Guilty
Title: Guilty
Rating: R
Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, substance abuse.
Characters: John Belushi, Cathy Smith, Dan Aykroyd
Summary: "It takes a whole lot of medicine for me to pretend that I'm somebody else"
Notes: A response to the "vacation" challenge, written in approximately 60 minutes. This is a 'what if' look at the last day of John Belushi's life. He's been keeping company with Cathy Smith, who is believed to be responsible for dragging him into the world of intravenous drug use. He makes one lasts attempt to escape with the only person he can turn to in times of crisis - his best friend, Dan Aykroyd.
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Lyrics from "Guilty" by Randy Newman. Lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
Guilty
By Wyndi Tindle, May 2, 2004
"John, what are you doing?" Cathy sat up in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin in a futile attempt to get warm. Why was it always so cold when John was here? She tried to focus on her companion, her eyes still glazed and muddy from her wake-up shot. John was pacing around the room restlessly, in the throes of a manic search.
"Hm?" John turned to fix bleary, red-rimmed eyes on the rail-thin girl in the bed. It was all he could do to concentrate on her voice, so intent was he on his search. "I just gotta find..." He threw open the closet door, yanking out its contents, tossing clothes and boxes alike into a pile in the middle of the room. "I gotta find my bag, dammit!" Cathy furrowed her brow, trying to wrap her drug-addled brain around that thought when John let out a triumphant cry, yanking an olive green duffel bag from the depths of the closet. "This is it! I need this!" He hauled the bag over to the bed, opened it, and began stuffing clothes inside.
Cathy ran a hand through her frizzy, unwashed brown hair. "Where are you going? You got an interview you're supposed to be at or something?" She huffed in frustration as she was met with silence. "John? Please talk to me. What are you doing?"
John ignored her persistent questions, continuing to roam about the room, shoving objects at random into his bag. A windbreaker, a pair of unmatched socks, a tattered Cubs hat. "Where is he?" John glanced around the room. "Where's Lucky?" He began to plow through the bedsheets, shoving the pillows aside before finally locating the object of his panicked searh. It was a green teddy bear that his best friend had won at a carnival in Chicago several years ago. John never went anywhere without it, and he carefully placed the stuffed animal inside the duffel bag.
Cathy groaned and climbed out of the bed, quickly pulling on one of John's baggy sweatshirts, covering up her thin, wasted frame. She staggered over to stand beside John, taking his wrist in her hand. "Johnny, please look at me. Where are you going? Why won’t you tell me?"
John paused his movements long enough to focus on the shivering girl looking up at him. "I gotta get outta here, Cath. I gotta get away. Just for a little while." He swept his arm around the room, indicating the mess. "This is no good for me. If I don't leave right now, I'm gonna die here."
Cathy flinched as if she’d been struck. "You think I'm gonna kill you, John? Is that what you think? I always know how much to give you. Youknow that! I'd never do anything to hurt you. I love you, John!"
He laid his hand across hers where it encircled his wrist. "I know that, baby. I know you'd never do anything deliberately bad. But I can see what's happening here. I... I know how I can get. And I know if I don't leave now, go clear my head for a few days, I'm never gonna leave."
Tears welled up in Cathy's eyes as the meaning behind John's words sank in. She wrapped her arms around him as best as she could, trying to convey the level of terror she felt at the thought of his absence. "But where are you gonna go? Who's gonna take care of you?"
A slight smile curled the corner of John's mouth. "The one place I can go. The one place I've always been able to go." His smile broadened as he freed himself from Cathy's embrace. He walked to the bedside table and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory. The silky smooth voice that answered was like music to his ears.
"Danny? It's John. You got a sec?"
He could practically hear the smile in the other man's words. "For you? Always. What's on your mind?"
"I gotta get away for a few days. Take a little vacation. You up for it?"
Dan didn't even hesitate. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do, buddy. When can I pick you up?"
"Now. The sooner the better."
Dan's soft chuckle caused John’s smile to broaden even more. "You got a destination in mind?"
"Not really. Just... away. Somewhere... not here."
"You got it, pal. See you in twenty. And John?"
"Yeah, Danny?"
"Maybe this time I'll let you drive, if you know what I mean."
John's cheeks were flushed as he replaced the handset, and he was grinning from ear to ear. Dan had never let him down before and he knew this time would be no exception. And the thought of actually being able to call the shots this time... He chuckled again and turned on the bedside radio, tuning it to a local rock station. He cocked his head to the side as James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" ended and a new song began. Hell, even the DJs knew him better than he knew himself. He finished packing in silence, letting the strains of Randy Newman spur him on, solidifying his course of action. Yes, baby, I been drinkin'
And I shouldn't come by, I know
But I found myself in trouble
And I had nowhere else to go
Got some whiskey from the barman
Got some cocaine from a friend
I just had to keep on movin'
‘Til I was back in your arms again
He was dimly aware of Cathy moving around the room behind him, but he didn't know what to tell her. There was nothing he could say to explain why he needed to get away. Nothing that wouldn't hurt, that is. So rather than try to feed her excuses she wouldn't accept, he focused on the radio as he finished packing. Guilty, baby I'm guilty
And I'll be guilty the rest of my life
How come I never do what I'm supposed to do
How come nothin' that I try to do ever turns out right?
You know, you know how it is with me baby
You know I just can't stand myself
And it takes a whole lot of medicine
For me to pretend that I'm somebody else
With a wistful sigh at the song's message, John zipped up his bag, finally turning to look for Cathy. She'd been busy after all, it seemed. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her studded leather belt wrapped around her upper arm, a hypodermic syringe clenched firmly in her teeth. She slapped her inner arm, searching for a usable vein among the many bruises and still-healing scabs.
"Cath..." John reached out numbly, not wanting to watch her, yet compelled in spite of himself not to turn away. It wasn't right that she was getting high without him.
She glanced up at him briefly, her eyes wide and sparkling, before taking the syringe from her mouth and slowly lowering it to her arm. She let out a soft whimper as the tip of the needle pierced her skin and John could already taste the drug in the back of his throat, feel his skin growing warm, even though he wasn't the recipient of the shot. Cathy let the belt fall from her arm as she began to depress the plunger, knowing that John was watching her every move.
John moved to sit next to Cathy on the bed, stroking her hair gently as she completed the ritual. "Why? Why couldn't you wait until I'd left?" Her eyes closed blissfully as the drug hit her system with the force of a freight train and she slumped against him, moaning quietly. John looked at the clock and frowned. It was all so unfair. So fucking unfair.
"There's still enough for you, Johnny," Cathy mumbled, thrusting a clumsy hand between John's legs. "There's always enough for you..."
John let out a resigned sigh as he picked up the belt, turning it over in his hands. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to be coherent when Danny showed up, spend a few days just enjoying the other man's company. Most importantly, he didn't want to be doing smack with Cathy. He told himself this over and over again, giving himself all the best reasons not to sink down any lower than he’d already gotten.
And yet he couldn't stop himself wrapping the belt around his upper arm, cinching it tightly as Cathy smiled and picked up the syringe with sluggish movements, stroking the inside of his own bruised inner elbow, seeking a hungry vein. "I knew you couldn't say no to me, Johnny." She smiled as she brought the needle to his skin, slowly forcing it in. "Nobody takes care of you like I do."
John felt his head swim as Cathy eased the plunger down, prolonging the rush as much as she could. He felt the ocean hit his heart like a head-on collision of sight, sound, and sensation. He felt it flowing inside him, melting his body from the inside out, his eyes pulsing as his vision shrunk to a pinpoint. He felt a burning sensation in his lungs rising up through the back of his throat. He could smell the chemical seeping out through his pores. How could he have been so stupid as to want to leave all this?
Somewhere in the back of his disconnected mind, John was vaguely aware of a loud, insistent knocking at the door. He knew that if he ignored it long enough, it would stop, leaving him to float happily in his own head, riding wave after wave of gentle caresses. Who was he kidding? This was all the vacation he ever needed.
Dan Aykroyd let his arm fall as he stared angrily at the door of Bungalow Number 3. "Dammit, John," he spoke aloud. "How many more times are you gonna do this to me?" He put his shades back on and walked slowly back to his car, shaking his head sadly as he pulled away from the Chateau Marmont and headed home.
Rating: R
Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, substance abuse.
Characters: John Belushi, Cathy Smith, Dan Aykroyd
Summary: "It takes a whole lot of medicine for me to pretend that I'm somebody else"
Notes: A response to the "vacation" challenge, written in approximately 60 minutes. This is a 'what if' look at the last day of John Belushi's life. He's been keeping company with Cathy Smith, who is believed to be responsible for dragging him into the world of intravenous drug use. He makes one lasts attempt to escape with the only person he can turn to in times of crisis - his best friend, Dan Aykroyd.
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Lyrics from "Guilty" by Randy Newman. Lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.
Guilty
By Wyndi Tindle, May 2, 2004
"John, what are you doing?" Cathy sat up in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin in a futile attempt to get warm. Why was it always so cold when John was here? She tried to focus on her companion, her eyes still glazed and muddy from her wake-up shot. John was pacing around the room restlessly, in the throes of a manic search.
"Hm?" John turned to fix bleary, red-rimmed eyes on the rail-thin girl in the bed. It was all he could do to concentrate on her voice, so intent was he on his search. "I just gotta find..." He threw open the closet door, yanking out its contents, tossing clothes and boxes alike into a pile in the middle of the room. "I gotta find my bag, dammit!" Cathy furrowed her brow, trying to wrap her drug-addled brain around that thought when John let out a triumphant cry, yanking an olive green duffel bag from the depths of the closet. "This is it! I need this!" He hauled the bag over to the bed, opened it, and began stuffing clothes inside.
Cathy ran a hand through her frizzy, unwashed brown hair. "Where are you going? You got an interview you're supposed to be at or something?" She huffed in frustration as she was met with silence. "John? Please talk to me. What are you doing?"
John ignored her persistent questions, continuing to roam about the room, shoving objects at random into his bag. A windbreaker, a pair of unmatched socks, a tattered Cubs hat. "Where is he?" John glanced around the room. "Where's Lucky?" He began to plow through the bedsheets, shoving the pillows aside before finally locating the object of his panicked searh. It was a green teddy bear that his best friend had won at a carnival in Chicago several years ago. John never went anywhere without it, and he carefully placed the stuffed animal inside the duffel bag.
Cathy groaned and climbed out of the bed, quickly pulling on one of John's baggy sweatshirts, covering up her thin, wasted frame. She staggered over to stand beside John, taking his wrist in her hand. "Johnny, please look at me. Where are you going? Why won’t you tell me?"
John paused his movements long enough to focus on the shivering girl looking up at him. "I gotta get outta here, Cath. I gotta get away. Just for a little while." He swept his arm around the room, indicating the mess. "This is no good for me. If I don't leave right now, I'm gonna die here."
Cathy flinched as if she’d been struck. "You think I'm gonna kill you, John? Is that what you think? I always know how much to give you. Youknow that! I'd never do anything to hurt you. I love you, John!"
He laid his hand across hers where it encircled his wrist. "I know that, baby. I know you'd never do anything deliberately bad. But I can see what's happening here. I... I know how I can get. And I know if I don't leave now, go clear my head for a few days, I'm never gonna leave."
Tears welled up in Cathy's eyes as the meaning behind John's words sank in. She wrapped her arms around him as best as she could, trying to convey the level of terror she felt at the thought of his absence. "But where are you gonna go? Who's gonna take care of you?"
A slight smile curled the corner of John's mouth. "The one place I can go. The one place I've always been able to go." His smile broadened as he freed himself from Cathy's embrace. He walked to the bedside table and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory. The silky smooth voice that answered was like music to his ears.
"Danny? It's John. You got a sec?"
He could practically hear the smile in the other man's words. "For you? Always. What's on your mind?"
"I gotta get away for a few days. Take a little vacation. You up for it?"
Dan didn't even hesitate. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do, buddy. When can I pick you up?"
"Now. The sooner the better."
Dan's soft chuckle caused John’s smile to broaden even more. "You got a destination in mind?"
"Not really. Just... away. Somewhere... not here."
"You got it, pal. See you in twenty. And John?"
"Yeah, Danny?"
"Maybe this time I'll let you drive, if you know what I mean."
John's cheeks were flushed as he replaced the handset, and he was grinning from ear to ear. Dan had never let him down before and he knew this time would be no exception. And the thought of actually being able to call the shots this time... He chuckled again and turned on the bedside radio, tuning it to a local rock station. He cocked his head to the side as James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" ended and a new song began. Hell, even the DJs knew him better than he knew himself. He finished packing in silence, letting the strains of Randy Newman spur him on, solidifying his course of action. Yes, baby, I been drinkin'
And I shouldn't come by, I know
But I found myself in trouble
And I had nowhere else to go
Got some whiskey from the barman
Got some cocaine from a friend
I just had to keep on movin'
‘Til I was back in your arms again
He was dimly aware of Cathy moving around the room behind him, but he didn't know what to tell her. There was nothing he could say to explain why he needed to get away. Nothing that wouldn't hurt, that is. So rather than try to feed her excuses she wouldn't accept, he focused on the radio as he finished packing. Guilty, baby I'm guilty
And I'll be guilty the rest of my life
How come I never do what I'm supposed to do
How come nothin' that I try to do ever turns out right?
You know, you know how it is with me baby
You know I just can't stand myself
And it takes a whole lot of medicine
For me to pretend that I'm somebody else
With a wistful sigh at the song's message, John zipped up his bag, finally turning to look for Cathy. She'd been busy after all, it seemed. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her studded leather belt wrapped around her upper arm, a hypodermic syringe clenched firmly in her teeth. She slapped her inner arm, searching for a usable vein among the many bruises and still-healing scabs.
"Cath..." John reached out numbly, not wanting to watch her, yet compelled in spite of himself not to turn away. It wasn't right that she was getting high without him.
She glanced up at him briefly, her eyes wide and sparkling, before taking the syringe from her mouth and slowly lowering it to her arm. She let out a soft whimper as the tip of the needle pierced her skin and John could already taste the drug in the back of his throat, feel his skin growing warm, even though he wasn't the recipient of the shot. Cathy let the belt fall from her arm as she began to depress the plunger, knowing that John was watching her every move.
John moved to sit next to Cathy on the bed, stroking her hair gently as she completed the ritual. "Why? Why couldn't you wait until I'd left?" Her eyes closed blissfully as the drug hit her system with the force of a freight train and she slumped against him, moaning quietly. John looked at the clock and frowned. It was all so unfair. So fucking unfair.
"There's still enough for you, Johnny," Cathy mumbled, thrusting a clumsy hand between John's legs. "There's always enough for you..."
John let out a resigned sigh as he picked up the belt, turning it over in his hands. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to be coherent when Danny showed up, spend a few days just enjoying the other man's company. Most importantly, he didn't want to be doing smack with Cathy. He told himself this over and over again, giving himself all the best reasons not to sink down any lower than he’d already gotten.
And yet he couldn't stop himself wrapping the belt around his upper arm, cinching it tightly as Cathy smiled and picked up the syringe with sluggish movements, stroking the inside of his own bruised inner elbow, seeking a hungry vein. "I knew you couldn't say no to me, Johnny." She smiled as she brought the needle to his skin, slowly forcing it in. "Nobody takes care of you like I do."
John felt his head swim as Cathy eased the plunger down, prolonging the rush as much as she could. He felt the ocean hit his heart like a head-on collision of sight, sound, and sensation. He felt it flowing inside him, melting his body from the inside out, his eyes pulsing as his vision shrunk to a pinpoint. He felt a burning sensation in his lungs rising up through the back of his throat. He could smell the chemical seeping out through his pores. How could he have been so stupid as to want to leave all this?
Somewhere in the back of his disconnected mind, John was vaguely aware of a loud, insistent knocking at the door. He knew that if he ignored it long enough, it would stop, leaving him to float happily in his own head, riding wave after wave of gentle caresses. Who was he kidding? This was all the vacation he ever needed.
Dan Aykroyd let his arm fall as he stared angrily at the door of Bungalow Number 3. "Dammit, John," he spoke aloud. "How many more times are you gonna do this to me?" He put his shades back on and walked slowly back to his car, shaking his head sadly as he pulled away from the Chateau Marmont and headed home.