Title: Fingertips
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse
Pairing: Jay/Bob
Rating: Songfic. Yes, another one. Please, someone, break me out of 
this rut. R. Maybe, *maybe* NC-17, for mention of the work "cock". 
I really don't know. Mostly innocent. :>
Status: New
Archive: The traditional places. If you don't know what the 
traditional places are, you might want to write and ask. And here's 
how:
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: No.
Disclaimers: Kevin Smith, View Askew Productions, Jason Mewes, Scott 
Mosier, and Miramax have creative control and ownership of Jay and 
Silent Bob. I am just an insignificant slasher who wants the boys to 
have fun now that they've retired. I'm not even charging them.
Notes: Axis and Allies is over. Still can't find "aichomancy" to 
save my soul. And cephalonomancy is just weird. Had to break away 
from the madness. Here's another little nugget of trivia for you: 
production company behind the movie musical "The King and I" wanted a 
little more enticement than was being filmed. Essentially, they 
wanted the King's desire for Anna played out more obviously on the 
screen. Lerner, one of the songwriters, patiently explained the 
nature of the musical to the production company: "When two people 
sing on stage to each other, they're in love. When they dance, 
they're making love. It's always been that way." Which does give 
an interesting tilt to productions like Guys and Dolls...
Summary: Jay wants to dance. Bob obliges.
Warnings: None, really. Overabundance of exposition. Language. 
Sexual situations. Nothing more complicated.

"Fingertips"
by Kelandris


*Your fingertips...your fingertips*

*the move the groove the shadowed light the dappled dark the sweat 
the heat the pounding beat he loved it here*

*heart of the dance floor dancing for all of them moving grooving 
teaching them learning*

*all around him casual touches all around him glittering eyes all 
around him people who wanted to be near him, be with him, be in him, 
*be* him*

*sensory overload, wanting only one set of hands at a time, too much 
too much, break for the edge break from the center break out break 
away break break break*

Free. Sighing, swaying a bit as the song started to fade, the blond 
in the black cap staggers to the side table, where a man he knows 
nearly as well as himself waits, drinking beer. Which is to say, he 
barely knew him at all, and tried to know less.

*Sometimes I feel it burning
That deep and primal yearning
I feel it burn, burn, burning
I try to live without it
But then I think about
Those fingertips, those fingertips, those fingertips*

"Hey, Bob." He climbs onto a bar stool, leans forward on the table, 
drops his head to the dark surface and looks up, smiling like a fool.

Bob inclines the beer he holds in his hands, scanning the crowd 
surrounding them, then relaxes by scant inches.

"Jay," he says, his voice soft, higher-pitched than would be expected 
from a man with his frame.

Here was contradiction for any onlooker who walked by. Two young men 
at a table. Of an approximate age, give or take a few years. One 
looks younger, or at least, until his eyes open. Then his age nudges 
upwards by a good century, never mind the gangly, still-growing 
frame, the long golden hair. Those eyes have been through Hell, and 
have returned for reinforcements. 

Contract and comparison: his companion. Shorter, stockier, more 
strongly built, larger, by most definitions. Dark hair to his gold, 
beard to his beardless, silent where his friend rarely shuts up. 
This one looks older--at least, until his eyes open. Then the 
onlooker is tempted to ignore the beard, ignore the stance, and 
card. At least, until the chin firms, the stance straightens, and 
the eyes seek out again, flashing, imperious, overpowering.

Neither are entirely what they seem. Even to each other.

Jay sits up now, jittering by the table. 

*Anyone will do, anyone will do
Could be you*

"C'mon Bob," he wheedles, his voice gravel-wrapped honey. His 
fingers sneak out, plucking at Bob's coat, touching him, fingertip to 
fingertip, as he looks across the table.

"Dance with me."

Bob says nothing. Jay leans his head on the table, drumming a tattoo 
of impatience across the wood. His expression is impish, yearning, 
eyebrows dancing in mute application.

"C'mon, please?" he asks. "Wanna dance with you. Wanna get that bod 
moving. Impress all the chickies with your pow-ah, yeah!" He pumps 
a fist in the air, yelling as a new song bleeds into the air, pulling 
him back to the dance floor. He looks over his shoulder, entreating 
the still figure behind him, and Bob only shakes his head.

*It's in the way they move and
They catch that simple groove and
they tell a story all their own about the human heart alone
I try to get a grip but I find I always slip on fingertips
Those fingertips, those fingertips*

*crazy beat in him, demanding to be set free, drum seeds of rhythm 
pounding through him, sneaking under the skin, under the muscle, deep 
into the flesh of him, yes, more, yes, deeper, making him dance*

*hands reaching out, caressing random faces, giggles he can't hear, 
shocked glances at his apparent intrusion, no one taking offense, the 
need to touch surging through the crowd, wave forms forming and 
reforming around the center, around the core, around Jay*

*spinning at the center of the universe throwing off static 
electricity feet pounding the dance floor*

*falling to ashes, the nova going dark, everything fading, fading, 
dropping into monochrome*

*need beer to complete the force of the transformation, pushing his 
way to the edge of the dance floor once more and*

Out. Jay sways slightly in place, swaying over to the bar, demanding 
beer. Friend he doesn't know drifts by, stroking his back through 
the layer of thin cotton, offers him something quaintly colored and 
very small. For once he just smiles, shaking his head.

"Just the beer," he says. "I got everything else I want."

And his eyes dart over, finding Bob through the crowd, watching as 
his unknown benefactor disappears into the crowd. He walks to the 
table, jiving to the beat the DJ's laying down, two turntables, no 
waiting.

"Hey," he says, drinking gulps at a time, feeling the rich foam slide 
down his throat.

Bob nods, eyes flicking left, flicking right, flicking to Jay.

"You gonna sit on your fat ass all night?"

Those eyes, so much more expressive than the rest of him, narrow. 
Anyone else would back away. Jay laughs.

"C'mon, Lunchbox, we ain't gonna live forever. Get up. Lose a little 
dignity."

And again, Bob shakes his head. Jay frowns this time, turning away.

"Loser. Your fuckin' loss..."

*sometimes I get so lonely
The time it passes slowly, so so so slowly
I know I'm just a fool
'Cause they're writing all the rules
Those fingertips, those fingertips, those fingertips*

Once more into the breach, dear friends, and he's back out on the 
floor.

*dancing, miming, distraction through every inch of him, only the 
physical able to concentrate on the song, unwilling to admit he's 
been bested by someone who won't play the game*

*eyes search out across the crowd to glare at a certain table; if his 
eyes were weapons the table would be in flames by now*

*and not even the heat enough to take the sting out of denial for 
him, not even the drumbeat holding up his spine good enough now*

*nothing now, nothing, all ashes, all the waiting over, everything he 
tried to do eroded by the inexorable tide of no*

*Anyone will do, anyone will do
Could be you*

*and he turns his attention to the girl at his elbow, pretty, pert, 
winsome and--gone*

He looks up, and Bob's there. His face bursts into a smile, 
fireworks across the pale scattered sky, and he begins to dance in 
place when Bob grabs his arm.

He wails. "Damn it, wanna *dance*," he says.

"Then we'll dance," Bob says, and leads him from the club.

*Whoever, whoever you are
I got my light on
Whenever, whenever you can
I'll be there I swear
I swear...*

*all the way home, senses tingling, brain frozen in place, mouth 
still driving out words, a hundred a minute*

*Bob only outwardly calm, and nearly smiling every time Jay jabs him 
with an insult, trying to dig under his skin, figure out where he is*

*but baby, you'll never see this one coming and*

They arrive home, making short work of climbing the stairs, removing 
coats, Bob going to the couch, Jay going for a couple beers. He 
comes back, hands one to Bob, and Bob takes both, setting them on the 
coffee table. Then he pulls Jay down--to straddle him.

"Oh, now what's *this* shit--" is all Jay has time to emit before Bob 
lays a finger across his lips. It instantly shuts him up and his 
eyes go wide. For that one, brief instant, he's frozen: not 
speaking, not thinking, not breathing.

Then he inhales and Bob leans up, pulling Jay down at the same time.

*and Jay inhales air only until Bob's lips touch his, and then he 
inhales Bob*

*beer and pot smoke and tobacco and sweet aftertaste of rum, still 
coating his tongue, and Jay's sucking on it, getting every ounce of 
sweetness from it, and he could suddenly care less that he's kissing 
a guy because Bob is kissing him back so well--*

*and his hips begin to move, rapid trembling thrusts, feeling how 
hard he's getting; more, feeling how hard Bob's getting and feeling, 
feeling, feeling is all he's been reduced to, lips and fingertips, 
cock to nipples and everything in between, and too too many clothes 
separate them*

*and he breaks away for more air, more air, then returns for more Bob 
and*

Bob pulls his head away. He cradles Jay's face in his hands, just 
holding him there, watching the boy pant and feeling him undulate 
over as much of Bob's body as he can reach. Wonderful. Beautiful. 
His Jay.

"Bedroom?" he asks, his voice silk on overstimulated nerves. Jay 
shudders, reduced to nodding. Picking him up, he carries him back to 
a bedroom, first he came to, completely uncaring which one at this 
point. Fingers unsnap, unbutton, slide down, pull off, and it no 
longer matters whose fingers do what. And then they come together 
once more, skin on bare skin, flesh touching flesh, and Jay whimpers, 
wanting more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

And Bob gives him everything he wants. Everything, always, forever.

*and they dance*

*light descends on intertwining forms, designed to intertwine*

*and the beat between them is the pounding of their hearts, the 
desire and the consequence, sweat and tangled limbs and screaming, 
whimpering, moaning, whispering, neither man conscious of what's 
being said, just the driving pounding beat of flesh that commands 
movement*

*and move and turn and spin and thrust and dance, dance, together in 
the dark of time*

*Let it be me
Let me be your love*

*and heartbeats slowing down, and arms embracing, and being held and 
being kissed and being caressed...yes*

*yes*

*forever and always yes*

END
(Song is "Fingertips" by Poe)
*****
Kelandris the Mad
lipstick on the marigolds