Author's Note: Thanks for all your support on the last chapter. Sorry this one is shorter, but...well, it was hard to write. You'll see why. I hope I did it justice.

Pacing

"Roger, please wake up." She knows he can't hear, knows she is being ridiculous. She continues to call for him anyway. She attempts to get out of the bed and falls, landing with shooting pains in her knees. The floor is ice. It seeps all the warmth out of her skin, burning it away with startling acidity. Her lungs burn, and she finds that she cannot move any further. "Please wake up, something's…"

Fast, clanking footsteps on the metal stairs just outside the wall make her stop for a moment. It isn't him, can't be him, he can't possibly know. And yet… "Please, Roger. Something's wrong…Please." Ordinarily she would curse herself at the mere thought of such neediness, but now all she can think about is the pain in her lungs. The room is spinning at alarming speed, and the world is obscured by little pinwheels of black. "Please…"

"Mimi!" And then he is there somehow, miraculously. "Look, about what I said before, I'm sorry, I just—fuck. Mark!" He falls to his knees beside her, pressing one hand to her forehead.

"Roger—"

"Shh, don't talk."

"Roger, I think something's terribly wrong with me."

"Just…just…" Suddenly Roger jumps to his feet and bolts for the door. "Mark! Call an ambulance!"

Mimi ran her palm over Rusty's damp forehead, brushing back his long black bangs. It was barely dawn, not yet light enough to illuminate the room, certainly not late enough for anyone to be awake, but she couldn't tell if he was asleep or unconscious. He hadn't been the same since the fight, withdrawing into himself, no longer bossing the gang like he once had. Jaws, too, was less aggressive. Everyone was visibly shaken by Smack's death, though it was a silent pact not to discuss it. They hadn't gone back to the abandoned building for fear that the police would return.

Somehow, they ended up at the deserted house. Mimi felt a small comfort in it, though she knew it was risky being back so close to her house. She never said a word about it to the others. In a way it was her fault that they'd lost their last place.

It was cool and dark inside, empty but for an old bed and an older, moldy couch. Though the power and water had long ago been shut off, the house had a feeling of peace trapped inside it. Mimi was sure it had once been inhabited by happy people, regardless of how they had left. She could feel it sometimes, late at night, seeping out of the walls to comfort her. The spirit of the place was decidedly benevolent.

Rusty groaned and stirred beneath her touch, bringing her back from her thoughts. The cuts from the fight had never fully healed, and he had been sick on and off, until he had finally collapsed from a high fever the night before. Over two months, and he still wasn't recovered.

Mimi looked up at the sound of the door creaking open, only to see Perox slinking in, dressed in her work clothes—ripped red fishnets, a denim skirt that barely covered her ass, and a shirt that looked like it had been made from a scrap of fabric scavenged out of the trash. Her white-blonde hair was disheveled, and in need of bleaching, brown roots showing like an apple rotten at the core. She had lost even more weight, and her hipbones stood out sharply where her skirt sagged in the front. Mimi knew she hadn't been making much lately, and what she could get went to things other than food.

"Give it up, whore," muttered Perox as she walked by.

Mimi glared at her. "Fuck you." Perox was the kind of girl who had to be above everyone else, even when that meant sinking lower. She'd been Rusty's girlfriend before, Mimi had gathered that much, and she wasn't happy about losing him.

"Yeah, that's what you do, isn't it?" muttered Perox sourly. "Fuck any random shit you can find."

"Like you don't," Mimi shot back.

Perox narrowed her eyes, tilting her head toward Rusty. "Suure, 'course I do…only…I don't make the mistake of thinking it anything else. You a whore, Mimi. You ain't never gonna be nobody's girlfriend."

"What happened?" asks Mark, when they are standing in the waiting room. He has somehow managed to talk Roger into some amount of calm, but now he cannot suppress his own misgivings any longer.

"I don't know," says Roger. He's pacing around like a caged animal, drawing looks from other people waiting. He has carved a path in the chairs, forward, left, back, right, around and around and around.

"What do you know?" tries Mark again. He doesn't mean to sound confrontational, but it comes out that way. They're all just under so much pressure.

"I'm a bastard," says Roger. For once he's not in the mood to blame anyone else. Only now Mark thinks that this might be even more destructive. Roger continues to pace. Forward, left, back, right.

"What happened?" Mark knows if he repeats it enough times, he'll eventually get it out of Roger.

"I went down to apologize. I told her she was sick this morning. Running a fever. I wanted to take her to the hospital then. She wouldn't listen to me. I just found…" He trails off. Forward, left, back, right. A woman holding a very pale little girl stares blankly at him.

"She's gonna be okay, Roger," says Mark, because there is nothing else to say. "You'll see."

"No she won't," says Roger. Forward, left, back, right. "Nothing will."

Mimi just stared, reeling, searching desperately for something to say. Perox sniffed daintily and walked away. Rusty moaned again, louder this time, his eyelids fluttering. Mimi turned back to him, pushing Perox from her mind for the moment.

"Hey," she said softly, "hey, can you hear me?" The smallest sign of movement from him brought a flood of feeling to her chest. She was nearly disgusted with herself for the response, but she couldn't help it. She found the fear of losing what little family she had keeping her awake at night more and more often lately.

"Shit," groaned Rusty. He sat up slowly, coughing. It was a dry, ragged sound, and Mimi barely caught sight of blood on his palm as he pulled his hand away. She put a hand on the small of his back, trying to help, but he flinched away, insisting on getting up and stumbling over to the couch on his own.

"What?" She followed him anxiously, sitting down next to him. The couch creaked loudly. Mimi caught her breath, hoping that the others wouldn't wake up. They generally slept through everything, but the last thing she wanted was to put on a show for their entertainment.

"Nothin'," he muttered roughly, running a hand through his hair. "Just don't know why you're so fuckin' worried."

Mimi stared at him, shocked. She had assumed he'd see her concern as a good thing."Because I care!"

Rusty looked at her for a moment, raised one dark eyebrow, and laughed harshly. It turned into a dry, rasping cough at the end."No Name, you sure don't catch on fast."

"What?" she insisted, Perox's words echoing in her mind.

"You can't care. Nobody cares on the street. It don't get you nowhere but fucked up. In a big way."

They are still in the waiting room a whole hour later when Maureen and Joanne arrive. Roger is still pacing, though he has fallen completely silent. His downcast cloudy eyes tell Mark that he is no longer aware of his surroundings.

"We got here as fast as we could," says Joanne, roughly shaking Mark's hand. There is nothing soft about her when she is upset. She is all business. It's her best defense.

"Thanks," says Mark.

"I'm so sorry," says Maureen. She starts to cry and flings herself into Mark's arms. He puts one awkward hand on her back, all too aware that Joanne is watching them. The look on her face is a mix between anger and sadness.

"I um…thanks, Maureen," Mark repeats for lack of anything else to say. "I'm sure it'll all be okay in the end." He feels like an idiot immediately, knows that what he has said is completely untrue, but it has become his role. He is no longer Mark the Peace Keeper or Mark the Responsible One. Somehow over the past year, he has become Mark, Teller of Comforting Lies. He gently extracts himself from Maureen's embrace and puts a light hand on her shoulder, giving Joanne an apologetic glance.

"Have you heard anything?" asks Joanne. She has asked him the same question three times now, twice on the phone and now once in person. This is unlike Joanne, the woman with the notepad practically attached to her hands. The only one of them who does not consistently lose things.

"No," says Mark, deciding to let it go. He knows that he will most likely be repeating this information countless times to everyone who is of any acquaintance over the next few days. "They came and took her straight to the ICU but that's all we know."

Joanne nods somberly. "I guess it's to be expected. I mean now that—"

"Don't say that!" Maureen's shout causes several heads to snap around. For a moment Mark is afraid that several uniformed security officers are about to come charging over and escort them out, but nothing happens. Slowly, the others go back to whatever they have been doing.

"Don't say that," repeats Maureen. For a moment Mark thinks there is going to be a fight, but then Maureen starts to cry again, and collapses into Joanne's shoulder. Joanne hugs her back, all the previous minute's tensions forgotten.

"So umm…did you get in touch with Collins?" asks Mark, when Maureen has straightened up again.

Joanne's face falls again. "No. No, I don't know where he is."

Mimi stood up, facing him. Her throat was tight, though she wasn't sure why. She hadn't cried in months. She was suddenly very aware of the hardness of the concrete beneath her feet. Her back felt sore in nearly a dozen places. There was no heat anywhere in the abandoned house.

"I can't help it." She hated that it was the truth, but it was. She'd left so that she could be independent and found herself right back in the grips of another vice. Sometimes it seemed that she simply couldn't survive on her own. She needed something to cling to. She paced across the room and back again, forcing herself to relax. "You do, don't you?"

He didn't answer.

"About me?" Her voice was starting to shake, and she hated herself for it.

Rusty laughed again, then coughed until he spit bloody phlegm on the floor, gasping to catch his breath. He looked up deliberately, fixing her in the intensity of his dark gaze.

"Get this straight. Now. I don't care. You don't care. You're hot in the sack. That's it."

The nurse won't stop hovering. Roger is glad of her presence, though he pretends to be annoyed. He doesn't want the others to know how afraid he is of this moment. He is glad that they have not been allowed to come with him. He doesn't think he can convince them of anything at this moment.

Mimi is laid out on the bed, the white sheet pulled all the way up to her chin. Several machines surround her, beeping steadily. Her eyes are closed, but he can see little beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. She looks angelic, he thinks. Suddenly, he wants to put his head through the wall.

"It's bad?" He looks at the nurse, hoping she will contradict him. She is beautiful, he notices, in a soft shy way. She has pretty dark curls that insist on escaping from her ponytail, framing her face. For just a moment, he feels something in the pit of his stomach. He is disgusted with himself for it.

"It's not looking good," the nurse admits.

Roger nods slowly, suddenly feeling that he has to get out. "Will she sleep through the night?"

The nurse gives him an odd look, then nods again. "Oh yeah. And then some."

Roger doesn't bother to answer. He just bolts for the emergency exit. As the cold night air hits his face, he wonders where he will spend the night.

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