~The Izzy Cam~

Across the bar, a shapely young woman with curly hair and light skin embraced an elated man, who shared several of her physical traits.

Jon Bon Jovi was one of the few people who weren't cheering at the sight of the golden guitar, but unlike that minority he wasn't jealous in the least. He was staring at the girl, gripping his whiskey glass like that drink would be his last. She wore a ruffled skirt that barely touched the top of her thick thighs, and a tight shirt that revealed a generous portion of her mid section.

Her type was not Jon's type, but word of her had spread like lightning through the rock world. Everyone was enamored with her, everyone but Jon. He could feel her childish appeal tugging at his heart strings, he almost wanted to go speak with her. But he did not. She was Guns N' Roses' biggest fan, she would never step outside of their realm. Maybe they wouldn't let her anyway, rockets were protective of their groupies- especially the pretty female ones.

"You starin' at that Nelson chick? I tell
you, never would I ever have considered fucking anyone like her... till I saw her. I mean look at those tits man!" Alec, the band's bassist said. Nobody knew of his extreme feelings of jealousy towards Duff Mckagan, whom everyone knew-though he was goofy and slightly dopey- had superior skills at playing the instrument.

"I know. She fascinates me," Jon responded, focusing on her long hair, tumbling in ringlets down her back. "Look! Ha! Rose is fucking jealous." Axl Rose stared at the Nelson girl and Slash together in a never ending embrace, obviously fed up with it. "He wants her too." Jon stated with slight disappointment. "Too much competition." She was probably pleasuring them all, Jon thought with unprovoked irritation.
There was no doubt, but he knew he was still drawn to her.

Rose left, and Nelson pulled away from Slash. She turned, and made eye contact with Jon for a split second. That was enough for Jon to drop is drink, and spill the cold liquid all over his lap. "Fuck," he grumbled, and decided he would steer clear of that damned Nelson whore.

****

Skipper's POV

It's like the scene in a horror movie, that moment when the stupid blonde goes back into the damned deserted house, even though she has a million other options that would all most likely lead to her life being salvaged.

You sit there, screaming at the television set as if the course of the prerecorded nonsense could some how be altered by your anger. The blonde can't hear you. Her scrawny legs carry her into the house where the serial killer is waiting.

I am that stupid blonde, with everyone's words just barely knocking at the edges of my senses. Nothing anyone screams at me can alter my course of action. I hear nothing, I see nothing.

Nothing but Slash's seizing body, writhing wildly and uncontrollably on a gurney in the pit. I walk to him at a snail's pace, my feet seem to have been covered with gooey warm caramel, preventing me from moving as fast as my mind wants me to. My brain is working, telling me which medications to use, but my mouth will not obey.

Push Diazepam. If that does not work, push Lorazepam. If that does not work, Valium. Maybe some Phenobarbital, in case of emergency.

The outside of me wants to fall onto my knees at the sight of him this way. The deep dark ocean of helplessness is something I've involuntarily plunged into many times. On each occasion I learn how to swim and keep afloat above it's violent waves, but only after a period of time has passed.

Slash does not have time, the one thing in the world I cannot buy.

Izzy, Steven, Duff. All screaming at me to do something, but don't they understand that I can't hear them? Screaming at the TV never did the blonde any good.

Their poor faces are the definition of fear, their eyes bleary and clouded from excessive alcohol. They're begging, pleading for me to save him. The nurses wait by his bedside, yelling at me for instruction.

Slash stops seizing. The monitor beside his bed indicates no vascular activity.

And then I remember what happens to the blonde. She goes into the deserted house, and somehow, even though she only weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, she manages to fight off the serial killer. She calls for help, finally. She goes home.

"Asystole!" I bellow at the nurses, and suddenly the caramel is gone. I leap to his bedside, glaring the nurses down with urgency. "Push one of Ephedrine! Get the crash cart, please!" All is quiet now, as everyone waits patiently for me to finish fighting off the serial killer. Death himself has shrouded Slash, and it is up to me to wrench him from it's cold and cruel hands.

"Charge to one-fifty!" I place one defibrillator pad over the left side of his chest, one under his heart. "Clear!"

His body jolts violently, but his eyes do not flutter. "Still in Asystole!" The nurse in charge of the defibrillator machine confirms. "Two hundred!"

I wish desperately that the three band members didn't have to watch.

I shock him again and again, but his eyes do not open, he does not stir. "Come on, Slash, open your eyes!" The paddles slip from my sweat soaked fingers. I can feel myself slipping with ease back into the ever-so-magnetic helplessness, I can feel the last trace of his life slipping away. He's dead. He's gone.

I fucking love you.

I disregarded his words at the time, he probably didn't mean it anyway. Now the words won't leave me alone, the excitement that was laced in his tone, the happiness in his eyes- I caused it. And thinking back on the way he was looking at me, maybe he did mean it, the way a stubborn brother concedes to his sister.

"You're not gonna fucking leave me, I swear to god!" I pound one of my fists over his heart, as a young boy would do trying to imitate Mr. Miyagi or break a brick with his bare hand.

Slash's body jolts again, but not from electricity this time.

I feel like crying, laughing, and screaming all at once when Slash's wide brown eyes meet mine again, full of life, a bit frightened, but mostly confused. Everything remains still has he struggles to breathe, a quivering hand of his reaching to touch my face. "It happened again, didn't it?" He chokes, as the color slowly returns to his cheeks.

"Slash," I whisper weakly, leaning over the bed to get closer to him. I can barely breathe. He was gone, and now he's not.

"Relax, Curls. I'm here now."

It takes all of me not to succumb to a fit of violent crying, as the whole O.R rejoices with applause and whooping. A million hands are patting me on the back, a million voices congratulating me for my being a calm man in a storm, for knowing just what to do, for preventing my mortality rate from getting any higher.

I stare numbly at Slash as he greets his shocked band members, assuring them that he is alive and well. Steven also looks like he might shed a few tears, having been in Slash's shoes several times.

Steven seizes. Sometimes he codes. I save him with a heroin antidote every time.

Slash returns his gaze to me. "Thanks for saving my life, Curly. Now could I have some water? Dying sucks all the fucking moisture out of you."

"You fucking... cunt!" I search for the most vulgar word I can think of, angrily spewing words at him as my own father had done to me days before.

Both his eyebrows raise in surprise, but he does not react with anger. "So now she's mad at me for dying. Great."

"No! I'm pissed as hell, and done! I'm done associating myself with... druggies!" Now he is really surprised, scoffing and pushing some of his sweat-soaked hair away from his clammy face. I am aware that the whole hospital is watching, and he must be too, the way his eyes shrink back and dart rapidly around the room.

"Curly, I think you'd better-"

"Don't 'Curly' me! Steven comes in here several times a fucking week, dying from self-inflicted symptoms, and now you! You? I thought you were a good person, but here you are, shooting up just like... like him?" I point at Steven for emphasis. He stands there with shame clinging to his features, avoiding eye contact with everyone. His usual happiness seems to have been siphoned by the circumstances.

Slash says nothing. He is expressionless.

"There are real sick people here, Slash! People who are gonna die, and they didn't do it to themselves! I can't save them, and they didn't ask for it!"

"Skipper! It isn't what you think!" Duff interjects, staring at me with wide and pleading eyes. He clamps a hand on my shoulder, "If you'd just listen for a moment-"

"You can rest here for a few hours. As soon as you're okay, I want you out." My voice has lowered to a dangerous growl. I shrug Duff off violently, and he scoffs in response.

Maybe my father was right. Slash is similar to me in so many ways. He was what I needed, a clearing in the dense jungle of desire, someone who could look at me in the eyes while speaking to me, instead of in my chest or hips. Someone who thought of me for my personality, and not my physical appearance. Someone far too intelligent to believe in the hysteria and glamour surrounding narcotics. To find out that he isn't is heartbreaking, and it hurts me even more than it could ever hurt him to see what we had dissipate before my eyes.

Slash somehow manages to prop himself up into an upright position, staring at me with a cold and unfamiliar expression. "Alright. I'll go now." He simply says, disregarding my entire speech.

"Skipper! It isn't what you're thinking, he has-" Slash silences Duff with a hand, helping himself off of the bed. He stands strong, as if he wasn't dead five minutes ago. Duff grumbles and crosses his arms, whispering urgently to Izzy. Izzy's bright eyes are sad, all touches of worry having melted away.

"Are there any papers I need to sign?" Slash asks politely, as if I were an attendant in a grocery store, a stewardess on a plane. Any stranger you're obligated to be civil to, unless you want screwed up service. Again I feel the urge to cry; even if I'm sending him away I want him to want to stay.

"No." I respond harshly. "You were never officially admitted, so you can just go." I spit, meaning the exact opposite.

I want so desperately for him to promise never to do it again, never to go near another needle. I want him to beg for my forgiveness, I want him to vow to change for me.

He doesn't. He picks up his top hat from where it must have tumbled to the floor, and walks toward the exit without another word. The crowd parts for him, and regroups once he is gone.

He should have at least put up a fight. I've never seen him angry.

Duff groans, staring at me like he wants to say something. He doesn't. The three of them follow Slash out, and everyone returns to what they were doing before.

I slowly trudge back to my office, all at once feeling terribly exhausted, angry, sad, and most of all, humiliated. He acted like we'd never met before, like he didn't care about me at all. It was like that first night in the bar, when we didn't know each other. At least then he was willing to talk to me.

****

"He's torn up, I'm telling you." Michael says again, running a hand through his mop of loose curls with a serious glance. "Nobody's seen him for days. They say he's holed up in his hotel room."

He must really hate me, he hasn't gone back to his hotel room in weeks. He said my couch was far more comfortable than any hotel bed, and my food tasted better.

"Yeah right. You should've seen it, man. You should've been there. He walked right out! He had just died, but he still walked away from me like he hadn't. He hated me."

"You're being ridiculous. You're basically his world, he doesn't hate you." Michael says, and I desire to believe every word he says. I also want him to prevent Slash and I from making up. A big part of me wants him to kiss me instead, and say nobody else matters, because I am his world, and his alone.

He doesn't, his wedding is soon anyway.

"He knows I hate reviving Steven every time he shoots up. I can't be around people like that anymore, Michael. I'm done, and I really mean it this time. The Clan ruined me on that. Even if he didn't hate me, I wouldn't want him back."

"Sure."

I keep looking back in forth, surveying his living room constantly, as if Diana will suddenly appear out of thin air. The couch we're seated on is smack in the center of the room, there's nowhere to hide in the likely event that she does magically materialize.

"She's out shopping, I told you. She won't be back for hours." Michael consoles me for the tenth time, but I still don't feel anything close to confident.

"I also heard he went back to Los Angeles."

Even worse. I drove him away.

The pager attached to my belt beeps, and the tiny screen lights up blue. "Damn it, code blue in the pit. I've gotta run," I explain quickly, springing to my feet.

I'm already halfway to the door when he responds, "Try not to work yourself up about he. He misses you, he'll come around eventually. For now, focus on what matters. Saving lives." He nods his head once for assurance.

Their first fight. :'( They're like a married couple.

I had so many feels writing this chapter, seeing as everyone in the series spontaneously dies all the fucking time.

And sometimes, when I feel generous, I bring them back to life.

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