Michael's POV

Watching from afar, I wait for him to enter the bar.

I don't really know too much about Slash, but one thing's for fucking sure-- he likes to keep to himself. Why else would a grown fucking man go out drinking on his own?

Actually, I know two things. He keeps to himself, and there's something in him Skipper loves. The latter of which I've gotta squash as soon as possible.

When the "spark" between them first appeared, I took a whole fucking lot of time trying to figure out what was so special about him, something beyond all that damn hair and the guitar skills. I honestly still don't like the way he treats her- he's gotta assert some kind of authority, and he never does.

I sigh and trudge after him into the poorly lit bar. I wonder why he chose to travel all the way down here for this fucking dump, it's the same as any other trashy joint in the city. I stand by the cigarette smoke clouded door and watch Slash take a seat, ordering a glass of Jack.

I just watch him for a while, trying to figure out why he'd come here. He's not really looking at or for anyone, just leisurely downing his glass of whiskey and smoking a Marlboro.

When I'm fed up with this shit fest, I walk up and sit on the bar stool right beside him. He looks at me for a second and hardly moves.

I stare at him hard. "What are you doing here?"

He takes a sip of his drink and pushes it forward so the bartender can refill it.

"What the fuck do you mean? You just sat next to me. I'm having a drink and minding my business."

I roll my eyes and shake my head, irritated. "No, you fucktard. I meant what the hell are you still doing in New York? Last time I checked, you live in a place called California. Rose is dead and gone. I'd think there's nothing left for you here."

He looks at me hard through a curtain of curly hair. His eyes are solid and dark.

"Why do you care?"

I ask the bartender for a vodka soda.

"It seems to me that all your loose ends are tied. Skip... she's been barricaded in the hospital for three days straight. She isn't seeing anyone, if you're not counting the stream of brain tumors."

I look at him sideways to guage his reaction at the mention of her. Much to my annoyance, he does nothing but puff his cigarette.

A few seconds go by. "Why this bar?"

At first his shoulders tense, and he seems defensive. His eyes drift to a corner booth, past the drunken blonde dancing to Van Halen by the jukebox and all the drunken losers watching her. The booth is empty, but it seems he's very focused on something.

"I... I met her here."

A sinister grin overcomes me. "Skip?"

He frowns a little. "Yeah. She... she was just too perfect looking, and at first I resented her for it. Figured someone like her had to have some negative feature." He takes a long drink of whiskey. "I was wrong."

My hand tenses around my vodka glass. I have him now. "Oh, yeah?"

"She's... she's just so..." for a second he looks lost, and a whisper of a smile begins to appear. Quick as a flash it's gone, and he's staring into his empty glass. "But that's in the past."

My grin grows even wider. "You don't love her anymore?"

Wow, this was easier than I thought. I had to make sure that no one was in the way of me and Skipper's reunion, and Slash was the only real obstacle. The other losers in Rose's band were far beneath her, and no one else matters. Now all that's standing between us is her inability to see the inevitable.

"Feelings never change."

I'm snapped out of my reverie. "Fuck, what?"

He has a full glass again. His eyes don't move from it. "I've never stopped feeling the way I felt about her before, and nothing can change that. I always will, it's just a fact. The sky is blue, Jack Daniel's is white-trash whiskey, Curly will always attract more men than she can handle-- including me. Just how it is."

Anger immediately sparks in my chest as he lights another cigarette. With that anger comes the heat of competition.

"So you think you can win her? That's what you're here for?" I scoff as if it's the most ridiculous notion I've ever heard.

His eyes narrow defensively. "She's a person, Michael," he responds shortly. "She can't be 'won'. And no... I'm not here for that. I gave up on persuing her a long time ago."

That quells the anger a little bit, but the desire to best him only grows. I certainly don't hate the guy, but I know that in the game of Skipper's heart, I'll always win. He needs to know that.

"Yeah, it's probably for the best," I add casually, leaning against the counter and sipping the vodka soda. "I mean... Skipper's a complicated woman. She really is a woman now, and she... filled out nicely. Takes quite a man to handle all that, keep her where she needs to be. Should've figured you weren't up for that."

His eyes dart quickly to mine. "You don't need to keep her anywhere, she's grown."

"I know she is, just look at her. So fucking hot, right? I'm just saying that she needs... a real man. I just don't think that's you."

He sits up quickly, clear-eyed and angry now. "We were best friends for a long time, Michael. When everyone was neglecting her, I took care of her. I had her, and she was fine, perfectly satisfied. Don't you fucking tell me I wouldn't be enough."

I grin cruelly. "Key word being friends. She never wanted you like that."

"That isn't true." He struggles to keep his voice calm. "We talked about it."

I yawn and shrug. "Things change. She's moved on to greener pastures. Manlier men."

He glares at me now. "And you really think she wants you right now, after Axl just... after she's just been freed? You're just like him, man... so controlling. She doesn't want to be restricted right now, she just wants some liberty."

"And how would you know what she wants?"

"I know her better than anyone on this fucking planet," he snaps. He stands, just an inch or two taller than me. "And I know that the last thing that she needs right now is you."

Now I'm pissed again. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he asserts, slamming his hands down against the counter. "So back the hell off of her."

It's annoying how protective he gets when she's mentioned, as if she ever belonged to him.

"Never," I retort smartly. "She's mine."

"Fuck that," he growls, stamping out his cigarette. "And what I said before... she needs me now more than ever, and I'm gonna be there for her. I'm gonna make sure no one ruins her for a second time, including you."

I smile wryly. Maybe this is what I wanted, to really best him.

"May the best man win."

He finishes his final glass of whiskey.
"This isn't a game. But you'll be sorry."

He leaves the bar coolly, never looking back once.

Skipper's POV

If you're lost you can look and you will find me... time after time...

My scalpel moves to the smooth synthesizer beat of Cyndi Lauper, over and over again. Slice after slice. I wonder how many times this song has come on the boombox, the nurses are starting to look a little irritated. Oh well.

If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting... time after time...

I look up at the gallery. The usual crowd is there watching me perform a Sagittal Sinus repair on a two year old. Or was that yesterday? Nonetheless, the clueless interns are watching while alternating suspicious glances at Michael, Daddy, Duff, Izzy and Steven.

Michael mouths the lyrics. I glare at him.

They're waiting for me to come out. They're waiting for me to break down, profess my tender feelings and admit to missing him. The Axl Rose that left this world wasn't the one I'd come to know, so maybe I do miss him. The old him.

But I won't give in to what they want. There's honestly nothing to give.

It's like they want me to be damaged goods, even more so than I already am.

There are hushed whispers. They're talking about me as if I'm not here, holding someone's life in my hands. Like I'm just a fifteen year old girl in over her head at boarding school, caught in a grown man's spider web of delusional 'love'.

After my picture fades and darkness has turned to grey...

Quiet quickly settles over the room. Everything is quiet but the sound of heavy boots on linoluem, entering the gallery. A dark shadow sits in the farthest corner, leaning forward on his hands, and watching me closely.

Michael glares at Slash, seemingly surprised.

Duff follows Slash's intense gaze from the gallery window to my face. For the first time in a long time, he cracks a smile. An old smile. A familiar, knowing smile.

Watching through windows, you're wondering if I am okay...

I return my attention to the open brain on the table, and remember when it belonged to Moonsie. I remember when I could look across the table from me and see two happy green eyes, watching me expertly execute teachings. Now there is nothing, and I insist upon working alone.

Secrets stolen... from deep inside...

I turn my back to the gallery and try to settle in, but it's no use. I'd just gotten used to the piercing glances of the rest of them, but Slash's is always different. So thoughtful and kind, always leaving room for me to be myself and make my own choices.

I swallow down the sentiment and furrow my brow.

The drum beats out of time...

***

I am surprised to look up at the end of my twelfth or thirteenth straight surgery and see that the gallery is completely empty. A pang of disappointment rattles through me as I see my shadow of understanding has left with them.

I shake that off and scrub out as quickly as I can, hoping to make a break for the Chief's office. My... office.

I throw open the doors, forgetting completely that the place has been cleaned out. I feel a mixture of relief and sadness when I come into the room of white walls and boring shelves. No records, no posters, no cold reminders of what used to be.

Only my Nobel Prizes hiding in the corner, on the shelf below my Board Certification.

I don't know how I feel as I go to them, cold hunks of metal carrying no more meaning. My name is engraved in gold on these statues, but if they were stolen I wouldn't bat an eye. I turn them over in my hands, thinking bitterly of how they've been overshadowed by him, his wants, his accomplishments...

No longer.

There's a soft knock on my door.

I only know of two people who might consider knocking before coming into someone else's space. Neither of the two are Michael.

I don't turn to look.

"It's been a while, but I swear your office was a lot different the last time I was here."

My heart jumps into my throat and suddenly the Nobel Prize feels a lot heavier and clumsier in my hands. I put it sloppily back on the shelf and turn, forcing myself to look at Slash.

"They... took the posters off and... they put the records in storage. They're... accessible."

These are the first words I have spoken to him in three years.

His eyes close when I begin to speak, but other than that he doesn't seem fazed. He drifts toward and empty shelf and stares at it, caressing the splintering old wood and sighing.

"Not a lot left here, if you don't mind me saying so."

Something's overcoming me. I remember the days after we kissed, after his feelings for me were out in the open, glaringly obvious. They weren't going anywhere. He sat on the edge of this desk and smiled at me, so insistent. He only ever was when it came to me.

I remember him that day. I look at him now and wonder what's changed.

Maybe I don't want it to change.

"There used to be," I begin, drifting toward the shelf myself. "This city used to draw me in with every part of it's being. The glamour of freedom and medicine beckoned me constantly, but now... medicine's eyerywhere. At least mine is."

He looks at me seriously. "I'm sorry."

"Slash, don't. There's nothing to be sorry for."

He turns toward me, giving me one of his signature knowing looks.

"You know me. I'd tell you if I was really hurting. But I'm not, okay? I can't have you tiptoeing around me like the rest of them."

His gaze drops down to his feet for a second, and he nods slowly. "Alright, I trust you."

Pleasure radiates through me. I can't help but smile. "Good."

I run my finger along the dust that seems crusted to the wood. I wrack my brain for something to say to him, I don't really know why but... I don't want him to leave. The silence isn't really uncomfortable, it never is.

"So... what're you gonna be up to for say... the next couple months?"

I raise my eyebrows and look up at him. He won't look at me directly now. "Uh... I don't know. I'll probably just be doing surgeries. Trying my hardest to avoid my dad and all that... grief bullshit, you know?" I give a little giggle.

He nods.

"Well, why don't we grab something to eat? Catch up...?"

All of a sudden I'm grinning up at him. "As long as there's no slow dancing and then eventual fighting involved, I'm fine."

His eyes don't change. "Tomorrow night."

I am slightly unsatisfied. "Yeah."

He goes to the door and turns back only once. "Goodnight, Curly."

I shiver once he's gone, remembering the familiar yet so foreign feeling of that name coming from his mouth. I also wonder why he's not jumping on top of me like Michael is, I mean... he wouldn't wanna remain in the friend zone after all that time he spent trying to get out?

Or maybe he's just being considerate. Maybe he plans on just leaving me again, and is only taking me out because he feels bad and wants to be curteous?

A sick feeling washes over me. I really hope that isn't the case.

SORRY ABOUT THE LATE ASS UPDATE Y'ALL

your girl is a lifeguard and it's hella hard getting certified. I'm super tired from all that junk and on top of that, there's finals and a boyfriend who wants attention more than I do. *eye roll*

ANYWAYS THERE YA GO

VOTE AND COMMENT K BYE