filled with concern.

"You said you had a song for me," she remembers suddenly.

Roger shakes his head. "Not now. C'mere."

She puts the guitar down and goes back over to Roger. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls me down onto his lap, his breath tickling the back of my neck.

"Mimi," he whispers.

"What?"

"The doctors…what did they tell you?"

Her heart speeds up again, her mind flooding with thoughts. Bright lights, white sheets smelling of disinfectant, men in lab coast with thick glasses and fake smiles. They always smile. It must be plastered on. She takes a deep breath and pushes the thoughts away.

"Nothing. The same as always. They want me to get sober."

Roger looks at her for a moment as though trying to decide whether to question further, then nods slowly.

"And?"

"And I'm going to," she says firmly, ending the conversation. "So how was Santa Fe?"

Roger looks thoughtful, then shakes his head again.

"You tired?" he asks, ignoring the question.

"A little," says Mimi, just to get him to go back to sleep. He looks like hell, and suddenly she doesn't want to talk about the past anymore. She gently pushes on his shoulders until he gets the idea and lies back against the bed. She kisses him lightly and he sighs, shifting so they are lying side by side in the narrow bed. Mimi wraps her arms around him and he snuggles against her chest. She laughs softly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just usually you won't ever let me hold you."

"Oh," he mutters, looking embarrassed. "Well I um…I don't know."

"Mute," she teases. "You seriously have got to learn to talk one of these days."

"Fuck you," he grumbles, laughing. "I'm supposed to be sleeping, not carrying on a complex conversation."

"Okay, okay." She runs her fingers through his hair again and he closes his eyes. The sun is high overhead outside. It is late afternoon. Mimi watches Roger fall asleep, and tries to push the doctors' faces from her mind. When the rhythm of his breathing slows, she pulls away silently and gets back to her feet. She walks over to her bag and pulls out a beautiful silver pocket watch. Roger's Christmas gift last year. She holds it up to her ear and listens to the ticking, the sound that has lulled her into sleep for the past two weeks, drowning out the sounds of heart monitors and quiet moans from neighboring rooms.

The mascara brush looked like a fat black caterpillar. Mimi squinted into the mirror in concentration and tried to swallow her disgust at the sudden image. Too little sleep. Too little sleep and far too much shit to put up with. Of course it wasn't a caterpillar. Of course it couldn't sting her. Lately though, everything was starting to look threatening. She leaned closer and attempted to use the brush to "lift and separate", as the little tube bragged, sounding ever more risqué. The thing only succeeded in depositing several clumps of inky blackness onto her lashes, making her eyes water. Mimi put down the mascara and picked up one of the many bottles of hair product that were scattered around the counter, most of them lying on their sides after having been knocked down by a careless elbow or thrown by a frustrated hand. She had attempted to straighten the long black curls with the new flatiron she'd bought with the money from her part-time job at Hooters in the city, but the curls were fighting back with gusto. She sprayed it one last time, then stepped back to check her work.

The bruise from a few days ago was still showing a little too much, a long dark streak under one eye. Mimi glanced nervously at her watch, then grabbed the small bottle of brown concealer again and began trying to shade it better. It couldn't be too dark or too light, or someone would notice. And that was unthinkable. If someone noticed, she'd have a lot more than one bruise to show for it.

"Mimi, puta, hurry up! You're going to be fucking late again!" The voice was hard, grating, and slightly slurred. He was drunk. Again.

"Coming!" she called, still desperately trying to hide the dark bruise.

He flung the bathroom door open then, smashing her in the shoulder with it. He was growing a bit of a beard, she noticed, but not a nice one. More like a week without shaving. Compounded with his yellow teeth and bad liquor breath, he looked like something from a bad horror movie. He grabbed Mimi's wrist, hard enough to leave bruises, and dragged her out into the small hallway.

"I'm not fucking driving you to school one more time, you understand? You miss the bus again, you stay home. It's your problem if you gotta fucking primp in front of the mirror too long every morning!"

"I wasn't…" Mimi willed herself not to cry. Crying never worked with him. "I was only trying to…"

"What, that?" he asked, pointing to the bruise. "I'll give you a matching one if it fucking bothers you so much."

Mimi wrenched away from him, his nails leaving weeping red crescent marks in the thin dark skin of her wrist. She turned and ran down the hallway toward the front door, not bothering to grab books or anything else on the way out.

"You'll be fucking sorry for this!" he screamed after her, slipping on the wood floor and crashing into things in his drunken rage. "Wait til you get home!"

Dean Anderson was blond, blue-eyed, dressed in a crisp dark suit, and as delusional as a man could get. When Mimi arrived in his office, he was engaged in a heated dispute with one of the English teachers, who was apparently not happy with the textbooks she was allotted.

"I'm telling you, this is inappropriate!" the woman growled, thrusting a thick literature book in Anderson's direction. "How can I be expected to teach when something like this happens?"

Mimi craned her neck to see what the woman was referring to. Someone had changed the labeling of "Class Set" along the spine to proudly proclaim "Class Sex." Mimi shook her head and shuddered.

"Deal with it!" said Anderson firmly. "There's nothing I can do for you. Now if you don't mind." He gestured to the door. The woman nodded and walked out, hanging her head.

Anderson looked up and offered Mimi the phoniest plastered-on smile she'd ever seen.

"Have a seat, young lady," he said in that false voice adults used when they thought they were doing her a favor.

Mimi obeyed, sitting in one of the rusty folding chairs by Anderson's desk.

"Yes?"

"Some of your teachers have noticed that you seem to be getting hurt a lot lately."

Mimi felt her stomach clench. This could be very, very bad. She forced a casual shrug.

"It's winter. I'm clumsy. I trip and fall on my way to school sometimes."

Anderson narrowed his eyes at her.

"I was under the impression that you were a dancer."

"Yes," said Mimi, more confidently now. "Not a ice skater."

Anderson nodded slowly, looking unconvinced. He leaned forward in his plush chair and squinted harder.

"And that, there, under your eye, what's that?"

"Birthmark."

"Uh…huh…"

"Can I go now, Mr. Anderson? 'Cause I gotta get to class."

Anderson sighed and stood up. He was resigned to lose. This round only.

"All right, Miss Marquez. But would it be all right with you if I called your parents? Just to make sure that they're getting you the proper treatment for all these…accidental injuries, of course."

"No!" Mimi cried, panicking. "No, please don't. They…they got a new baby on the way. Can't be bothered by me."

Anderson smiled smugly.

"I'm sure they'll have a minute to talk to me. Now go along. Wouldn't want to be late for class."

She turned and walked out of his office, into the filthy hallway, fighting back tears. If he called, not even school would be safe anymore.

It is much, much later when she realizes that she's fallen asleep with the watch still in her palm. The alarm clock on the bedside table forever blinks 12:00 am, but the greenish light now coming in through the dark windows from the club across the street tells her it's at least respectably long after dinner. Roger is gone, and low voices float through the shower curtain from the other room. Mimi sighs and rolls over on the bed, already too tired to bother finding the others.

Review please!