1. After April, Mark doesn't know what to do and Roger can't think at all.
2.SUV cameo Mark turns 18 in December, maybe by then Roger will be able to leave the loft.
1.
Brrrrrring!
The sound made him jump, scattering bits of film across the floor. Mark swore as he picked them up, scattering the case with clatter as –Brrrring!- he tried to put them back on the table.
We screen, he mutter under his breath. We screen, I don't have to pick it up, that what the machine is for"- brrrrrrrriiing- he glanced at the dented white machine and then back at his scattered film, before picking the scissors again and feeding the reels back into the camera.
Beeeeeeeeep. "Uh. Hello. Mark, this is Cynthia." He froze at his sister voice. "It's almost Thanksgivings and well, it's been almost six months and I miss y-"
The guilt choked his heart and made him lunge and wretch the phone up to ear.
"Cynthia?" His voice was old. Worn.
"Mark." His older sister sounded tired, but happy to hear him. "How are you?"
'uh…." Scared, living with a roommate with a death sentence, starved, jobless, and never ever wanting to leave. "…fine. H-how are you?"
"I'm great, Joshua and I bought a house, it's cute and well, Mark please come for Thanksgiving."
Thanksgiving. Years of uncomfortable silences and waiting at the table; ages of longing, yearning to get away and back to his film…
"Cynth-"
"I know that you and mom and dad aren't really on the best of terms, but you can stay here and they'll be going back home after dinner- it's just for the weekend and please Mark, I'm-"
A quiet shift from the bedroom and Mark turned away from the phone as his ears caught the sound. A half sob, half whimper- a sound that belonged in quiet of the night, not a bright New York afternoon. A broken, forlorn sound of someone who's had their life torn out and smashed.
Roger.
"-could bring a girlfriend or friend, Mark-
There was that cry again. "hold on."
He placed the phone onto the table and edged toward the slightly ajar door, to peer in at the sleeping musician. Roger lay sleeping, curled around a limp pillow, utter anguish on his face, tear tracks written into his sweat and dirt ridden face.
Below him, the guitar stared up at Mark from the floor beside the bed, like a wet dog still waiting for it's owner, where it had been thrown the night before.
Roger stirred in his sleep and a gaunt hand reached blindly toward the instrument, fingers stretched out, trying to grasp the guitar and reaching also, Mark thought, for someone he'd never be able to touch again.
Crossing the room in quiet strides, Mark moved the guitar so Roger's finger curled around the neck and the frown across his forehead relaxed- that at least he could help with. The other…
Mark turned on his heel and raced back to the phone.
"I'm-I'm back."
"Come to thanksgiving?"
"I- I can't, Cynthia there's been a- a crisis and I can't- can't leave." Can't leave him alone.
"Why? What's wrong?" She actually sounded like she cared 'Mark?"
"It's- it's nothing, I got to go."
"Wait- what? Mark, what's wrong?"
"I'll talk to you later. Bye"
2.
He stared at his socked feet, not looking the older man in the eye, even though he could feel his gaze on him.
"You're 17."
"18 in December." He whispered. Where was his camera? Where were his clothes? The doctor? This stupid exam room. There was suppose to be a nurse or a doctor guy. It looked crappy on the outside and inside but clinics had to have doctors around right?
"Mark, I know this might be hard for you, but I'd like you to tell me how you got the bruise."
"I'm not 7, you know." He muttered, wrapping his arms across his chest, "...and I don't want to."
"Mark…" He had a badge. His name was Stabler. You're suppose to trust the police. But police are like everybody else.
"I don't know you. You can't call me Mark." He stood up, trying to gather as much dignity as a skinny boy in worn boxers could. "And I'm leaving."
"I can't let you do that."
"What?" He could feel his voice get louder, higher as the panic set in and the white cracked walls began to blur. Trapped.
Thud
A bang against the wooden door, "Mark! What the hell is going on in there?" Roger.
Stabler yanked the door open and Roger stumbled into the little room, picking himself up on the way toward Mark.
-
"What the hell were you doing?" His eyes going from the scared Mark perched on the table and then looked at the man, suit and tie.
Mark looked so relieved, so happy to see him it was….shocking, and he stared at him. At the torn boxers and the…bruise?
"Roger, I-I want to leave.."
The man didn't like that idea, said something in low tones that, wrapped with the demon stare that big head was giving him, spelled out over my dead body.
He rounded on the guy in the suit, sending him an angry glare of his own as he wrapped Mark in his faded leather jacket. "We'll find another fucking Doctor."
Mark reached for his clothes. The man spoke up.
"I'm not a doctor," and held out a hand. "Detective Elliot Stabler, with Manhattan SVU."
They both froze, Mark buried his face in his hands as Roger tried to put the pieces together, wishing the fog in his mind would go away.
"SVU….." special victims? Like kids and old ladies, retards. Kiddie porn. Sex crimes. Talking to Mark….
"Mark saw something?" Yeah, that was it. His camera. Probably caught some crime on film. He was always being stupid, wandering around dangerous areas for some footage or other. Not that he had really been paying attention to Mark and where he went…
Stabler was shaking his big head.
"Mark was a victim…"
Mark?
His head whipped around to the hunched leather clad figure on the table. His roomate had his head hidden in pale thin arms- thin legs. When had he gotten so thin? And scraps on his legs, near the edge of his boxer. Near his-
He wasn't even aware of the fist and the punch, just that there was blood dripping down the policeman- police!man's nose and the room rang with a shout(his) of pure rage that had Mark looking up with wide scared eyes as the door burst open and Collins and some chick rushed in, and she slammed him against the wall.
He was crying.
Face pressed against cool flaking plaster and maybe 100 lbs of pure pissed female smashing him there, and the tears kept coming, running hot umanly tracks down his unshaved cheeks.
"..assaulted a police officer…looking... Stabler?" His ears weren't working right. There was something rushing through his brain, words trying to form in his head.
Mark.
She let him up and he stayed there for a second, trying to melt with the wall, wishing he could understand what was happening. Wishing he couldn't understand what was happening.
He turned and Mark stared at him, blue eyes all sad and in pain, voice just a whisper. "Rog…"
Guilt broke like a wave. Mark had been hurt and used and raped and he didn't notice? Hadn't notice. Been too busy in his own fucking life, feeling sorry for himself and dying and Mark needed him.
"Oh/god/ …Mark" He was at the table in shaky steps and Mark was burrowed in his chest, his entire world narrowed the skin covered bones in his embrace, not really sure who was shaking as tears dripped into blond hair."It'll be okay. It'll be alright. It's okay, we're okay, Mark. It'll be alright."
He heard a door close behind him, but couldn't move away from his hold on Mark, even if he wanted to.
And he would never leave Mark.