~The Izzy Cam~
Michael was riding on a cloud of ecstasy as he burst back into his dressing room, tripping over himself to find the duffle bag containing his street clothes. He dumped them out onto the floor, and began filling the bag with necessities for the night ahead of them. Perhaps he and Skip would just... hop on a plane tonight, and visit someplace. Las Vegas or Chicago, and put themselves up in a fancy hotel.
There they would have the chance to really reconnect, just... lay around for a while, have sex until they tired of it, if that was possible. She could be his again, and he would be hers, just when he thought all hope was lost. To Slash, he told himself, he owes his sanity.
The door hinge squeaks, revealing an unnaturally tall woman standing in the doorway. "Michael! I was supposed to walk ages ago, what the hell do you call yourself doing?" He spun on his heel, completely prepared to tell her off, when he noticed the photograph in her hand. "What's... that?"
"Della? You know, my sister? The one you mur-" "I know which she is," Michael snapped, he'd seen Delano around the place. While considerably older now, her presence still really gave him the creeps. "I would've wanted her to be my maid of honor," Diana seemed to glare at him with all the worst intentions. "But she can't be. Because she's gone."
"Diana listen, I can't-"
"So you'd better get out there, pretty boy," Diana continued, while Michael was certain that he was staring into the eyes of the devil himself... or herself, apparently. "That is, unless you want the whole world to know what you've done."
He didn't care anymore, as long as he had Skip, so he thought. But it's hard to deny the devil, when you're staring right at her. "But-"
"Now." She demanded. Michael considered making a run for it, but before he could move, she wrenched him by the ear. "Follow me." She dragged him from the room kicking and screaming. There was nothing poor Michael could do.
****
Skipper's POV
I dip my body sponge back into the bowl of cold water, and lethargically draw it across Slash's forehead.
He is the physical manifestation of what I feel inside. Cold, shaking, and using his words only, 'like a bag of shit.' I gave him a dose of acetaminophen, and tried to focus my efforts on healing him, but there's only so much I can do without a full workup, and frankly- my feelings are extremely distracting.
So I attempt to break Slash's fever the old fashioned way, with a sponge and cold water, because it's all I can bring myself to do. I can't take him to the hospital, I can't address the fact that the fever is burning right through the Tylenol, I can only stare into his cotton eyes, try not to give into them, and re-soak the sponge in the water.
"Are you tired yet?" Slash croaks, letting out a few stray coughs afterward. "No. Don't try and talk, save your strength for when I can get you to the hospital tomorrow." He shakes his head, and when I meet his eyes again, they're deadly serious. I attempt to place the sponge on his forehead again, but he pushes my arm away, pulling himself into a sitting position.
"Lie back down, you need to-"
"Are you tired yet?" I groan, throwing the sponge back into the bowl of water on the coffee table. He faces me on the couch, studying me with absolute irritation.
"Tired of what, Slash?"
He glowers at me for the longest time, and I can literally see the gears turning in his head, working, forming what he wants to say. It's a long time before he utters them, I guess because there's so much he wants to say that he can't get it out.
