A/N: Thank you for all the lovelies you guys left in my e-mail. I loves youz all. :)

XXV.

March 29, 1991

Roger stood in the doorway of their bedroom with his guitar in his hands as he watched Mimi curled up in a fetal position on their bed, her curls spread out on the mattress and her hands clutching the sides of her head. She was having one of her bad days. Fucking migraines. Whenever they hit, Roger never knew what to do. No matter what he tried, Mimi would always push him away because she'd rather deal with the pain by herself.

"Nooooo," she'd moaned that morning, which was when the migraine had started. Roger had held her in his arms like she'd done with him a thousand times before. "No, please, baby. It only makes things worse."

"I'm just holding you, honey…" Roger had told her quietly, looking hurt.

"Please, no…I'll be okay…I don't want to puke on you or anything…"

"I've puked on you before…I don't mind, Meems…"

"Roger, no. Please, just go. Eat some breakfast." Mimi had buried her head under a pillow and curled up into a ball, making holding her impossible. Roger had given up and had eaten his breakfast (took his meds, too), then had wandered aimlessly around the loft, wishing Mark would come home. He hated being alone when he had to deal with something like this (fuck, Mark most probably felt the same every single day, which made Roger more glad about his and Maureen's decision about the baby; it kept Mark aloft. One corner of the loft was already dedicated to possible names of the baby, where they wrote in suggestions with White-Out). But, instead of moping around, Roger had spent the rest of the day by Mimi's bedside, singing to her like she'd always liked him doing. At certain times that day, the songs had made her smile. At some points, it had made her wince, but she had kept him going by saying, "I love your voice, baby", and Roger would move on to another song.

At one point, he'd risked singing her one song he didn't think he'd ever let other people know about. He didn't know why he'd chosen it, but it was a soothing song, and he'd sung it softly, to ensure that Mimi wouldn't actually understand the lyrics, just in case she wasn't asleep. Mimi had had her eyes closed that time, her breaths coming in slowly and peacefully.

"I like to believe

that love goes a long way

and Heaven ain't that far.

This pretty boy frontman's

not gonna be gone long

but for now just look for my star.

Orange for my buddy-boy, for him to smile more,

pink for the love of my life,

blue for my Stoli sidekick who keeps a cool head,

yellow for my drama queen's just right.

Oh don't forget to send me a balloon

and tell how you all are.

Don't forget to send me a balloon;

just keep a lookout for my star.

White is for my best-loved enemy, who really ain't so bad

and purple is for that lovely lady, my Jo, who sure knows fun.

Keep a green and a red one for Angel and me

and a rainbow balloon for Mark, Jo and Mo's little one.

I like to believe

that love goes a long way

and Heaven ain't that far.

This pretty boy frontman's

not gonna be gone long

but for now just look for my star."

When he'd finished, he'd stared at Mimi for the longest time, taking in every inch of her face. Sometimes he wished he were man enough to tell her that he was dying much quicker than she realized.

"That was beautiful, baby," she'd murmured in her sleep.

He'd smiled at her gently. At least she hadn't been awake to fully process the lyrics. He didn't know why the hell he'd written that song; it had just come out of him. That was when he'd stood up and had wandered around the loft again.

Fuck, he was scared. What if religion was just that, a belief? What if there was no Heaven? What if Angel wouldn't be there?

You'd better be there, Roger had threatened at the empty space in his mind.

In the silence, Roger had received no reassurance.

He'd gone back and had paused at their bedroom door, where he was now. He couldn't let go of his guitar. He couldn't let go of Mimi. He couldn't let go of Mark, of anyone, actually. He sighed, remembering the Nike shoebox pushed to the back of his closet that he'd told Mimi to look for when…when the time came. She'd brushed it off as nonsense.You're notgoing to die until after a long time, she'd told him, Don't talk like that.

If only.

Roger put his guitar back on its stand and went around the loft again, this time pausing in front of the Name Wall, as they'd practically christened it, to distract himself. Different scribbles of names danced on the wood, most were written in his, Mark's and Mimi's hands, since they lived there and often went up to the Wall in the middle of the night to write a name, or sometimes, little notes for the soon-to-be Cohen-Jefferson-Johnson baby.

Mark Jr., Mark had written down. Maureen had replied to the suggestion with a Uh, no, Pookie. You're not gonna be that lucky. I'd rather 'Michael' or 'Zachary'.

Why does everyone think it's a boy? I vote 'Angel', Collins had written. Or 'Aida' or 'Sophia'.

Or 'Sylvia' or 'Virginia', as in Plath and Woolf, Roger had replied to it.

Those were the first few name suggestions. It got serious after that, with names ranging from 'Theodore' (as in Roethke), 'Martin' (as in Heidegger or L. King, Jr.) and 'John' (as in Lennon, according to Roger) to 'Rene' (as in Descartes), 'Karl' (as in Marx) and even 'Sappho' ("The very first lesbian!" Maureen had announced).

He ran his hand over all the different names and words written on the wall, feeling every bump and groove that the White-Out had created. Shit, this kid was the greatest thing that was ever going to happen to them. He wished he could see the baby before he went…highly impossible as it was. Maureen was probably gonna have him or her by that magical month, December, which was great because that was when they'd all met.

Hey, I'm you're Daddy! I hope to see you soon with all ten toes and ten fingers! Mark had written.

Ohhh, you're gonna be cute, whatever-your-name-is! You haven't been made yet but I love you already! Hope to see you! Mimi had said.

Joanne, surprisingly, didn't write exactly how she talked, which Roger found so cute: You're one lucky baby! You have two Mommies and a Daddy and Aunts and Uncles who love you and watch over you! Take care, baby, we'll be waiting! Love, Mommy Jo.

Collins, being Collins, hadn't written, but had drawn a picture of what he thought the baby was going to look like, mixing up Mark and Maureen's features. It turned out to have curly hair, glasses, a big mouth and a camera. Roger thought it was hilarious. He hadn't written a note to it yet, though. He didn't know what to write. Mark had written about a dozen, expressing how excited and psyched he was about the whole thing. Good old Marky. Roger knew he'd fit into the dad mold pretty well.

With Mimi, death, Angel, Mark and the baby in his mind, Roger picked up the White-Out that hung on a piece of string from the wall and unscrewed the cap. The words came faster than what his mind processed.

Hey, little baby. I wish you had a name already so we wouldn't keep arguing about what it should be, and so I could call you by it already instead of lousy generic 'baby'. I'm never gonna meet you, I bet, but I love you already. You're gonna have a lot of fun here. I know I did. One word of advice to you: Don't do drugs, ever. And listen to your Daddy. He's a good guy. Your Mommies are great too. Don't give them a hard time. I'll look out for you. Maybe I'll see you in Heaven before you go. I wish I could be there with you as you grow up though. Again, I love you. Ask your Daddy to give you my guitar and learn Musetta's Waltz. He'll love it. Love, Uncle Roger…

He'd just finished when he heard Mimi moaning from the bedroom. Roger abandoned the Name Wall and strode over to where she was as quickly as he could.

"Rog…"

"I'm here, baby, I'm here…" he knelt on the bed and held her sweaty hand in his, brushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes were closed, meaning the migraine hadn't even waned. Maybe it was probably worse than what she'd had that morning. "You feeling worse?"

"Uh-huhhh…" she groaned. "Fuck."

"What can I do, babe? Do you want anything?" He would do anything for her. He'd buy every single thing she needed or wanted. "Why'd you call?"

"I just wanted to remind you…to take your AZT," Mimi told him. "Ahhh fuck, my head is killing me."

God, Roger loved her.

"I have, I have, honey, don't worry about me," he whispered, taking a mental count of his non-AZT medications as well. He'd taken them religiously and on the dot since they were prescribed, even without Mark's help. "You want me to help you with yours?"

"I'm not due 'til later…okay, honey, okay. You can go back to your journal-writing or whatever now. I'm okay," Mimi's face was clenched as he spoke. Of course she wasn't okay.

"Maybe you should take some Tylenol or something to help? I think we have some in the bathroom…" Mark usually had a stash or two of those things. Mimi wasn't the only one who had migraines.

"No, no, I'll just sleep this off. Usually works." Mimi told him. "There're some leftovers for your dinner, babe. Don't starve yourself."

Roger stared down at his wife who was busy forcing herself to sleep so she could avoid the pain. The entire situation was breaking his heart. He walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, pulling the medicine cabinet open with more force than usual.

Empty. No fucking Tylenol or anything anywhere. Just a Jurassic bottle of mouthwash. He sighed in disgust and closed the cabinet door before quickly striding out.

He was getting her medicine.

Fuck the PCP. Fuck everything. His wife needed medicine. Besides, he wasn't going to take long. Roger grabbed his jacket (in case it rained), checked one last time on Mimi (she seemed to be asleep) and put on his boots. He counted the dollar bills in the pocket as he stood in the doorway and remembered Fremont, the guy he'd met up with the last time he'd gone out, as he did so. At least that was over with.

He checked the weather outside. It wasn't raining…yet. But it was getting dark. Mark would probably be home in a while. Easy peezy. The drugstore was just a block away. Roger checkedon Dodge, who was dozing in his 'bed' (the crib), a final time before he slapped the dollar bills into his hand and stuffed them into his pocket. When he looked up out at the stairway that would take him outside of the building, he thought he saw a flash of a red jacket and a smile that reminded him of Angel. When he blinked, it was gone.

Without him actually knowing why, Roger smiled before he walked out of their front door and shut it.

TBC

A/N: Might take a while before the next one, but it's coming! Hehehe. R/R please!