~The Izzy Cam~ (If anyone is confused by these, they're just brief views into the future of the story. Some are years in the future, others aren't).

Skipper could no longer feel her limbs as she stood before the television set, and her heart was truly touched by what she was seeing.

She didn't much like the sensation at all, being a surgeon- the only exception, perhaps, was the bedroom. She didn't like it when others had the slightest control over her emotions, but as life went on, and especially in her line of work, she found that the feeling was inevitable.

She heard the door behind her gently swing open, but she did not move. She knew who it was judging only from his gait, so she remained still.

Slash approached informally, and stood closely behind her. Very closely behind her, close enough that every time he drew breath his chest pushed into her back a little deeper, and that her floral scent drifted lazily to his nostrils with every lungful of air. Skipper's eyes squeezed shut as she felt his hand gently squeeze her waist, which happened to be greatly complimented by her choice of apparel- a tight t-shirt decorated with the band's logo.

She still did not move, though she knew very well what could happen if Axl were to see.

"What're you watching?" Slash whispered gently in her ear. When her only response was heavy breathing, he glanced up at the television's low-definition screen, and gasped quietly. "Oh..."

"They've started a quilt," Skipper's voice shook with emotion as she spoke. "An AIDS memorial quilt. There's a... a movement called 'ACT UP' that's been organizing all these parades, and rallies... and I just found out about the quilt today." She sighed pitifully, and covered her eyes with her hands.

"Curls-" "They fight for what they believe in, even though millions of people still treat them like trash. They have a disease. Did you hear about that boy who got expelled from his school last year because he had HIV? He was heterosexual, and contracted the disease from tainted hemophilia treatments!" She was angry now, chest heaving, but she still couldn't bring herself to remove Slash's hand. He'd pulled her closer, and listened carefully.

"They get beaten in the streets! They make themselves vulnerable every day, and broadcast their lives to the world. They... they fight for the cure. And I don't give it to them. I... I am supposed to give it to them, but I'm a neurosurgeon. I discovered it, but I'm a neurosurgeon. I don't even research anymore, because where am I? In California on the set of a goddamn music video! They fight... and I watch. I'm practically useless!"

"Curly, you're being ridiculous. Think about the hope that you've given so many people with the research you have done. Think about the sick people you've inspired with your work, and the doctors who look up to you. You've done more for them than any other. Four years ago, people would've called you a fucking quack. Think about AZT, the drug that you formulated to treat them. They owe you their lives. Not to mention that you're allowed to have a life too."

His calm words never hesitated to pacify her. She allowed the breath she was holding to escape her lungs, and she nodded once. "I guess you're right, again. But I still have work to do."

"And you will, soon." She was resting her full body weight against him now, so when the door swung open again there was nothing she could do to hide their controversial position.

Duff stood in the doorway with widened eyes, and immediately tried to look somewhere else. Acting on impulse, Skipper wrenched herself out of Slash's grip, and rushed to the door. "I... I'm gonna go find Rosie," she whispered shamefully, and left without looking back.

****

Michael's POV

I was a fucking mental patient.

Everything was going to be fine with me and Skip, until a tidal wave of jealousy appeared out of nowhere, and washed away my life, along with everything I ever promised her. In other words, Diana washed me all the way back to Gary, and made me out to be the douche bag who leaves his girl for his ex.

I never wanted to go, but I didn't have a choice, unless I wanted to rot in prison for the rest of my young life. When three years' time had passed, I was forced to propose, and in exchange, I was allowed to see Skip. It's so damned excruciating, watching her prance around with five horny band freaks, knowing that eventually one of them will get her drunk enough to be able to jump her bones.

Except for the fuzzy-headed one, he seems trustworthy.

Every breath I took during those three years, every thought I had, every meal I ate, every song I wrote, it all revolved around the moment in which we would reunite, and Diana would somehow be out of the picture, and everything would be just like before I left. Being a hostage of sorts, I had no one to share the feelings with, and many years of seclusion took care of that temper of mine that caused Skip so many problems. I was forced to carry on, focus on the music, all for that bitch Diana.

My tutor was the only one who kept me alive, and the medicine was the only thing powerful enough to keep my attention.

When I returned, things were muddled, she's been confused by the ever-growing collection of men who all seem to want her, and I can't fucking escape my psychotic fiance.

Every time I see her I imagine holding her soft cheeks in my palms, brushing the stray hair out of her face, and planting a million soft kisses over her warm skin. Instead, when I see her-which becomes even more minimal as time passes- we pretend to be 'friends,' we talk about trivial things, all to avoid the painful reality that there's no real way we could be like before, and that I've squandered my only shot. She has far too much love in her heart anyways, and too many potential people to share it with.

Even thinking about her now, with Diana beside me in bed- it gives me a raging hard-on, which Diana eventually notices.

Her slender form rolls over beneath the thin sheets and she stares at me in the dark of my bedroom, wearing a suggestive smile. I remember when I used to share the same bed with Skipper- there was no way we'd be going to sleep at ten o'clock, our lovemaking would be just beginning. She ruined everything, my conscience reminds me every time I'm burdened with gazing upon Diana's face.

Or, I did.

"Someone's excited," Diana grunts, in a debacle of an attempt to be seductive. I stiffen uncomfortably as her hand slides down my chest and dips into the waistband of my boxers, and give her an indifferent glance. This, by far is the worst part of the situation.

She swings her gangling legs over my body and straddles me in one fluid movement, giggling as she places her hands flat against my chest. I'm soft in seconds.

She rides me anyways, while I screw my eyes shut, pretending her bony face is Skipper's lively one, that her bony body is Skipper's curvy one. Pretending that I'm seventeen again, and Skipper isn't somewhere else with some other man, saying 'I love you.'

And every minute that passes is one less minute in which I have the slightest chance of ever winning her back.

Skipper's POV

Out for blood, yes- that's a good phrase to describe the raging torrent of anger pent up inside of me.

I've never been inside of a tour bus before, but it was very obvious once I stepped outside of the huge thing, into a parking lot of many just like it. The only distinguishing marks were the band's logo of course; other buses bore the insignias of other bands- Poison, Mötley Crüe, among others.

I look around the confusing maze wildly, and wonder where the hell the rest of the band went. The half-moon shines brightly, illuminated in the black inky sky. The stars are just cold pinpoints far in the distance, doing nothing to light to pitch-black area around me. "Hey, doll! Wait a sec!" I hear Izzy still inside the bus, and disregard him.

How in the hell could they just take me from my job? I rage to myself as I blindly feel my way through the dark, trying my hardest not to inadvertently turn myself around. The Hamptons, they brought me to the fucking Hamptons for a rock festival.

I cannot say I'm surprised.

Standing on tip-toes in an attempt to see over the crowns of the buses, I spot glaring light in the distance, emanating from an impossibly tall building, far in the distance. It appears to be a casino, judging from the bright lights and faint music floating toward me. How I could have missed that, I don't know.

Still boiling and irate, I start toward the light. I don't realize I'm barefoot until my feet sink into a cold weed-like substance, which I classify as grass upon kneeling down to examine it.

Before I can straighten up, something runs into me from behind, knocking me ass-first to the ground.

"Ow!" I groan, straining to see who the hell the culprit is. I suspect Izzy, but when no profuse apologies follow, I know it couldn't be.

"Watch where the fuck you're going," says a gruff voice to my great annoyance, since whoever this was ran into me in the first place. "I think you should take your own god damned advice!" I snap right back, brushing a few stray sprigs of grass off of my knees.

"Bitch." The voice grumbles, and his footsteps swish through the grass toward the casino.

"Hey wait!" I call a second later, "I know your voice! I..." He's farther away now, but I hear his footsteps cease. He says nothing.

"You're... you're Jon Bon Jovi, aren't you? I love your music!" There is a quiet scoff, and the swishing footsteps are quicker and more urgent until they disappear all together.

I pull myself up off of the ground in a huff, and start again toward the casino. Some people are assholes for no apparent reason, especially rock stars.

I push Jon out of my mind and focus on the task at hand-getting my ass back to New York City as fast as I can. It's an eternity before I finally reach the stupid casino, which is bustling with life. It's shoulder-to-shoulder traffic by time I'm in the vast parking lot, filled to the brim with rock fans of all ages, flashing cameras and the occasional paparazzo.

Somehow, I manage to push through into the capacious lobby, which is just as lively-if not more-than the parking lot. I wrap my lab-coat around my disheveled black scrubs, avoiding eye-contact with anyone who passes. It's not hard to recognize the A-list band members milling about the place, and let's just say it's easy for me to get sucked in to all the pretty faces and thick biceps.

The smell of burning tobacco and alcohol is thick, a huge fountain in the center of the room squirts and sprays intricate water designs. A beautiful mural is painted on the tall ceiling, and generally, the place seems a bit too classy for it's inhabitants. It is the Hamptons, after all.

After a bit of confused searching I finally spot them, standing in a lopsided oval beside the fountain, across the way. MTV is interviewing them, as they frequently enjoy doing so.

I push my way through the throngs of people with a new vengeance, relentlessly throwing bystanders out of the way. Bile rises up the back of my throat, which is extremely difficult to swallow down. The more I think through the extent of what they've done to me, the angrier I become, not to mention the way my tailbone aches from being thrown into the dirt.

"William Bruce Rose!" I shriek as I storm up to them. Duff turns and fear sprouts and blooms in his hazel irises. "Oh shit..." The MTV news anchor stops talking to Rosie, who wears a kind smile and bright eyes. It irritates me even more as I approach, fists clenched at my sides.

"Hey, girly!" Steven pipes up happily, swaying and leaning against the fountain. I don't think I've ever talked to Steven while he isn't high.

And then there's the ghost of Slash. I call him a ghost because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, both of his eyes shielded behind curtains of hair. He turns sideways, attempting to look in any other direction, as long as I'm not in his line of view.

That stings a little.

I decide to push him out of my mind once more, and glower at Rosie.

"Hey, what's up?" Rosie says informally.

"What's up? What's up?" I rage, and Duff cringes. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I swear he made us do it!" he immediately concedes, tugging at the sleeve of my lab coat.

"You stole me away from my fucking job! I had a meningioma resection, a huge one! I told you that I was done hanging around, I actually have a god damned job to do! I am the Chief of Surgery at a hospital, I cannot take off work for a damned rock festival!"

Rosie considers this quietly, while the MTV camera man zooms in on my face. "Meningiomas are relatively slow-growing tumors. The patient will be fine, you'll only be here a couple of days."

"You don't know that! Take me back, right now!"

He dramatically sucks in air through his teeth, and takes a long drag from the cigarette between his fingers. "Yeah, about that," he says, expelling the smoke through his nose. "That's not exactly possible. We've got shit to do before the shows, we can't drive all the way back to the city."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Stay here with us," Rosie grins, crossing his arms proudly. "I have no clothes!"

"Wear some of mine."

"You have a solution for everything, don't you? I'm done hanging around, so you and these... these losers decide to kidnap me, huh? Knock me out?"

Rosie's grin widens as he taps the end of his cigarette and the ashes float down into the pool of water below the fountain. "You were being difficult, so I squeezed the axillary vein in your elbow, which leads into the carotid, which temporarily cut off oxygen to your brain. You passed out."

"I know, I'm not a freaking intern!" I spit, out of things to say.

"You're here, and you're not going anywhere. Get used to it."

"I fucking hate you." "I know."

Duff stares at me warily, and out of frustration I grab a plug of skin from his arm and twist it forcefully. "God, woman!" He flinches, and stumbles back a few inches. "You people are terrible." I grumble.

"You've made that pretty clear." A quiet voice growls. I only realize it belongs to Slash after he has disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to glower in his wake.

"Oh... right." Rosie says, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's... still happening, whatever that is."

"Like you didn't know." I retort, and resist the urge to follow.

MICHAEL'S POV IS BAAAAAAAAAAACK!

sorry i just really miss mipper ;)

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