Frustrated. Very frustrated. Scratch that, he was beyond frustration at this point. Roger kicked a can out of his way with a snarl as he walked on, hands stuffed in his pockets. He had been wandering the city, trying to look for Mark, or Joanne, or Maureen, or anyone familiar for hours.

The only person he found that was sort of relevant was his old drug dealer. He couldn't figure out why he was so far from his usual location, but Roger had taken delight in scaring the living shit out of him by pretending to be an angry demon, returning from the afterlife. The dealer, who knew Roger was dead, had screamed at the top of his lungs, and for once in his life, his smug smile was nowhere to be found as he darted out of sight, whimpering like a dog with it's tail in between it's legs.

He wondered if that was going to fuck up his chances of coming back to heaven, but considering the dealer wasn't exactly a saint himself, he figured it was okay. Besides, the man who threw him back here hadn't grabbed him and sent him to hell for it, so he figured he was safe. He smiled to himself, laughing a little as the dealer's reaction kept replaying itself in his mind.

His laughter soon stopped as he remembered what he was looking for. Mark. Okay, how hard could a dorky filmmaker be to find? He sighed. The city was a huge place. This might take longer than he hoped.

He wandered along a sidewalk, but something made him look up. His eyes went wide as he sure enough, saw a familiar blond head walking along, tucking his camera into a bag at his side.

Mark! he felt his heart start to race. He looked around. He was too far away to call out to him, so he picked up his pace to catch up. He was across the street, but was soon almost close enough to yell the small man's name.

However, something made his heart nearly stop with anxiety. Mark was wandering right into the middle of traffic. He looked caught up in his own little world, and wasn't paying any attention to his surroundings. Fuck, did Mark want to become roadkill? of all the times he zoned out at the worst possible moments, this one took the cake. Roger nearly screamed as he suddenly heard a horn blare. Screeching tires followed, and he jumped as he saw a bus heading full speed for the shorter man. It didn't have enough time to stop.

Roger was moving forward like a bullet as adrenaline pumped through him. His eyes narrowed in determination. He had promised himself he would keep his best friend safe, no matter what the cost. He had been sent back for a reason, and hey, if he wasn't given a purpose other than "Fix what you've done wrong", then he would make himself one. He was Mark's protector. He always had been, and always would be. Even something like dying, and coming back could never hope to change that.

Before he knew it, he was a few feet away from the small blond.

"MARK, LOOK OUT!" he screamed. He didn't have the time to grab and pull him out of the way, so he used his momentum to his advantage, and threw himself forward with as much force as he could muster, tackling his friend out of the way just in time as the bus skidded past. A second later, and they both would have painted the roadway.

He wrapped himself around the small man, acting like a shell, keeping him pressed into his chest with his arms around him protectively as they tumbled and rolled for awhile, Roger taking the brunt of the concrete hits every time they bounced. Soon, they came to a stop in an alley all the way across the intersection. Roger was shaking with adrenaline, still holding Mark tightly to him. His eyes were shut tight, and his breathing was ragged. A few minutes later, after realizing the danger had passed, he began to slowly un-tense, and he gently uncurled himself, loosening his hold ever so slightly, and looking down at Mark with concern.

"Christ, Mark! you almost got hit! what were you thinking!? were you even thinking at all!? Are you okay!? pay attention next time! Holy shit…"

Mark lifted his head from his chest, looking at him with wide, frightened blue eyes. He was shaking like a leaf. When he realized who had saved him, his jaw dropped. He was about to speak, but he suddenly looked sick. Roger quirked a brow. However, he had no time to ask what was wrong as the filmmaker's eyes rolled back in his head. He groaned, and fainted, his body going limp in Roger's arms.

Roger sat there, silent for a moment as he processed what had just happened. He looked at Mark in disbelief.

"Oh, fuck me…." he groaned, grabbing the short man's shoulders, and shaking them gently. "Mark? oh god dammit, Mark! dont do this to me now! today of all days?" he patted Mark's cheek with his hand quickly. However, when he realized Mark was out cold, he sighed in frustration. "Mother fucker…"

He still sat there, keeping Mark close, and brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead gently. The albino looked exhausted. Like he hadn't been sleeping for days. He felt pity well up inside of him. All of their friends had died quickly… he must have been going through a lot. He leaned down, kissing Mark's forehead before starting to go through his pockets.

"There's gotta be an address somewhere… since you aren't in the loft anymore…" he murmured sadly, recalling how upset he had been when he learned Mark was leaving their old place behind. Maybe he could convince him to move back, like old times when he woke up.

Pretty soon, he found what he was looking for, and sighed. He knew where Mark lived, he recognized the street name. It was only a few blocks away. He blinked sadly, scooping Mark up into his arms carefully as he walked out of the alley, and through the city streets. Night had now fallen.

A few minutes later, he walked into the apartment. He looked around. Nobody was home. He picked up a note that was left on the table. The careful, neat handwriting told him it was from Joanne.

"Mark… Maureen and I are going out for dinner and a show. Won't be back until late. Dinners in the oven for you." -Joanne.

Roger sighed in relief. He wouldnt have to deal with anymore scared, fainting people until morning. He carefully carried Mark up into his little loft space, smiling a little as he saw all the pictures of them that coated the walls. He rested Mark down on the bed, and disappeared back down the stairs, to soon climb back up with a cold, damp towel. He patted Mark's forehead with it, looking down sadly as he realized the smaller man probably wouldnt come to until morning. He walked downstairs, and opened the oven, beginning to eat Mark's dinner.

He would deal with the consequences later. He was hungry. He giggled to himself as he went back up to Mark, and sat on the edge of the bed, eating quietly.

"Youre a handful sometimes, y'know that?" Roger murmured to him. He looked so peaceful now. Though Roger knew it was from shock, he was glad Mark's body in a way, had forced him to take it easy.

Once he finished eating, he ended up curling up on the windowsill, and closing his eyes, Mark's scarf wound tightly around his neck. He couldn't help but smile. He had missed this.