Title: River Wide
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, general
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob (still angst, some m/m sex, language)
Rating: NC-17 at this point. Intensity, graphic m/m sex, language. Plus Bob talks much more than normal.
Status: posted here somewhen around 2002
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you don't intend to publish. Behave.
Email address for feedback: Kelandris
Series/Sequel: Sequels "Not Just a River in Egypt" and "Still Not a River"
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too. Or at least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go into rut, and buy all the DVDs at once.
Notes: On the plus side, watching the Sci-Fi channel series "Black Scorpion" has its benefits for slash inspiration--namely, it's too bad to do anything other than occasionally admire the leading character's cleavage and dream up slash. It's bad. Real bad. And it was responsible for this.
Story: Bob needs some time alone so he can figure out how best to handle Jay.


"River Wide"
by Kelandris the Mad


The bar was dim and smoky, the walls painted black. Silent Bob came here for two reasons. First, because he liked the place. It had attitude. It also showed great courage, and he admired that--everyone in the protection racket drank here, and no one got in anyone else's way. Gangbangers and full clan members drank side by side, blacks and skins, punks and goths, even the occasional mob man told jokes and terrible lies and funny stories and bought each other drinks. Molly, the bartender, held that drinking should be social, and the sawed-off under the counter saw to that. He hadn't seen her pull it out more than twice in the last five years, though. One corner of his mouth quirked up--she was as big a fake in her own way as he was in his. Everyone just assumed these things. You didn't say much, you wore old biker's leathers, you kept your hair cut short and you'd been seen to throw knives precisely enough to shave strands of hair in half, everyone assumed you weren't someone to mess with. Or, Bob reflected, turning the thought around, you didn't say much, you wore a leather trench, you knew how to fight in the first place and you'd mastered the art of intimidation--well, you were some kind of badass, weren't you?

Yeah. He was about as threatening as sushi unless someone was hassling Jay. Then he was perfectly willing to stroll over and remove that someone's spine. He was pretty sure no one had yet figured that out, but even if they had, it wouldn't have changed things. He was, after all, generally assumed to be protecting the boy, idiot that he was at times. So it was perfectly acceptable to have that trigger, right?

Right. He counted up the glasses in front of him. Five, six, seven double-shots, glittering prettily under the red neon light. But all, sadly, empty. He needed more, he thought. Wait. What had he been thinking?

Oh, yeah. That other reason he liked the bar. There was no name on the front. You didn't know which door on which to knock, and what to say when the door opened, you didn't get in, simple as that. Only those who knew about it came, which Moll was perfectly happy with. She'd extended the invitation to her place three years before he was of legal drinking age, but she hadn't been overly worried. "You have pretty eyes," she told him, and also told him to drink beer only in her place or she'd remove the nearest protruding bit with her teeth.

Bob believed her, at the time, and it wasn't like he generally drank anything harder than beer, anyway. But tonight, he needed harder. He needed stronger. He needed a lot of harder and stronger and with that thought the why came pouring back, and he raised his hand to catch Molly's attention. When her eyes turned to his, he raised two fingers, tapping the scratched bar surface, trying not to remember.

**"See, Lunchbox?" Jay said. "And you thought I was gay."**

Yeah, well. He'd never thought Jay was gay, exactly. It was more like, he hoped Jay could work it through that tortured head to think liking him was okay. Maybe never as much as Bob liked his personal version of babbling blond--man, did that much love for anyone else exist on the planet anymore?--but something. Something. Some kind of bond that could let him spend the rest of his life looking at that beloved face, listening to those quirky twists of mind, shaking his head whenever Jay said something that just purely baffled him.

Moll sidled over, counting the glasses. She looked up, her grey eyes reflecting a nearly silver sheen in the shadowy light. She ruffled a hand through her short blond hair and leaned over the counter.

"You know, most people I would've cut off at fourteen shots. What makes you think you rate two more?"

Huh. Well, he didn't think he did, actually--he'd probably drunk more than was good for him an hour past. In fact, it was more reflex drinking at this point. Maybe he should just go home. He was pretty sure he could stagger to a bus. In fact--

**"See, Lunchbox?" Jay said. "And you thought--"**

He looked up, his eyes wet, and she turned without another word, grabbing the Tullamore and refilling four of the glasses.

"Okay, bright eyes. But after this you go. I'm calling the cab and you're going home."

He nodded, reaching for his wallet, and she flattened her hand in the air, slicing it horizontally.

"Nope. These four are on the house. Long as it gets you where you need to be, I'm happy. But you wait until after you leave before you throw up, okay? This place doesn't need color that badly."

He smiled weakly at the old joke, and she just shook her head.

"I'm calling that cab. Finish 'em, you're cut off."

Wasn't that the fucking truth...and that was the other thing driving him crazy. Jay, and what he'd said, and what he hadn't said that was worse. He'd watched that face, Jay's face, knowing he was letting things slip, but he'd needed to see his eyes, see the muscles around his mouth jump, see the way he swallowed, the way he hunched against the door, everything.

"I love you," he'd said, and Bob thought he meant it. But everything else in him had said *I'm sorry* at the same time. Which one had he meant more, the first, or the second, or...neither?

Little known fact, he thought, downing the second shot. He could see, a little, into virtually anyone on the planet, gauge a bit of their reaction, parse the body language and know where they were gonna be before they did. Maybe just a few seconds before, but even two seconds counted in a fight. One reason he'd hung around with Jay so long is he could so rarely predict what that boy was gonna do. It wasn't just youth and inexperience, though Bob knew Jay had a ton of experience belying his innocent demeanor at times.

No, it was more that Jay was unpredictable. What he said sometimes matched the body lang, sometimes completely belied it, and this was unfortunately one of those times. He may have meant he loved Bob. Bob would certainly like to think so. But his whole body had said he was sorry, and only his mouth had said love. Only that. Such a small thing, such a small word, but if Jay hadn't meant it...Disaster.

He downed the next shot, looking over at Moll. She shook her head. He shrugged, downing the last shot and sliding off the bar stool. The world tilted a little, but he put one hand firmly on the padded stool top, turning with slow grace, and walked deliberately to the door. By the time he got there, he heard the knock and knew it was the cabbie waiting for whatever fare would step out into the alley.

Why not. Maybe it was time to go home, have this out once and for all, figure out if Jay was telling the truth. If Jay *could* tell the truth where his emotions were involved. He didn't even really hear the cab driver speak, just laboriously climbed into the back of the cab, stating his address as clearly as he could and pushing two twenties through the slot in the safety glass. He must have said something right as the man smiled, nodded, and abruptly took off from the curb, driving at speed out of the dark alley.

Silent Bob, more silent than usual, leaned his head against the cool glass window of the cab, wishing his brain would turn off. It would be so much easier if he could just flick this switch when he wanted some down time, and click!, there it would be, silent in his head. Yeah. But no, he had to drink himself nearly sick, or smoke more weed than he needed, just for a little rest.

No. That was wrong, he thought, sighing. Can't end this night on a falsehood, after all. There were other nights he had completely relaxed and slept deeply, dreamlessly, or at least without dreams he could remember. The nights Jay had gotten unnerved by something and crept into bed with him, or had fallen asleep while he was watching some movie or other, or when he'd been reading poetry and Jay had been listening, head curled on his shoulder. Those nights, yeah. Those had been quiet, peaceful things.

Would those nights continue, he wondered. Or was everything over? Was it all, now, just--

The cab pulled over, and unsteadily, he got out. Amazingly, the cab waited until he'd worked his way up the stairs before pulling away. He snickered, trying vainly to shush the sounds coming out of his mouth. Moll must have said something. Moll must have been worried. Aw, that was sweet.

Three keys didn't fit in the lock, but the fourth one did, and he swung into the living room, hanging on the doorknob. He realized that he was kneeling now, and wondered if he'd fallen down or if he'd just swung inside and this was where he'd ended up. Interesting. Slowly, on his knees, he closed the door firmly, turning the lock when he heard it click closed. Then, still on his knees--it seemed easier--he made for his bedroom door. Halfway there he noticed it was slightly open.

When he got inside, he didn't immediately notice anything was different, being as he was seeing things from a dog's eye view--bed at eye level, ground closer than it should be, the stacks of comic boxes taller than he was. He crawled to his bed, and when he got there, hung both arms on it, laying his head down and looking towards the pillows. How the hell was he going to get off the floor long enough to crawl up on the bed? Negotiating this far had been more difficult than it should have been, and there was the comforter to crawl onto, the feet to slide past, the legs to rearrange into some less bed-filling position before he could lay down...Impossible.

Wait. Silent Bob blinked, looking again. Feet. There were feet in his bed. Long feet. Long Jay feet. He thought about that for a long moment, then got it. Jay was sleeping in his bed.

He shook his head, scratching his beard in puzzlement. Did this mean he was supposed to sleep in Jay's room tonight? No, wait, that wasn't right. Jay's room was Jay's. This was his room. He looked around, nodded until his head hit the comforter again. Yep. This was his room. So why was Jay sleeping in his bed?

Using every scrap of concentration he owned, he rose from the floor, bending over and stepping to the side of the bed. It seemed to take hours, advancing by inches, but he was finally there and sat down, nearly falling off the bed and leaning over Jay to catch himself. He blinked woozily, staring down. Oh, hi there. He blinked again. You're awake.

"Bob?"

Damn, but Jay's voice sounded young. And scared, he realized. If this had been Jay's room, that might have been an issue, but as it was, Jay was the one in the wrong bed. Not that he wasn't willing to remedy that at any time, and throw his bed open to that long hair and those longer legs...wait, stop, go back. Go back to scared.

"S'just me," he said softly. He was inordinately proud of the fact that he hadn't slurred his words that much. Sixteen shots of whiskey hadn't fazed him at all. What had Moll been worried about? Of course, Jay sitting up nearly knocked him off the bed, and only Jay shooting his arms out to catch him had prevented Bob from toppling to the floor.

**Good for you, Jay.** He smiled, stroking the fine hair on the arms that held him. Jay gulped audibly and Bob looked back up, peering at him.

"Zowhy'reyou..." He paused, swallowed, tried again. "Why. Are you. Here?"

Jay gulped again, looking down. When he looked up again Bob's eyes opened wide, wondering if someone had hit fast forward on the universe.

"I, I, you weren't here and I din't know where you were, and I called, I called some people and they had no idea, and I called some other people, and they said sometimes you just went off, you know, sometimes for days, and I got kinda worried, 'cause you know, I'd been a shit earlier, and oh God, Bob, I'm so sorry, I din't mean, I din't mean it, I don't want you to go or you to be upset or you to hate me or anythin'--"

Bob slid a hand up Jay's chest, which cut his words off as if he'd duct-taped the blond's mouth shut. It took a while to work his hand up to Jay's face, and once there, his fingers got distracted with Jay's mouth, caressing the soft curves gently.

"Shut up," he finally said, looking at him. **Just shut up. You say so much and say nothing, and I never know what's real and what's just bullshit you're saying to get a reaction...Wait. No, that's wrong. I know when you're real, I just don't know all the time when you mean the insults and when you're just covering.

**Covering. Covering for what, Jay?** His fingers kept moving over Jay's mouth, and he listened as the blond's breathing changed, altered in pitch, grew strained. Bob's head tilted to one side, suddenly far too heavy to hold up, and he watched as Jay's face leaned in, narrowing his eyes. Then he reared back, pointing at him in the dark. It took everything Bob had not to lean forward and take that accusing finger into his mouth, just to see what would happen.

Fuck it. He leaned forward, licking the pad of the finger delicately, listening to Jay gasp. Then he opened his mouth, swallowing the finger whole, sucking on it, and oh, it was good listening to Jay whimper, it was better than the whisky earlier.

"You're drunk," Jay whispered.

Bob thought about that, feeling his head wobble when he leaned back. Jay's finger slid slowly out of his mouth, and Jay whimpered again. He adjusted his position on the bed, overcompensating when he felt himself falling back, and as a result ended up half in Jay's lap, half face down on the bed. He tilted his head up, realizing at this distance the hairs on Jay's legs were alarmingly visible. Huh, how about that, he wasn't wearing pants. He moved his hand toward Jay, running one finger underneath the elastic band on his briefs. Jay gasped and Bob smiled, running it down along the curve of his ass. He blinked largely. What do you know...he may have something here.

"That would explain the motor skill impairment," Bob said softly. He blinked again, thinking that was kind of fun. He blinked a third time, feeling his eyelashes scrape together, and felt Jay pushing him.

"Bob--fuck, Bob--how much you remember when you're drunk?"

"Everything," he purred, leaning forward and kissing Jay's upper thigh. He curved a hand around the leg he was facing, pulling himself up to waist level, and raising the tee to kiss the smooth skin underneath it. Jay gasped again, and Bob lifted himself up more, leaning forward to kiss Jay's neck, moving up to his ears and listening, listening. Jay's breath, uneven, choppy. Jay's breath, staggering. Oh, yeah, that was good. He liked that sound.

Licking the shell curve of Jay's ear, Bob nearly nodded. Sure he remembered. Every detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, if it interested him at the time. Sometimes with a poisoned clarity, when it all came rushing back to torment him at three in the morning. Everything. Everything he saw and felt and heard. Just like he remembered everything when he was sober. Well, mostly. It wasn't like he had a photographic memory or anything, he was nowhere near that good. Just...he could fit the pieces together, even if they were across the room and he was tied to the chair. He was good at reassembly.

Actually, fuck the photographic stuff, he thought. If he could just wire himself for sound, that would be better than any memory enhancement. Like now, nibbling on Jay's sensitive ears, he'd be recording every little sound Jay made for later obsessive playback. Every whimper, every gasp, every moan, every small cry. Everything. So he could just hit play, kick back on the couch, and listen. Listen to Jay. Listen to what he could do to Jay by nibbling a little here, biting lightly over there, sucking on his skin...

"Shorry 'bout what?" Bob asked suddenly, sitting up on the bed.

"What?"

Fuckin' whisky...He shook his head, trying to clear it, and only succeeded in making the room spin alarmingly for a few moments.

"You. Said you were. Sorr. Eee. Earlier. F'what?"

Now Jay wouldn't look at him. What the--?

"For--tellin' you."

"Telling. Me. What?" Okay, he was getting the hang of this heavy concentration thing, but it was draining. Besides, his mind was wandering. More than half of his concentration was plotting on how best to get Jay to scream his name. In a good way. He could think of dozens of ways to make him scream in pain, or beg for mercy, and it wasn't that they sounded like bad ideas. His eyebrows shot up as he looked at the blond, fingering a strand of loose hair. Get that, he was angry. It was underneath everything, but he was angry. About what Jay had said. When Jay had--

**"See, Lunchbox?" Jay said. "And you--"**

Bob swallowed, jerking convulsively, cutting the memory in half. No. Not again. All they had in the house was beer. And that wouldn't be enough, not nearly enough by half--

He leaned forward, fisting his hands in Jay's shirt, tearing it in half. Jay cried out, scrambling away from him, diving off the bed, and he grabbed an arm just before the boy moved entirely out of range.

**Not that easy, blond boy. Not by half, not to me.** His eyes locked with Jay's, burning into his. **Oh, no. Not tonight.**

Pulling Jay's arm, he brought him closer to the bed, bringing his face up close. He looked at him, first in one eye, then the other, trying to get some sense from him that wasn't utter panic. Finally, he gave up, grabbed his chin and brought him close enough to kiss. Jay had time for one panicked yelp and then Bob's lips covered his, kissing him, drowning in the feel of those sweet, soft lips on his. Stroking Jay's face, he parted his lips with his tongue, darting his tongue inside to lick at the roof of his mouth. Jay moaned, kneeling and wrapping his arms around Bob, kissing him back with interest. Even the little session this afternoon hadn't been this intense.

And here it was, Jay's hands in his hair, Jay's fingers clenched around the back of his neck, and Jay's mouth moving over his, over his face, his neck, his ears, saying his name, moaning it, crying it out...

Bob pulled back, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed nearly gracefully. He still held Jay's head and now he looked into that beloved face, making sure he captured every scrap of the blond's attention he could get.

"You hurt me," he said.

"Wha're you talkin' about--"

"You. What you said. You *hurt* me, Jay."

Jay stared back at him, biting his lip.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

And this time he seemed to mean it. Bob stared at him again, memorizing each plane of the face that was now half in shadow. Okay. Okay. Good.

"You still love me?" he asked.

"Fuck yeah, what the hell are you on, of course I love you--"

"Don't forget this time."

And just like that, he was dead weight in Jay's arms, sagging to the floor off the bed. Sleeping peacefully, dreamlessly unconscious, while Jay stared in confusion around Bob's room.

"Fuck," he whispered.

**Here we go again, dipshit. You ready for it this time?**


END
****************
Kelandris the Mad
dreaming of stories that don't quartet


If you wanna go back, go back. If you wanna read the next one, read the next one. If you wanna go somewhere else...hey, I ain't stoppin' you.

Or if you want, write me.