FicWad

The door clicks closed behind me, Sid's words to Nancy still ringing in my ears as I walk to the elevator, the guitar case threatening to fall from my trembling fingers as I quickly rearranged my clothing to make me more presentable for the public eye.
Was this all a mistake, then? What did seeing him again really accomplish? Nothing's really changed about him; he's still the same Sid Vicious he always was. He was still surly, standoffish, full of strange ideas and impulses . . . vicious. Maybe it's best that he's alone now. The sort of isolation he's in now isn't something I would wish on anyone, but . . . when he isn't staring moodily out the window, he seems happy.
Not even when we’re in bed together does he seem truly happy.
I'm fooling myself, of course. His shut-in lifestyle isn't what makes him glow; it's her. His love was almost a halo around his head when he was on the phone with her. I could feel it.
I'd be lying if I said it doesn't still hurt. As I thought about it, I felt tears come to my eyes. I lay under him only five minutes ago, arms wrapped around his back and the both of us moaning with pleasure. I felt one with the famous rocker that I knew since we were in diapers . . . that is until the Goddamned phone rang.
He had picked up the phone and it was that damned Nancy. Right when he heard her voice, I felt like he kicked me out of his hotel room. Everything stopped. His thrusting stopped, his eyes no longer looked at me with the look that seemed that he was seeing and thinking of only me . . . it hurt.
So I pushed him off me and set to putting my clothes back on. He didn’t even notice.
By the time I had my skirt on, he finally noticed but I grabbed my shoes and guitar case and was out the door before he could say anything.
It's hard sometimes, not fixating on the old days like everyone else did, before Sid-and-Nancy. When we were Sid-and-Adele, the head and heart of a musical monster. When it was the two of us, rather than . . . whatever we are now.
I may have the biggest acting and modeling contract in both Great Britain and France now, but everywhere I go, it's never really about me; it's about what we once were. He accused me of wanting to return things to the old ways, but can I be faulted? It's not only the fans who wonder, sometimes, if we really aren't separate entities at all, but parts of a whole, forever destined to be Sex Pistol Sid and Super Model Adele. The punk-ish pixie hair cuts have grown out, boots with buckles are long gone, but we still remain, severed limbs of a single breathing entity.
"You're the only thing that keeps me from disappearing," he said into the phone, and in that moment, I ceased to exist for him. People blame Nancy for what happened, for being more important to Sid than anything else, but really, in the end, it doesn't matter who it was. It could have been anyone.
It only matters that it wasn't me.