Roger

They're watching the small television set that is on top of the bookcase. In a previous incarnation the bookcase was lime green, and hints of this past peek out from the bookcase's current chipping blue paint. As for the television, its picture is fuzzy, but the sound is pretty clear.

"I don't understand a word they're saying," Mark complains.

"That's because they're speaking Spanish," the other man says dryly.

"Yes, I know that. What I don't know is why we're watching these godawful soap operas."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Because I'm dying and you should be nice to me."

There was a time, before April died and perhaps even before Collins died, when this might have thrown him for a loop, but now Mark merely rolls his eyes right back at him. He pulls himself up from the couch and pads into the kitchen to survey their rations. "How about soup for lunch?" he calls over his shoulder.

Roger groans. "We had soup yesterday."

"And we'll probably have soup tomorrow. Chicken noodle or vegetable?"

"You know what, Mark? I hate you. A lot." Roger cocks his head, thinking. "Vegetable."

Mark pours the soup mix powder into a pot and fills it with a tad more water than the mix packet recommends, so that they can get a little more mileage out of the mix. He stirs the soup as it cooks on the hot plate while Rogers watches his soap opera. He brings two bowls out to the main living area and sits beside Roger on the couch. The couch is as uncomfortable and ratty as it's ever been.

Bending over the bowl and inhaling the scent of the soup, Mark shuts his eyes for a moment. It's comforting. The smell of the broth, the heat of the liquid down his throat. This is the real reason he makes soup so often. He begins eating but sets down his spoon when he hears a soft curse come from Roger's side of the couch.

Roger's hands are shaking. They do that a lot these days; he can't even play guitar anymore. Right now, they're shaking so badly that Roger can't get the spoon to his mouth. He looks over mutely to Mark with an expression that is a perfect blend of rage, frustration, and fear. Scooting nearer, Mark takes Roger's spoon, dips it into the soup, and brings it up to Roger's lips.

Roger doesn't look at Mark, and Mark doesn't look at Roger. That's the only way this works. If Mark says anything or gives any indication that he is aware of what is happening, then Roger will freak out and shove him away. Probably throw the soup bowl at the wall, for good measure. Of course, it works better for Mark this way too. If Mark doesn't have to say anything or even look at what he's doing, he can step outside of himself and pretend it isn't real. He can watch with detachment, precision, emptiness. It's the only way this works.

Thankfully, today Roger's feeding concludes without incidence. No violence committed against innocent soup bowls or innocent filmmakers. Mark slurps down his own soup then returns to the kitchen with the empty bowls.

He comes back and sits down on the couch, careful to keep a respectful distance from Roger. Roger doesn't like it when Mark is too close. Mark suspects it makes Roger feel weak. They watch the soap opera in companionable silence.

Out of the blue Roger says, "I miss Mimi."

Mark allows himself a soft sigh. "Me too, Rog."

Roger frowns, thinking. "And I wish Collins was here."

A long pause. "Me too."

Then Roger reaches forward with an uncertain, trembling hand and turns off the television with the remote on the coffee table. "Think I'm gonna take a nap," he explains unnecessarily.

"Okay."

Gingerly, painfully, Roger stands up and begins shuffling towards his bedroom. Before shutting the door, he looks over his shoulder. Formerly brilliant green eyes now dark and inscrutable. "Hey, Mark? The soup wasn't bad."

Mark just smiles.

Hours after Roger should have woken up, Mark creeps into his best friend's bedroom. He knows as soon as he sees Roger, pale under the mountain of blankets, but he touches Roger's face anyways. Cold. He feels for a pulse. Nothing. Mark sighs. At least he didn't have to go to the hospital, he reflects. Without thinking Mark removes his scarf and, gently lifting Roger's head, wraps it around the dead man's neck. It looks good on Roger, he notes with a small nod of satisfaction.

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Author's Notes: My apologies to those dreading the death of Roger. He went before his time. As for Maureen … while not all questions will be answered, the story will reveal whether she's alive or dead.