Disclaimer: I still don't own it. The lyrics are from the Wild Party again, and Puccini's La Boheme, then, RENT of course. They belong to Andrew Lippa, Puccini, and the late, great Jonathan Larson, respectively.

Authoress Note: Don't hate me for this. Blame it on the Bunny! Oh, and once again, italics are lyrics or flashbacks, except for the thought at the end,and if anyone is confused, let me know.

Chapter Two: Rising High and Dying in Vain

In my hands the future is crying,

Rising high and dying in vain.

In my hands, salvation is nearing,

Steering me from permanent pain.

With my hand's I'm asking a question,

But I know the answer too well.

In my hands,

Heaven or Hell?

The brisk November air hit Alexia like a slap to the face. She couldn't deal with this.

"He may never wake up." the Surgeon cautioned.

Roger looked like he was going to murder someone. "What do you mean, Never wake up?"

"Roger, calm down." What an oxymoron, Alexia thought, me telling Roger to calm down. That was Mark's job.

Mark.

Alexia was still crying. Angel asked quietly and calmly, "How much of a chance does he have?"

The surgeon shook his head. "About twenty percent."

A very large sob built in Alexia's throat and then escaped. "Twenty percent?"

"If were lucky." The surgeon sat down next to Alexia. "Ms. Hemmingway-"

"Alexia."

"Alexia, Mr. Cohen-"

"Mark."

"Mark, is a fighter though. He's got a reason to live."

Roger spoke up, his attention on Alexia. "You."

She looked up at him, her big brown eyes shining with crystalline tears. "Not just me. Us. All of us."

"Alexia, there you are!" Roger shouted, coming up next to her. She quickened her pace, needing to be alone.

"Roger, he's going to die. Haven't you realized that yet?"

"Alexia, don't talk like that."

She stopped, pivoting on one foot to face the musician. "Roger, you saw him. Mark was so pale. People don't wake up from that."

Addio, sogni d'amour,

Addio, dolce svengliare,

Addio, rabbuffi e gelosie!

Che un tuo sorriso acequita!

Addio, sospettil,

Baci,

Pungenti amarezze

Ch'io da vero poeta rimavo con carezze.

Soli d'inverno e cosa da morire.

(Goodbye, dreams of love,

Goodbye, to waking up together,

Goodbye to jealous scenes.

That one smile from you would end.

Goodbye to suspicion,

And Kisses,

And bitter arguments that always ended in love.

Winter is such a terrible time to be lonely.)

"Oh Mark," Alexia breathed as she walked into room 508 on the Intensive Care Unit (known to most as the ICU) floor. He looked so defeated in the stark white hospital bed hooked up to all of those machines. He wasn't breathing on his own. A machine was doing that. There were four different IVs in his arm. Alexia looked at the clear plastic bags as she sat down next to him. A blood transfusion, Morphine, Saline, and another name that Alexia didn't recognize.

His chest was tightly bound by white bandages as stark as the sheets on the bed, but a spot of red marred their monotony, the initial wound, and then the incision necessary to remove the bullet. She took Mark's hand, noticing how fridge it was. Alexia usually had cold hands herself, but that was nothing compared to this. A clock chimed somewhere off in the distance, and Alexia glanced out the window, afraid to keep her eyes off of Mark for too long, afraid he may slip away while she wasn't looking, never to return.

The moon was full, sending a fair amount of angelic light into the room. It accentuated how pale Mark was. The doctor had warned Alexia how much blood he had lost. That's what was so dangerous. The blood loss. Even though she and Joanne had attempted to staunch the wound right after he'd been shot, Mark was bleeding to rapidly for their efforts to actually make too much of a difference.

Alexia squeezed her lover's hand, willing him to squeeze it back, and wake up. Wake up Marky, she thought, this isn't funny anymore. Wake up. Wake up! She made her thought vocal. "Wake up Mark. Please, wake up already!"

She cried, and cried , wondering who could do this to Mark, and thinking of what she would do to them when she found them, the very slow, weak beeps from Mark's heart monitor barely distracting her at all. Then, she eventually cried herself to sleep.

From facing your failure,

facing your loneliness,

facing the fact you live a lie.

Yes, you live a lie,

I'll tell you why,

You're always preaching not to be numb,

When that's how you thrive.

You pretend to create and observe,

When you really detach from feeling alive.

Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive!

Now, Alexia stood outside St. Vincent's, staring blankly at Roger, wondering silently to herself,

Could Roger have shot Mark?