Okay, I know I don't update this a lot. To be completely honest, Wicked is my obsession and priority. However, I will try and update this periodically. This is something of a filler chapter, and I believe that the plot may become obvious here. Maybe not for everyone, so if you could refrain from guessing in a review, that would be good. You can PM me if you want, I don't mind. :) Oh, and also, no. This is not Mark/Roger.

Her first thoughts of the morning pertained to the relentless throbbing of her head. Damn, what did I do last night? Groggily, she opened her eyes. Which was a mistake in more ways than one.

"Ow." For one, the bright sunlight shining through the window made her head hurt, if possible, even worse. And the small glance before her eyes had clamped shut again revealed an all-too-familiar face.

Uncertainly, she cracked open her eyelids again and let out a low groan. Really, Maureen. Mark? Mentally she kicked herself, grimacing. He opened his eyes and deliberately hid his smile from her, busying himself with falling off the couch and stumbling to the bathroom.

Rolling onto her back, she groaned loudly and flung an arm over her face dramatically. She could hear hushed voices and a stifled giggle from the kitchen, but couldn't bring herself to look.

"Here, Reeny. You must have a killer headache," Roger commented, tossing a bottle of Advil to the couch, where it bounced to the floor, clattering loudly.

Maureen sat up slowly and retrieved the bottle. "Thanks Roger." Glancing towards the kitchen, she saw Mimi at the table, smiling mischievously. What? Looking down at herself, she noted that she wasn't fully clothed, and pulled the blanket up about her shoulders, preparing herself for questions that didn't come.

"How do you feel?"

"Like someone was beating me with a baseball bat last night. You know—the usual."

Roger began to reply, but paused with his mouth hanging open. She turned her head to see what he was looking at. Mark had wandered uncertainly from the bathroom and was hovering at the edge of the room.

"Come or go, Mark," she suggested petulantly.

He chose the former, drifting to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. He looked a mess—there were bags beneath his eyes and a certain sluggish attribute to his movements.

"Marky?" Her voice came out smaller and more timid than she had expected it to. When he looked up at her slowly over his steaming cup of coffee, she was biting her lip. A flash of concern flashed before his eyes but he replaced it with a look of detachment.

"What?"

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Fine," he recited, before adding, "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Hey, uh, guys. I… gotta go," Roger interrupted suddenly, grabbing an unsuspecting Mimi and pulling her from the room.

Maureen patted the couch beside her and Mark promptly sat next to her, looking glad to have a place to be.

"I—you…" she trailed off, unsure what to say.

"I'm fine, really, Maureen."

"Mark, you look like hell," she countered.

Sighing slightly, he agreed. "I 'spose I do." When she didn't respond, he added, "Really, I'm okay. Uh, late night. And, erm…" She saw a bit of red flush into his cheeks.

"Look, Mark, I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I really like you, but—I love Joanne. It was… I was drunk, and…"

He glanced at her then, looking both sad and relieved. "It's okay, Reeny. It was. I shouldn't have. You were upset, I'm sorry."

"Look, it wasn't your fault. I'm sorry. Just—" She struggled to say the next words. "I need a place to stay."

"Of course, Maureen. You always have a place here."

- - -

She didn't know exactly how much time had passed, or what exactly had happened in the past few weeks. Blurred images of dimly lit bars and white porcelain toilets flashed in her mind whenever she attempted to remember. But it made her head pound whenever she did, so she no longer tried.

"Damn it Maureen." She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, unprepared to face the day. "Maureen, get up!" Mark cried, exasperated.

"Whatchoo want…?" she muttered sleepily.

"All you do is sleep these days," he said sardonically, before muttering under his breath, "and get drunk."

She opened her mouth to argue, but it was true. The drunk part, anyway… She stumbled off to the bathroom, getting sick.

She emerged a few minutes later, wiping her eyes. "Got some water?"

Mark handed her a glass. "Really, this has to stop."

Suddenly she paused with the glass halfway to her mouth. "I didn't drink last night."

"What?" he asked skeptically, not really considering her words.

"I went on a walk with Mimi, and we had a talk. Mark Cohen, do not look at me like that! I'm telling the truth. I'm just tired."

He raised his eyebrows pointedly.

"And sick?" she added feebly.

"THE Maureen Johnson doesn't get sick."

"I know, I don't need reminding." She turned her gaze wistfully to the window. "I'm going back to bed."