No Guarantees
McRaider
Summary: There are no guarantees in life, no guarantees that they would go first. That he wouldn't go first. After all, didn't everyone see him as the weakest one? He always held it together, he was the peacemaker, so what happens when he can't hold it together anymore.
Author's Note: First Rent story, not my first fanfiction. It's pretty MarkCentric, but it involves all the characters and it takes place not long after the movie ends. Angel is dead, however she does make an appearance. This is not meant to be Mark/Roger slash; however it's definitely a close friendship which I suppose if you squint could be interpreted as slash.
Rated: K+

Chapter One:

It started with a stupid argument; some days he felt that's how everything always began. After all that's how he'd met Roger in the first place; it only seemed right that's how he found himself in this position huddle in a dark corner of the alley right beside their building, grasping the side of his head that was profusely bleeding down the side of his face.

His glasses were broken; he wasn't sure where they'd disappeared to. He groaned in pain as he tried to shift on the cold wet ground again. It had started raining shortly after the muggers had decided Mark didn't have any money to takeand ran off. Leaving the blond beaten and somewhat broken in the alley desperately praying one of his friends would come back and rescue him.

The rain easily hid the tears gliding down his dirt and blood caked face. He curled his legs closer to his chest, allowing the light sobs to wrack his body. A stupid argument: Roger had growled at Mark for his nagging about the AZT, but then, Mark understood that Roger was having a hard time dealing with his AIDS; he hadn't been sleeping lately as it was. Mark wasn't oblivious to his friend's cold. Roger wouldn't admit it, but he was sick, and while Mark was fairly sure this cold wouldn't be the one to steal his best friend from him; he felt that it was important that especially nowthe musiciantook his medication.

The discussion had gone down hill from there; Roger yelling something to the effect of Mark minding his own damn business and get a real life aside from worrying about him and his stupid films. At some point, no longer able to take his best friend's yelling, Mark had slammed out of the loft, without a second thought. He'd taken a long walk in what had once been a sunny day. After nearly two hours of walking, Mark had cooled off and was heading back to their home. Leading to his current precarious position.

Where were his friends when he suddenly needed them? Whimpering he slide down onto his side, curling further around his bruised ribs and closed his eyes as his head began to spin. There were no guarantees in life…it was something people said to him all the time. Suddenly he completely understood their words.

o0o

"Where is that little shit!" hissed Roger as he kicked the trashcan across the room. Collins sighed from where he sat on the couch. It wasn't like he'd never seen one of Roger's temper tantrums, the man was a musician, it was as though these tantrums were a given for him.

"Well from the sound of it you laid into him pretty well," Mimi said; being the only one with the guts to reply. She'd heard the yelling from below in her apartment. So she hadn't been exceptionally surprised when she arrived nearly an hour later to find Roger in a state of worry over the young filmmaker.

Collins had to hide his grin as Roger rolled his eyes at Mimi's words, "Tell ya what, why don't we go out and find him," Collins wisely suggested.

"It's pourin' outside," stated Maureen from her seat near the window with Joanne.

"Yeah, and Mark's out there!" Roger growled, biting back further angry words.

"I'll be back," mumbled Collins before slipping out practically unnoticed as the others continued to argue with one another about Mark. Shaking his head Collins made his way down the stairs; he wasn't Mark's best friend by a long shot, however he was fond of the kid. Mark had a way of keeping everyone stable in the worst of times. Mark was a good guy, and one of the few that would actually survive to tell the tale of their lives.

He also knew that when Mark and Roger had a rather large argument, Mark tended to spend anywhere from two to three hours wandering around before heading back to the loft and apologize. The evening would then go back to normal after that between the two friends.

Collins easily assumed since it had been just over two hours since Cohen's disappearance and the rain had just started; that most likely Mark was smart enough to at least make his way back to the loft. Which meant where Mark was, he was probably near by.

Stepping out into the ran he looked down both sides of the street quickly before his ears picked up on the quiet sound coming from the alley way to the left. He hurried through the rain and stopped at what he saw. There on the hard ground, surrounded by a puddle of water and blood was their blonde boy. "Mark, what the hell happened?" Whispered Collins, kneeling down in the water beside the younger man.

Mark was clutching the side of his injured face, his blue eyes; filled with tears, looked up at him—obviously trying to make out the shape crouching in front of him, "Collins?" he rasped through a chocked voice.

"Yeah kid, come here," Collins didn't think twice before slipping one arm under Mark's knees and the other around his shoulders, drawing the drenched, shaking boy into his arms. "You had us worried sick," Collins mumbled as he, all too easily, lifted the twenty-four year old man into his arms and stood to his full height.

This seemed all too familiar after what had happened to Mimi. Shaking that thought from his head quickly he hurried out of the alley, still holding tightly to the shaking Mark. He made it up the stairs as quickly and safely as he could with the precious cargo in his arms. Mark was rapidly losing more blood from his temple and losing consciousness.

Roger was in mid-rant when Collins burst into the loft, causing everyone to gasp in surprise. Roger's eyes landed on the broken figure of his best friend before he jumped into action, and grabbed some blankets from the bedroom. Collins set Mark down on the couch, setting his head one of the pillows, turning it so the bloodied side was up. "Someone find a first aid kit. Mimi, call for an ambulance."

"No," moaned Mark, reaching out as he tried to stop Mimi.

"Mark stop," Collins grabbed his friend's arms and looked at the glossy blue eyes, "You could be seriously injured, and your head shouldn't be bleeding this much."

"Hey buddy," Roger came over and draped the blankets over his wet friend, "We shouldn't leave him in these wet clothes." Looking from Collins he then looked back at Mark and smiled sadly, "Sorry Mark."

"S'okay," he murmured, "Cold."

Collins nodded as he began to try and clean off the blood, he shook his head, "Head wounds bleed a lot, but not this much. Something's very wrong."

Mimi looked at them from where she now sat on the countertop, "The ambulance is on its way."

"Good," Collins replied nodding, he looked at Mark, a little worried about the amount of blood he'd lost. "Mark did they hit you anywhere else?"

Roger didn't bother waiting for an answer, he'd cared for Mark far too many times after muggings, he pulled down the blanket and lifted up Mark's shirt, revealing deep bruising lining his abdomen. Roger felt the blood drain from his face as his green eyes turned to Collins' chocolate ones. "That's not good," he mumbled.

"Lie still Mark," Collins ordered as his friend tried to move again. There was way too much blood, coming from his head and from the looks of it, internal bleeding as well. It was amazing the boy was still moving let alone conscious.

As if on cue, Mark's eyes rolled into the back of his head and lost consciousness. Roger's eyes grew wide as he suddenly gripped Mark's chin, "Mark," he prodded, trying to wake his best friend up.

"He's still alive," mumbled Collins as he continued to try and stop the bleeding.

Joanne disappeared, to lead the paramedics up the stairs, "What happened?" The young redheaded man asked as he came and knelt besides the couch.

"He was mugged in the alley way," Roger explained eyeing his friends in worry.

"He appears to have severe internal bleeding, how long ago was this?" The second medic asked as she gently prodded Mark's stomach.

Blue eyes flew open as he cried out in pain. Mark instantly tried to fight off whatever was continually causing the pain; "Its okay son, we're trying to help," the red head whispered as he gripped Mark's flailing hands.

"Maybe about twenty minutes ago," Roger complied.

The female shook her head, "This is way too much blood…Let's move him," she grabbed the back board from the bed they'd brought up the stairs.

"Mimi, call Benny," Roger spoke suddenly. As much as he hated to admit it, if something was seriously wrong with Mark then he'd need money. At this point Roger wasn't afraid to ask for the help.

"If one of you would like to accompany your friend, we've got room," the red head explained as they strapped Mark down to the stretcher.

Everyone looked over at Roger, before he grabbed his coat and hurried after the medics as they made their way down the stairs of the apartment building. He waited as they loaded the blond into the back of the ambulance, before he took a step and climbed inside. Sitting down across from the female medic, he watched as she went to work doing what Collins had been doing. "You haven't given him anything to eat or drink since you found him have you?"

Roger shook his head no, "Is he going to be all right?" finally asking the question he'd been dreading the answer to.

"It's way too soon to tell," she whispered in return.

Mark chose that moment to wake up, though bleary eyed, he glanced up at Roger; his eyes full of tears. "Rog?" he whimpered.

Reaching out with his own cold hands, Roger gripped his best friend's cold clammy hands, trying to shake off how cold his body seemed to be. "Is he supposed to be this cold?"

"He's suffering from the beginnings of hypothermia," she explained as she began to cut off the soaking clothes, throwing heated blankets over his bruised and battered body. "You said your name was Roger?"

"Yeah, and this is Mark," he replied.

She nodded, trying to offer a sympathetic smile, "I need to ask you a few standard questions. Is Mark allergic to anything, any conditions we need to know about?"

"Uh, hypoglycemia, and no I don't think he's allergic to anything."

"Good, has Mark experienced any sudden weight loss, chronic exhaustion, unexplained bleeding or bruising?"

Roger cocked an eye brow at the young paramedic, these questions weren't so standard, "No offense, but we're hungry most of the time, we live off Captain Crunch and occasionally we find good food to buy. Neither of us have the best jobs: I'm a struggling musician and he's a struggling film artist. So if there's been any weight loss I'm not exactly sure it's all that unexplainable. Exhaustion, he's been more tired than normal, but sometimes he stays out late at night and doesn't come back until the morning, so it's not exactly unexplainable either. As for bruising I don't think so, but we don't exactly look for bruises on each other. Why are you asking these questions?"

"They're just standard sir," she offered.

Roger shook his head, "No, I don't buy that. I've been in ambulances before those aren't normal questions, especially for someone who's just been mugged."

She offered another sympathetic look before sighing, "It's too soon to tell anything," she murmured before continuing work on Mark.

o0o

They arrived in the ER moments later, and Roger was pushed aside as Mark disappeared behind two large doors. He watched in the windows for a moment as a flurry of activitycrowded around the young filmmaker; before a nurse came out and led him over to the waiting room, explaining they wouldn't know anything until they got a closer look at him.

He'd never forget the look of fear he saw in Mark's eyes as they wheeled him through those doors; and the suddenly feeling that he'd caused at least some of the fear and pain. Left to his own fearful thoughts, he wandered towards one of the chairs in the waiting room, where he promptly flopped down, and buried his head within his hands. For twelve years, twelve years they'd been best friends. Closest buddies, he'd been this stupid scrawny little kid back in middle school…

He was walking towards his house when he heard and saw the commotion up ahead. Four older boys were shoving around a much smaller kid. Roger groaned, he wasn't one to get involved, but he knew these four boys, they were Freshman at the local high school, and Roger also knew the scrawny kid they were shoving around happened to be a sixth grader.

Running ahead he dropped his bag to the ground and shoved one of the guys aside, "Back off!" he yelled suddenly. He'd had several run ins with these boys and he was getting tired of them pushing people around.

"You gonna make us pretty boy!" hissed one of the four.

"Your dad's a cop Kawalski, so is mine, don't make me put two and two together for you," Roger shot back in anger.

The kid named Kawalski glared at Roger, but soon the four boys backed off and turned to walk down the road the other way. Roger rolled his eyes before turning his eyes to the boy on the ground. His nose was bloody, his eye looked to be rapidly swelling, reaching out Roger lifted the kid back to his feet, he was easily a foot shorter than Roger; he had big round wire glasses, ocean blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair. He looked to weigh all of about ninety or one hundred pounds. "Name's Roger Davis."

"Mark Cohen," he mumbled as he gripped his nose.

"Yeah…I've heard you in choir a couple times or too, you're pretty good singer. Come on, lets get you cleaned up, where's your house?"

"Not far."

"Mine's about five minutes away, we'll get you cleaned up then I'll walk you home."

"You're in my choir class…aren't you that guitarist?"

The conversation between the two boys continued like that all the way to Roger's house, then to Mark's. They talked and laughed, and what would normally seem like the world's most unlikely friendship between two boys, quickly became one of the strongest.

A hand jolted Roger from his memories, glancing up he met the chocolate brown eyes of Thomas Collins. He offered a short smile, and scooted over so his friends would all have enough room to sit down. He noticed Benny was with them, and offered a brief nod, showing his appreciation for the African American's presence. "Have you heard anything yet?" Maureen asked as she and Joanne sat down across from Mimi, Collins and Roger. Benny took a seat on the other side of Joanne.

"No, he was rushed into the ER…wow, an hour or so," Roger whispered eyeing the clock on the opposite side of the wall. Unable to believe he'd been stuck in his memories that long. Offering a pained smiled, heaccepted the offered hands of Mimi and Collins; soon the six friends had formed a long chain. Giving support, love and friendship through the only bonds, they had: a bond of family.