I hated how this came out. I really did. If I had the choice, I'd take this story out back and shoot it JUST to watch it bleed.

But I wrote Collins, and for that, I deserve an AWARD. I struggle with that man, I really do.

Anything that could make this better, tell me and you are my FUCKING hero.

No joke.

-----

There's something amazing about how the already dim lights of the Cat Scratch cut themselves out at the end of the show.

It forces the lookers-on to disengage themselves from the illusion. The way the whole place gets all dark until the only light is the orange glow of cigarette butts that dot the room like swirling fireflies or sometimes the subtle glimmer of a wedding band against the light that falls from a small window at the back- a strip club was not this buildings original purpose. When the light returns, full-blast for the first time, the women are gone and is the pounding music. The illusion disappeared and those who bought into it spend the next few awkward seconds alone reminding themselves that the nameless pair of breasts on stage was not their's, is not their's, never be their's, and that they have wives and children to attend to at home. It's a stripper's little gift back to society, he thinks with a cynical sort of smirk, that they bustle everyone home with the brutally honest reminder that like any performance, the action's just displayed on stage were fake.

Collins flicked a few ashes into the tray as he watched the rest leave from his spot at the far table, watching at the blur of faces shuffle and grunt their way offstage.

For a spare moment, he wonders why Mimi enjoys working here.

Sure, she says she doesn't. But Angel says she does and Collins can tell by the way she dances with the slightest genuine grin plastered all over her face that she does. His theory, as he had found he had a theory on everything and everyone, was simply that Mimi had a problem being loved.

Loving, no. Mimi was one of those people who prove that the opposite of love wasn't hate, but not caring at all. Mimi loved and hated many things at the same time. One of these was Roger.

No, loving was not difficult for Mimi. It was being loved that confused her.

The sort of love Mimi was fed from the stage was simple. It was the sort of impersonal love that she could easily handle. They loved her because they could not touch her. That she was something they could not have and will never have. But for a few moments on stage she's real to them, a dream suddenly alive.

They didn't love her because she was Mimi. They loved her because she symbolized every single one of her fantasies.

Sure, Benny cared for her, but didn't love her. He loved Muffy. He sacrificed everything for that proper daddy's girl and wasn't scared to leave Mimi behind. That was line driven in the sand. Benny was just kept on being drawn back into the world he was born into.

Collins was holding onto the theory that Roger was the only real person who loved her, in that goo-goo ga-ga chase-me romantic way, that wasn't from a very safe distance.

So it was easy for Mimi to subconsciously mistake the few parting moments as the hand that grazes against her stomach slips down and tips her and then leaves as love.

To end, Collins is pretty sure that she feels loved here, and that's what keeps her from coming back every night and not finding a job that won't have every man in New York trying to weed their way into her pants.

It's only a guess.

The room was suddenly empty and Collins dumped his cigarette into the ash tray, rubbing his hand against each other and then against his face. It's the first time he's seen Mimi in two months and he's here to talk to her about Angel. About how his Angel's sick and his Angel's dying and that she just wants Mimi to be there.

i Oh God, Angel. /i

Collins peered up at the ceiling, as if expecting a godly figure to appear, condone him for his love, and then explain to him why He was giving Angel the unlucky hand she got. It only left him staring at the empty ceiling of a strip club and realizing that if God existed He sure as hell wouldn't be here.

What was he going to Him for anyway? Like He could solve Collins' problems? He was talking to the wrong person.

With a little laugh at himself, he gathered up his coat in his arms, pressing it against his chest before attempting to work his way into the dressing room. And work up a smile. He was happy. He had a lot of things to be grateful for. But Angel still had a few more lessons to teach him about not being bitter, he supposed. It wasn't his fault that he was feeling a little lost right now. He had a lot more credit then he actually earned.

As soon as Collins pushed open the door, he was choking on cheap perfume and the smell of makeup and other... "lady things." The aroma basically hit him in the head and dragged him inside, and all it took was a few bumbling steps to catch Mimi's attention.

There was only two of them left, Mimi and a girl Collins didn't recognize at all. At the sight of Collins, she disappeared pretty quickly, having no real need to hang around. He sort of came in with a purpose- to talk to someone. And since she recognized him even less then he did, that person was apparently Mimi.

The look on Mimi's face was one Collins had only seen twice. Once on Roger's face during withdrawal, scrambling away from him and screaming something, and once on a abused cat he had found in an alley way when he was a kid. Mimi's was more internalized then both of these, but there was marked similarities. The expression melted right off her face slowly, and she turned around quickly in the stool she was resting in. "Collins?" She asked the mirror. "What are you doing here? Looking for a job? I never knew you wanted to be a stripper."

He grinned a bit, taking a few steps forward and clamping a hand on her shoulder. "Nice to see you too." He was used to getting the cold shoulder. Roger gave it to him last Christmas and countless times before that. Getting it from constant enthusiast Mimi was new, but expected. She knew why he was here, and so did she. He saw her mouth open in the reflection of the mirror, but he beat her to the chase with a concerned sort of gaze. "You okay?" He said, attempting not to let his voice get to soft or too gentle. Mimi hated that. She was fine. She was always fine.

"Fine." She shifted uncomfortably, not once meeting his eyes as she picked up a small sponge from the corner of the cubicle-like area. It was the closest thing anyone of them would get to a cubicle, at least. Except change out the computer for makeup and the office doo-dads for photographs.

The spot on the mirror where a picture of her and Roger once sat seems naked with out it. Other's of her and Angel are scattered around to. One of Collins and Roger still remains, but the other's of him have been stripped clean.

Collins leans over and slowly fingers at the photograph of Angel and her, cheeks pressed together as they grin for the camera. For a few seconds, he just looks, before Mimi nods, allowing him for him to take it from it's place.

He plucks it from the mirror slowly, laying it in his hand and grinning down at it. He knows he should say something, but the silence is comfortable. With a soft hand on her shoulder and Mimi still trying to be as stiff as ever, yet, neither is feeling awkward. He's not getting that from her.

Collins blew out a light breath, rearranging the picture in his hands as the breath turns into a low sigh. They were such close friends. They are such close friends. They always would be. He didn't understand.

Angel's been in the hospital for three weeks. Mimi hasn't seen her once. In fact, no one's caught wind of Mimi sense Roger and her broke up.

When he looked down to see her again, she's looking at him, and for the first time in over a month they make eye contact. A black tear run was down over her left eye, and he can tell where she futilely tried to wipe away the mark it made. "I know she's there, okay?" She swallows something that was caught up in her throat, and shakes her head. "That's what you're here to talk about... right? She wants to see me, right? She misses me, right?" Mimi turned away again, to the mirror. "It has nothing to do with her being sick, at least she doesn't mention it. It's just because she wants to. But you, me and her both know she wants to see me because she's not coming out of that hospital." She shifts again, and looks at herself in the mirror, avoiding him. "That's it, right?"

It's not new news to him. He wishes it was. It does unsettle him though, and he brings his other hand to her shoulder, and this time she doesn't feel so stiff. In fact, she's relaxed now. He doesn't know what to say really, and he doesn't know what's right for him to say. It's a weird time for him and he's just... he's just as confused as Mimi is, he guessed. Not confused, no... Collins' sure. He just doesn't want to be. For once, he doesn't want to be right. He's not confused. He wished he was. Maybe it would make life a lot easier if he wasn't so completely sure. "She just wants to see you." He didn't have anything better to say then that, but he must of sounded sure of himself because Mimi looks up at him. "All of us haven't seen you in awhile." He laughed quietly. "We miss you, okay?"

She smiled a little bit, throwing her legs over the stool and peering up at him, silent. There's still that ghost of a grin around her face and that's enough for him.

"Just promise me you'll try to come up." He leans down to her level and suddenly feels like he's talking to a child. Mimi accepts it though, and he can tell how she feels at least... safe. Not on edge, just okay. The hand on her shoulder keeps her grounded and as long as Collins keeps smiling, so can she.

She's scared. He couldn't tell why he didn't notice before.

Mimi didn't know how to be loved. She also didn't know how to say goodbye to it.

After a long pause, she shakes her head a bit and stands. He can't tell if it's a yes or no, and whichever answer he can't tell if she means it or not. Mimi rubs her hands on her pants and then snatches up a pen from her desk, handing it to him blankly. "Can you write the name of the place and visiting hours on there?" She shrugs, and then laughs nervously. "Don't have a piece of paper."

"Of course."

He flips the smiling paper over and scrawls as legibly as he can, peeking up at her from time to time. She's looking at the ceiling forlornly, and he's tempted to jokingly point out that he knows that doesn't work, but doesn't.

"Here." Collins passes it back and he watches her carefully, after a moment of hesitation, she places it straight into her pocket.

There's a few seconds that they both stood awkward, before Collins muttered, "Oh, come here you little bitch," with a large laugh and wrapped the little dancer up in a hug that would of killed her if she was any smaller. She returned the favor, of course, clinging to him a bit desperately. He didn't mind though. There's time people just need to be hugged like that, and Collins just guessed this was the time.

Hugs made everything better. Advice from Mark, of course.

He couldn't help but laugh again at their joint stupidity, but at least they were both a little more happy now. He guessed that was all that counted.

"Okay then, you," he said with a little chuckle, giving her a tiny pat on the back. "Keep in touch, okay?"

She just nodded, and he turned, ready to walk off.

"Collins?"

"Yes?"

"You'll... be there with Angel tomorrow, right?"

"...right."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow."