~1990~

Skipper's POV

The city is always there for me.

Even when I was just a fifteen year old girl trying to grow up too fast, the city was there.

Okay, well... maybe there were inappropriate parties, a little vodka, a little "pedophilia," a whole shit ton of heartbreak, a butterfly tumor, some rape, some drug cartels, and Michael... but the city kept me alive and well, which is all I can ask.

And well, the city giveth, and the city taketh away.

I can't remember a time in which I was truly happy here, but the apple always provided me with some sort of distraction to numb the pain. When matters of the heart weighed heavily, there were countless surgeries I could ace without thinking. When parental expectations took control, there were drug cartels.

I never said it was healthy.

The flashing street lights console me, the people milling about on the streets intrigue me. Everyone seems to be going nowhere fast.

So now, in the wake of my newest tragedy, I stare out the window-wall of Rosie's old apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and look for remedies in the smog-covered stars. Placing my fingers against the cold glass, I realize that it might help to know what the hell is going on in my mind before I can find out how to solve it.

"Skipper." I hear Daddy's footsteps entering the living room behind me.

I don't move.

"You should eat something, get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be hard."

As if I didn't know that. I turn and he looks at me as if I'm five years old again, in need of his paternal guidance. Maybe the latter is true.

I nod once and lift shaky hands to my face to wipe away the tears. It's no use, they only come right back as I am wordlessly walking up the spiral stairs to the bedroom. Cringing at every reminder of... him.

Daddy will putter around for most of the night, unsure of what do with himself or how to be useful. He isn't sad, I know that much.

I have no clue what I am.

I pull the comforter up to my chin (it's supposed to be white, but three years of dust collection has rendered it an off, greyish color) and stare at the ceiling. It feels like if the wind blew, I'd go along with it. Like a shopping bag in a parking lot.

I close my eyes and the images come again.

What do you feel? The city whispers to me.

I've got no fucking clue.

Michael's POV

"Fuck," I whisper with a sinister grin.

You could say that this fucked-up world played me a cruel hand. It delivered me a perfect girl on a silver platter. She was beautiful, and even smarter than I was (except for when it came to the streets), and then the world destroyed her. And corrupted her with the temptation of other people.

But now, obviously, the world's trying to make up for it. It's given me another chance to play.

Kate looks at me carefully. "Um, turn that TV up son."

Jermaine gives me an unreadable look and kneels in front of the ancient ass television set (which is weird, given all the monetary fucking success with music) to turn up the volume.

The reporter's voice floods the room.

"Rock fans everywhere are mourning the sudden death of Guns N' Roses frontman Axl Rose. The 31-year-old male is said to be the victim of California's unpredicable weather, as a landside carried him off the side of a cliff and to his untimely end."

Kate's gaze averts to my excited one.

"It's already said to have surpassed John Lennon as the death of the century. Fans gathered last night outside Rose's home in California for a candle-light vigil, where he and his wife Princess "Skipper" Nelson resided for the past two or three years. While this seemed to be a peaceful gesture, fans are also demanding information. What is does the future hold for the remaining members of the band?"

I scoff. Who fucking cares about those heroin-addicted asshats when Skipper is somewhere hurting? And vulnerable? And... alone?

"The utmost sympathy goes out to Mrs. Nelson-Rose, who has yet to comment publicly about the death of her husband. Sources say she's relocated to New York, but not much else is known."

I shut off the TV and don't bother attempting to hide my grin.

"You know that reminds me," I sigh, draining the dregs in the bottom of my brandy glass. "I've gotta catch the Red Eye tonight. There's somewhere I've gotta be in the morning."

Kate's eyes hold all the world's dissaproval. "Oh come on, Michael," she says almost darkly, standing and shoving her cocktail into Jermaine's clumsy hands. "That girl is living in a world of hurt right now. Do you really think it's smart to open up old scars on top of that?"

I don't respond, I'm already halfway up the staircase.

"Yeah," Jermaine pipes up. "And what about the divorce papers?"

Done and done. "What about them?"

I slam my bedroom door shut and look at the bed. For a moment she's there again, wrapped in nothing but the sheets. Her skin is golden, bathed in early morning light. She's smiling at me, that beautiful curly hair spreading across the pillowcase.

I've gotta have that again.

I yank my suitcase from underneath the bed and carelessly begin to pack it.

I won't fuck it up this time. I know that much.

Skipper's POV

There's a cumpled up old ball of his black scrubs lying in the corner. But that's not why I'm crying.

His razors are in the cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom. The scuffed Doc Martens at the foot of the bed belong to him. The empty whispers floating around in the shadowy corners of this penthouse apartment are his, as are all the memories.

But I'm not upset because of that.

My cheeks are sticky with tearstains as Daddy slowly enters the room. I wonder when those soft brown eyes of his will run out of sympathy for me, but I guess now isn't the time.

"You can come back to stay at my place if this is too much for you," he begins urgently. "I just think it's far too morbid to-"

I hold up a hand to silence him. He sighs quietly.

No way I'd go back to Daddy's house. In Michael's neighborhood. To my bedroom that Michael and I once shared. And where the now full-grown horse called Rosie roams everyday.

I want to tell him that he doesn't need to hover over me today, but I can't. When I open my mouth all that comes out are choked sobs, and nothing I can say would turn off that paternal need to be there in my "time of need," so I might as well save my breath.

I go to the bathroom and shut the door behind me quietly. I turn on the shower. I sit in the bottom of it, letting the hot stream of water beat down on me.

I think maybe this will help me feel, but it does not.

I dress in the fine things that he bought me over the years, a long black dress, gold jewelry. I hide the tearstains and the fatigue with concealer, I paint on happiness with eyeshadow and blush.

Daddy and I ride through the streets in a tinted limo, and it's all I can do to keep my composure as I stare out the window.

We pass Bergdorf's and Sak's. I think of Ana, who took me there in her station wagon and made me a woman. I think of when X watched me try on skirts and dresses.

We pass the Clan's home base. I think of sneaking out of St. Mary's dressed in whore's clothing. I think of the dangerous things I engaged in, just to feel alive.

This memorial isn't going to be at the hospital, thank God. I really don't think I could handle that. Instead it's going on in a rather benign place- Madison Square Garden, as a tribute of sorts. It's a place that can easily be populated by A-List celebrities, who feel the need to make this about themselves.

When we pull up there's a red carpet leading into the vacinity, and the place is crawling with paparazzi. I stare down at my perfectly manicured nails and don't get out of the car.

Daddy glances out the window. "Well, I'll give him this. He certainly had a quality photographer." He motions to all the murals that are hung, photos of him. The band. Us.

"I know this hurts you, and I'm sorry," Daddy sighs. "But you need closure."

I looked at him for a long time. And then I get out of the limo.

It's like after Love Symbol came out, and the whole St. Mary's campus was teeming with knowledge of my deepest secrets. Everyone stopped talking when I arrived, and everyone stared.

That happens right now, but times ten. The camera shutters are the only noises as I step carefully toward the red carpet, head up, and shoulders square. Whispers echo, but I don't register them.

"A very regal Skipper Nelson has just arrived on the scene," says a brave reporter into his microphone as he stares at his camera man. "And the whole world silences in respect for her, and her grieving."

I focus my attention on the murals now. Rosie's face always looked drawn and angry toward the end, it's weird to look around and see what he used to be like.

I look over and grind to a halt.

They are real. I'd almost forgotten these four men, who used to make me laugh until I cried and my sides were aching. Who used to day drink with me, keep me company when everything seemed wrong with Rosie, kidnap me for rock festivals.

And the one of them I could've loved.

And now they're here, and real. And Rosie isn't present to keep me from them any longer.

Duff's hazel eyes are waterlogged when he looks at me. He breaks my heart with a single glance.

I look straight ahead again, but still I can't move. I almost saw... him in all of his glory, curly hair flowing in the gentle night breeze beneath a black top hat. When did he become such forbidden fruit?

Daddy takes me arm, tucking a finger under my chin and forcing me to look into his eyes.

"We're going to find our seats now, alright?"

I let him lead me into the venue and down the aisle between the two sections of folding chairs. It's almost as if this were a concert. Only the stage wouldn't have a podium on it and be decorated with pictues of me and a dead man.

Our seats are front and center.

After we are settled, the flow of sobbing has-been rockstars begins. I get kisses on the cheek from KISS, hugs from Motley Crue and both from Boston. The faces and words blur together, the apologies and condolences and prayers begin to mean nothing.

And this is when I realize who I am really looking for.

The stage lights dim themselves twice, indicating that the memorial is going to begin. Just as this is happening, the remainders of Rosie's legacy come to take their seats right beside me.

"Skipper, I..."

Duff is standing over me now. His splotchy red face tears my composure to shreds, and I can't say a thing to console him. He looks everywhere but my face, trying to find the right words to say. But those don't exist.

I can't help myself, and I begin to sob again.

Steven comes, with no tears. His gentle smile and bright blue eyes seem tinted with sadness as he takes Duff's arm. "Everything's alright, guys," he says soflty. "He wouldn't want us to cry. Everything's alright."

When did my Stevie become the mature one?

Izzy comes. He envelops me in a hug without a word, and doesn't care when my tears and eyeshadow smear on his suit jacket.

When the three of them take their seats, it is revealed that Slash is already there. Refusing to look at me. Staring at the boots on his feet.

Elton John is the first to speak.

"Anyone who knew Axl Rose knew he only loved three things. Medicine, music... and her. The beautiful Skipper Nelson, who heavily outweighed the other two things."

The room rustles and shifts. I dare not look up at the stage as he continues.

All the speeches are the same. He loved her, he was a good person. He helped those who otherwise would've died, he was a rock n' roll pioneer. Someone to be remembered fondly for the rest of time.

I scowl at these lies. And it starts to hit me.

I don't look at all the people who stand behind the podium and pretend to have known Rosie for who he really is, and feel sickened. I almost leave the place when Jon Bon Jovi begins to speak.

I squeeze Daddy's hand, and I cry. I hear Duff softly sniffling beside me, I hear Steven trying to cheer him up in vain.

Directly after this pain comes more. The reading of the will.

I no longer pretend that the empty words of those around me mean anything, pushing roughly through the crowd to get back to the limo. When I am asked for a statement, I glare. When I am told 'I'm sorry,' I chuckle.

And then all of a sudden I'm alone in a stark white room.

In the same courthouse where Rosie was once prosecuted for statutory rape, six years ago. Almost.

I thought that I'd be alone, but the air is instantly sucked from the room when the band joins me. Or rather, when Slash walks in and continues ignoring my existence. They migrate toward the corners of the small white room, saying nothing.

I stare straight ahead. As the lawyer comes in, I remain this way.

I stare at the wall as he reads, telling me that I own everything that once belonged to Rosie.

I walk out, and everything changes when I see him. Duff gives me a squeeze on the shoulder and that's all he can do.

Steven and Izzy look at me, and then him. "How... are you?"

I just stare.

Eventually they leave me standing there, staring into Michael's shiny brown irises.

He comes to me and spares the small talk. My body turns into a stiff block of ice as he wraps me in his arms, burying his nose in my hair just like he used to. And for a second, everything's alright. I'm fifteen again, he's seventeen. We're in love. I'm not ruined.

And then he talks.

"It's over now, baby. It's finally over, he's gone. You're out of prison, so to speak, and we can finally be together."

My eyes widen with horror.

"I have to say," Michael continues slyly, "time has done you well. Look at you, you're just... perfect. And now you're mine again."

Wait, what?

He is going to kiss me. And I could easily let him.

But instead I slap his hands away and whimper weakly. The tears are coming on again, and it's all I can manage to flee as fast as I can, drawing shaky breaths and trying not to choke on my own tears.

Daddy frantically asks what happened when I return to the limo.

When I offer no explanation, he somberly tells the driver to take us back to Rosie's.

It takes a few days for people to realize that I'm not speaking. I sit in front of the television set in the living room, watching tapes. Day after day, night after night, looking for all the answers that I know I can't find. I won't eat or sleep. I can't even think.

They try to talk to me through the tapes, but I drown them out.

Daddy telling me it's for the best.

Michael telling me what he wants.

Duff struggling to even make a point.

Steven trying to feed me Cocoa Puffs.

Izzy just trying to explain.

And then it's all of them at once on the seventh or eighth day, refusing to leave, me refusing to listen. Because they don't really understand.

They don't understand that the last almost three fucking years of my life have been a living hell. I can't explain to them, I can't really make them see how horrible and controlling Rosie was all in all, how he slowly crushed the will to live out of me day after day. He extinguished my fire, whether he meant to or not.

It was never supposed to happen.

"Skipper please, just listen to us," Daddy begins to beg. "You're driving yourself into the ground. This isn't healthy, sweetheart."

"Just leave her to me," Michael growls. "I can fix her."

Izzy glares at him for a second and takes my hand. "She needs time to heal. And rest."

"And Cocoa Puffs," Steven says through a chocolatey mouthful. "Wait... chocolate is vegan... right?"

Duff sighs. "We can't force her to get over him. They were in love, for three-"

I errupt all of a sudden. All the tension and emotion that has been welling in me during the last two weeks, the anger and remorse that has forced me to live this way.

"Don't you fucking idiots get it!?" I almost scream, jumping up from the living room couch. My legs protest and ache.

Everyone is silent, stunned by my outburst, but I don't back down. I stand strong, with my head held high.

"I don't need time to 'heal' at all! I'm not sad because Rosie died, and we all know it wasn't a fucking accident! Lets be honest with ourselves here!" I exclaim, running frustrated hands through my hair.

"Skipper, what... what are you talking about?" Daddy says carefully. "You've been crying. For a very long time."

Michael just smiles at me.

"I'm not crying for... him..." I spell it out for them, slowly. "I'm crying because I'm angry with myself. For letting him squeeze the life out of me. For letting him take me away, for letting him ruin three years of my life."

Duff's jaw drops, and Steven stops eating Cocoa Puffs. Even Izzy looks taken aback.

"R-really?" he whispers.

"And the tapes?" I continue, motioning to the television. "I'm just trying to figure out where we went wrong. That's all."

I turn my back and return to my favorite spot at the window-wall. The street lights flash, the people are going nowhere fast. The city is offering me what it can, a sick kind of remedy twisted with sour memories.

"Skipper."

"You all can go now," I tell them drily.

AAAAAAND WE'RE BACK!!!

Y'all it's been so long!! Let me personally welcome you back to Love Symbol! Did you miss me? I certainly missed you guys, all the hilarious comments and the paddling and the random ship names and hashtags.

LETS TAKE A LS REFRESHER COURSE SHALL WE?

Skipper is currently 20ish years old, almost 21. She's Prince's daughter, and kinda annoying but y'all already know that.

MICHAEL is two years older and hella mean. 'Nuff said.

There was a hospital, and Skipper and Michael were doctors.

There was lots of talking to the characters and lots of paddle scenes. Where we left off, they were in California and Michael was with Diana, and there was no hope and a six-month long cliffhanger...

BUT I'M HERE AND I AIN'T LEAVING!

Let's take an initial poll here--

ALL THOSE FOR #MIPPER COMMENT HERE

ALL THOSE FOR #SLIPPER COMMENT HERE

There will be another update before you can blink ;)

(and make sure to spread the word... love symbol's back).

LOVE Y'ALL BYE