Title: Dangerous Intentions
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, probably post-Mallrats-ish
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: R for language, NC-17 in brief spots for flashbacks
Status: New
Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: This sequels "Dangerous Territory".
Disclaimers: Still making zip, zilch, nada writing about other 
peoples' creations. Jay and Silent Bob belong to Kevin Smith and 
View Askew Productions. And hell, at this point, though it's a side 
credit, to Miramax.
Notes: Arguments are wonderful inspirations for stories I don't want 
to write. (And not like anyone knows the backstory, but I should 
just mention I'm loving the fact that the disabled chick is the major 
breadwinner at the moment, and the chick with marketable job skills 
is babysitting for a double handful of nickels. Source of said 
argument, you see.)
Summary: What Bob and Jay talk about, after the scene in the alley.
Warnings: Never argue with your spouse six hours before you go to 
bed, or you won't get enough sleep. Bob plays *picador*. Jay loses 
at a drinking game. Nothing is really resolved. And it spawns 
another damn story.

"Dangerous Intentions"
by Kelandris

"Okay," the blond said. "I been thinkin' about some shit. Why I 
been jealous and all."

Jealous. The word rang in Bob's heavy head, and his eyebrows went 
up. Time slowed as he followed each strand of light that moved along 
Jay's waist-length hair. He separated each moment down, soaking Jay 
in, watching the muscles in his throat contract as he inhaled. 
Watching the muscles beneath his skin twitch his lips down into a 
grimace.

"Yeah, fuck you, I'm serious," Jay said. Bob knew it; knew moreover 
how serious it was, how serious it had gotten. What could have been 
a back-alley bump-n-grind had morphed into something much larger, 
something much more hurtful. Chains and spikes and blood on the 
leather, oh, yes.

"I..." Surprisingly, Jay looked away. Bob, still silent, ever silent, 
watched the muscles jerk along Jay's jaw, watched him clench that jaw 
tightly, swallowing hard. Once. Twice. One more time. 

Suddenly Bob wanted so badly to kiss Jay that it took everything in 
him not to vault to the edge of the bed and sweep him into his arms. 
It took more self-control than he knew he possessed to stay still, 
stay breathing, and not bolt from the room, grab some cash and some 
quick-sale comics, and flag the nearest car down. Get the fuck out 
of Dodge, get the fuck away from Jay, leave the fucking state 
entirely. No more street-kid complications. No more living like a 
monk without vows. No more...

No more Jay. No more, Jay, no more. But he wasn't finished.

"I ain't been tellin' you everything," he said softly. "And..."

Jay trailed off, looking down at his hands, then shrugged. He looked 
over his shoulder for the first time since he'd walked in.

"And maybe you haven't been all honest with me, either."

Bob swallowed suddenly, feeling the prick of unshed tears that filled 
his eyes. Dear God, wasn't that the truth? And the problem, to be 
truthful. He hadn't been honest with Jay. He'd never known he 
hadn't been honest. Because it had never occurred to him he *could* 
have truly cared for this trash-talking, deal-breaking, foul-mouthed 
sybaritic... what?

His mind tossed phrases at him cruelly. Pimp on a mission. 
Druggie. Junkie. Wonder whore. What? He watched the street lights 
pick out details of Jay's profile for a few moments longer, feeling a 
sigh building, wanting to shake his head.

And it was all stuff it would have been helpful to know, too. Know 
that he, previously straight, previously never even bi-curious, could 
suddenly be in complete thrall to Jay's serpentine style, to his 
artless charm. He'd never met anyone like Jay, anyone who insulted 
him on one hand and fought for his honor in the other. Less that a 
month ago he'd been called brain-dead and the world's only living 
genius in the same damn sentence. And tonight--

A sudden flash of Jay, pressed against the wall as Bob's cock grazed 
along his denims, seared through him. He made some startled noise, 
pulling back from his roommate, but the blond only nodded.

"Yeah," he sighed, "like that. Maybe we need to talk, get some of 
this shit out." 

He passed the joint back and Bob took it, stunned into deeper 
silence. He took a long draw, holding it until the room grew dark, 
then released the breath slowly into the air. He watched the motes 
of dust in the room dance along a beam of moonlight, listening to Jay 
inhale. Another patch of silence descended, then Jay passed the 
joint back. One more toke left, he thought sadly, And then what?

"You wanna get seriously fucked up?" Jay asked.

Bob stubbed out the remains of the joint in the ashtray by his bed.

"Define serious," he said softly.

Jay pursed his lips. "C'mon," he said, rising to his feet. Slowly, 
he ambled from the room. Bob moved after him, curiosity and 
something more pushing him off of his bed

Jay moved into the kitchen, still at that slow amble. He dug around 
in the back of their liquor cabinet, finally pulling out three dusty 
bottles.

"Remember Cassie, she wanted us to hold onto some shit for her, an' 
then she shipped out?"

Vaguely, Bob brought Cassie's image to mind. What had that been? 
Some signed edition of a play he still kept on his bookshelves; a 
selection of videos that one of her friends had come by to claim 
about a week later; and these. He wiped the dust off the bottles 
with his thumb, and his blood froze.

Two of them were rum. One was a fitfh of cheap shit, and one was a 
fifth of Bacardi. But the third bottle was whisky. Bob closed his 
eyes, breathing for a moment, then shook his head.

"What? You'll rape me in an alley but you won't drink with me?"

The strangled noise that statement forced from Bob's throat seemed to 
hurt Jay more than it hurt him. And it hurt him plenty, the sound 
forcing its way free from a throat that had knotted closed, hard like 
a trembling fist.

"Okay," Jay gasped, "okay, then, what is it?"

**What is it. And how, how, Jay, how do I tell you, I can't drink 
whisky. How do I tell you whisky is my joy and my bane and something 
I always drink alone? How do I tell you that three shots down I'll 
be licking the walls... or you? How do I tell you that without you 
running for the door?**

Too many thoughts. Too much to say. Too much in his head for Bob to 
sort through it all in the space of a few minutes. Instead, he just 
shook his head, slumping slightly, and grabbed the bottle of Bacardi.

"Okay," Jay said, and grabbed the whiskey, walking to the couch. He 
spun off the lid of the whiskey and the smell hit the air, rich and 
dark and smoky. Bob clenched his eyes shut again, but after a moment 
of silent standing, remembering to breathe, he walked over to the 
couch and sat down next to Jay.

"Deal's this," Jay said softly. "I tell you something. If you agree 
with it, you take a drink. If you don't, I do. Deal?"

For the second time Bob thought about just getting up right now, 
walking out of the semi-dark into the orange-lit darkness outside, 
waiting for whichever bus might still be running, and riding it until 
it hit a Greyhound stop, Riding that silver bullet on until it 
dropped him somewhere he couldn't even recognize the faces of the 
folk around him. Get a job, get a place, get the fuck away from Jay.

He nodded slowly, tipping his chin towards the blond to indicate he 
should go first.

"Figures." Jay thought for a moment, then pursed his lips 
again. "Okay... You wanted to hurt me."

Bob swallowed. **Breathe. Just remember to breathe.** He took a 
careful sip, the rum burning all the way down his throat.

Jay bit one lip.

"You wanted to make me tell you something."

Another careful sip, eyes never leaving Jay's. Jay swallowed, 
shifting on the cushions.

"You wanted me to say I... loved you."

Sweet Mother Mary, and wouldn't it be easier to let it go at that? 
Just tilt the bottle, take another drink, let that one go by? But he 
couldn't. He couldn't. Even if he couldn't say it, he couldn't let 
that one go. He slowly shook his head.

Jay grimaced, taking a deep swallow of the amber fluid. Bob could 
smell it on the air, strong, like crushed sugar and peat moss. 

"Fuck," Jay said, his eyes watering. "Trade me."

Bob shook his head no.

"Pussy. Trade me."

Biting his lip, Bob thought about it. Sudden flash of Jay's long 
hair clenched in his fist; what would it be this time? He already 
owed the boy a pair of jeans; what next, carving his initials into 
his shoulder?

Shuddering away from that thought, he handed the rum over, but he 
didn't take the whisky bottle.

"*Trade*," Jay explained patiently. "Not give. Tra-ade."

Bob sighed. He reached over, snagged the neck of the bottle, and 
brought it over, resting it against his hip.

**Shit. And now what?**

"Now you."

Bob rolled his eyes, but thought. 

"You wanted me to get upset tonight," he whispered.

Jay drank. That was a no-brainer. So was this next one.

"You don't like it when I have sex with women..."

Jay drank again. Before Jay could put the bottle down, he finished 
the statement.

"...because you want me to have sex with you."

"*Fuck*..." Jay hissed. But he tilted the bottle again, taking another 
swig. He blinked, twitching, wiping the back of his mouth with one 
hand. "Whoo... Okay, go'wan."

"You wanted me tonight."

"Fuck you! *Nobody* wants that--"

"*At some point,*" he clarified, "you wanted me to do what I was 
doing." 

Jay winced, but still shook his head. "That's both of us, dude."

**Shit.* He looked down, wanting a cigarette so bad he could nearly 
taste the nicotine coating his tongue. Swallowing, he lifted the 
bottle, and took a very careful sip.

*Fuck*. Oil and sugar, turpentine and honey, organics long since 
sunk into oak-wood staves, licked up his tongue and down his throat. 
Oh, fuck, that was good. That was so very, very good...

"Okay," Jay said. "You went to that fuckin' bar to piss me off."

Bob shook his head. Way off. Jay drank, frowning. Bob thought., 
watching scattered emotions move through Jay's eyes. Suddenly 
wondering what it would be like to really prick him, use a pin large 
enough to make him jump. He thought a bit longer, until one of Jay's 
black-painted fingernails began to tap impatiently on the bottle.

**Ah,** Bob thought. **Here's one.**

"You dream of me."

Jay's eyes went wide. He lifted the bottle, then lowered it, peering 
suspiciously at Bob.

"How often?" he asked.

"Every night."

Jay drank and Bob's eyes opened wide. Mother*fuck*. *That*, he had 
not expected. What else?

"You ..." Bob trailed off. Oh, *fuck*. He could *hurt* Jay, here.

"You only date blonds," he said. Jay drank. "But you'll have sex 
with virtually anyone with dark hair." Jay drank. "And complain to 
me about it later." Jay drank. "Because it wasn't me."

"Fuck you, man, when do you get to--"

Bob looked at him and he stopped. Bob just shrugged.

"Your game."

"*Fuck* the game," Jay said. He leaned forward, his eyes 
earnest. "I set this fuckin' thing up so we could *talk*, not so you 
could stab me for points, okay, mofo? So when you get down off your 
fuckin' high horse there and come *talk* to me about this shit?"

Bob looked down at his hand, feeling the prickle of tears again. He 
raised the bottle resignedly, steeled himself, then drained a good 
fourth of it.

"About ten minutes from now," he said.

END
*****
Kelandris the Mad
my whole existence is flawed