Angel
Mark sits in the uncomfortable orange plastic chair, crossing and uncrossing his stiff legs. He isn't entirely sure how he got to this exact point in time. He is alone with Angel in Angel's hospital room, which glows an ungodly blue-white under the fluorescent lights. He is never alone with Angel. Collins sometimes is, of course, but if Collins isn't the only visitor, then generally it means all the group is visiting. Sometimes just Mimi comes, since she and Angel go farther back than the others, but never just Mark.
Yet, here Mark sits. Collins asked him to, and Mark couldn't refuse the man that small favor. Collins is teaching a class right now but can't bear the thought of Angel being alone, even for an hour or two. So Collins asked Mark to keep watch. No surprise there. Joanne and Maureen have been out of contact recently, since their last big fight, and Roger's been depressed and reclusive since his falling out with Mimi. And everyone knows that during the day Mimi's either too tired or too strung out to be able to do a bedside vigil. So it came down to Mark. There's a lesson there, he thinks, frowning.
"Mark."
Mark's ice-blue eyes, formerly glazed in thought, grow crisp with focus. He looks over at Angel. She's awake. She looks oddly naked without her make-up or wig. "Hey," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"
Angel smiles, and Mark feels a heaviness in his chest. "Oh, I can't complain," she laughs, but it's a lie. There's a lot of things she could complain about. She's dying, after all. But complaining about dying isn't her style.
He clears his throat to cover his unease. "Is there anything I can bring you? Get you? Do for you?"
She shakes her head, still smiling. "Honey," she says, "you have got to calm down. You're wound a little too tight."
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, looking down at his hands. He uncrosses and crosses his legs again.
After a few moments' silence, Angel murmurs, mostly to herself, "Definitely too tight."
I'm really bad at this, Mark thinks. He wishes Collins was here, not him. He wants to walk out of the room, and walk out of the hospital, and walk right out of New York City, but instead he reaches over and places his hand over Angel's. It is only with his full willpower that Mark can stop himself from shivering at the feel of Angel's hand—all bones and papery skin.
He doesn't move for a long time. Even after he thinks Angel's probably asleep again, he keeps his hand on hers. He can't do much, but he can do this. So he keeps doing it.
"Mark?" Not asleep, apparently.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"You know, sweetie, there is something you can do for me." She pauses, licks her dry lips. "You gotta look after Collins for me. He's, well, you know. He's Collins. He won't look after himself. And with the way that Maureen and Joanne, and Roger and Mimi, have been lately … "
Mark laces his fingers with hers and gives a gentle squeeze. "Okay," he agrees.