How do you measure a year in the life

[make_creation]

Mark had known for years that it would eventually be Roger's time. Eventually the disease would take its toll. He'd been there when April had taken her own way out. When Roger had overdosed. He'd been there for Angel and he'd been there for Mimi on Christmas, and later when Angel wasn't waiting to tell her to turn around and listen to that boy's

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[squint_artist]

Angela was in a good mood. She thought, at that moment, walking to the Compound from Adam and Coraline's house (soon to be her hut too), planning the work she would do, that life couldn't get any better.

And then she saw Mark. And he looked terrible. Not physically. He still looked like Mark, maybe a little tired, but there was something in the set of his shoulders, the lines on his face, the look in his eye that let Angela know something was very wrong.

"Hey," she said gently, walking over to stand beside him. "What's wrong?"

[make_creation]

Mark looked up and would have liked to have smiled. He struggled with the simple movement, trying to force it, to act like his heart wasn't left behind in the clinic as he came out to detach for a minute.

"Angela. Hi," he said quietly, just the words sapping all effort. He sighed and looked toward the door. "Roger's in the clinic."

For those who knew, those words would be enough to explain everything.

[squint_artist]

Her eyes snapped to his face. There was worry in her eyes, yes, but not just for Roger. She slipped her arm through his and moved closer, to be companion and friend instead of just listener.

"How bad?"

[make_creation]

"Bad. Not really bad. Not, you know, break out the good suit bad," he replied, the black humor covering the overwhelming urge to puke as he thought about it.

"He stopped breathing. He's got some kind of allergic thing. Respiratory infection. He'll recover, House said, but it'll take time. He's, well, you know." Mark took a breath and looked at her and managed a wan smile with her there and close and connected. "He's too much of a cockjob to let this get him."

It might have been more believable if he hadn't sounded like his throat was going to close at any moment.

[squint_artist]

She played along with the joke by summoning up a half smile of her own. Whatever got people through the tough times, the tough times were when they needed it the most.

"He's Roger Motherfucking Davis," she said. "He's above this."

[make_creation]

"Right," he agreed, exhaling slowly. "I..."

Did he dare say it out loud? If he gave his fear voice, would that make it more real? If he spoke the words, would they take the emotion along with them?

What the hell.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this. If I'll ever be...ready."

[squint_artist]

She frowned, not judging Mark but at odds with the sentiment. "He's your best friend, Mark. He has a deadly disease. Of course you're not ready for this. No one could ever be ready for this, not without... deadening their soul. You don't have to be ready. You just have to be there."

[make_creation]

He was loathe to tell her that that was precisely what he'd done, how he'd coped, for so many years that it was second nature to detach. He didn't even notice when he pulled away. He'd fucked up and Roger had walked out of his life and he'd buried himself in film and work and ignored the gaping hole in his soul. It had felt like that here, it had felt like that when he was in rehab, it was a feeling he was scared shitless of having to go through again.

"I wouldn't be anyplace else," he confirmed. Mark looked at the cigarette for a second before he dropped it and stepped on it. "I'm good. I just needed a minute. You can go in if you want. I think he's sleeping, though."

[squint_artist]

"Mark..."

Yes, Roger was hurting. But he was hurting in a way that Angela couldn't help. But it was plain to her that Mark was hurting too. She couldn't force him to let her help him (assuming that she even could), but she couldn't just let him go.

"Being there for him doesn't mean no one can be there for you. Don't shut us out to focus on him." No one was good with something like this.

[make_creation]

Mark looked over and confusion pinched his brows. He'd been so used to the idea that he'd do this by himself that he had hardly entertained the thought that he was not alone.

"Oh, I, um...yeah. Yeah, I know," he nodded. "I won't. It's just...I'm not...Angela, I..."

Yeah, it was amazing he could write a script that garnered awards and couldn't complete a sentence in a conversation.

"Thank you. That's what I meant. Thank you."

[squint_artist]

The fact that he stuttered let Angela know that he did hear her, at least a little. She reached out to rub his upper arm.

"You going in now?" she asked.

[make_creation]

"Yeah," he nodded, gestured toward the door, then took a half a step. "Yeah, grab some coffee and some broth in case he wakes up and then...yeah."

[squint_artist]

"I'll go with you then," she said, turning towards the door. "And see him sometime when you're done."

[make_creation]

Mark snorted a soft laugh and shook his head. "I'll be done when he gets to go back to his room."

[squint_artist]

That was the right answer, and Angela smiled slightly. "Then I'll just encroach."

[make_creation]

"Encroaching is cool. Encroaching is..." Maybe he shouldn't have smiled. His stress was off the fucking charts, he was worried and scared and a thousand emotions that he wished he could say he was just renting. Didn't matter. He smiled anyway.

"It's very New York."