Title: Jay Humbug, pt I of II
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, post-Dogma, very long for a Christmas carol
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: Songfic. Generally R for language, but it jumps to NC-17 in 
the middle. Mentions of m/m sex, homosexuality, prostitution. 
Graphic depictions of m/f sex (involving Jay, warning you now).
Status: New
Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: Christmas offering for the year. Shouldn't need to 
be a sequel. But it was split in twain for the posting.
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. Death, of course, belongs to Vertigo/DC Comics 
and Neil Gaiman the incredible.
Notes: Bit of fangirl boasting: my copy of Nerf Herder's first album 
is signed "Thanks for singing `Sorry' with me--Parry". They came 
through town (when I was living in Portland, Oregon) and sang four 
songs off their album, `Sorry' being one of the four. At that time 
their song "Van Halen" was on heavy rotation on the Box. I must have 
sunk $30 into keeping that vid playing, too. Nice little star 
moment, and great for a Scrooge riff as well. Also: there's an 
unaccredited quote in here from "Adventures in Babysitting". Not 
that hard to find, just wanted to mention it. And Rufio is based on 
Iggy Pop, the master with the melty face. I have no idea why. 
Lastly: Bartleby's in here, briefly, along with Tricia Jones. 
Mention of Metatron. Don't think there's any other non-original 
characters.
Summary: Jay wishes he'd never slept with Bob. 
Warnings: Partial deathfic. Angstyfic. Breakupfic. Marriagefic. 
Yes, all of that. Plus angst, did I mention angst? It all does work 
out in the end, or I wouldn't be writing it right now, but sheesh. 
Angst. Heavy Angst. Leaden angst. Ho ho ho�Oh, and some of Jay's 
dialogue here sounds like it was written by Quentin Tarantino, not 
Kevin Smith. Sorry, we just saw "Four Rooms" again last night and it 
affected me, apparently.

"Jay Humbug"
by Kelandris


Angry young man cursing at the world. Angry young man moving 
angrily, chain-smoking angrily, uncomfortable under his skin. 
Glaring on occasion at the placid man next to him, serene in black 
leather, 

"Fuck you, Bob," he mutters, and lights another cigarette. Bob 
simply shakes his head, standing against the stained plaster wall of 
RST Video. 

He turns it into a chant, shaking his head to the beat.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you fucking fuck, you fucking fuck."

One week ago, the world had been rose-tinted glory. He'd finally 
tripped Bob into fucking him, after what felt like fucking *years* of 
innuendo, dares, insults, outright overt behavior that might have 
shocked him, had he not been so desperate to form those bonds with 
his protector. And then, this week, they'd started talking.

And it had all come out, Bob had *laid* it all out, and Jay wanted to 
kill him. *Kill* him. Dead. Murdered. Stabbed. Fucker had 
outright *told* him he loved him.

*Shit*. Love. What the hell did he need love for? He wanted 
blackmail property! He wanted desperation, he wanted to create that 
need for his flesh that so many fucking other guys seemed to have. 
Something. Anything. So that Bob never left him.

But no, it had to be love. The tubby bitch loved him. *Love*, for 
Christ's sake. Love wasn't fucking real. Love *never* lasted. Now 
he was stuck with some idiot who would turn on him, someday. Maybe 
even someday fucking soon.

Bob touches his arm lightly, motioning with an empty pack of cigs 
towards the Quick Stop.

"Yeah, go, fine, buy more," he says angrily. He watches Bob move 
away, spends a moment admiring how the black leather looked on his 
solid frame, then gets angry all over again.

**Loves me. Fuckin' *loves* me. Yeah, sure, love is forever, until 
the next pair of swivel-hips walks along. Some chick, some 
musclehead, and that's it, isn't it? Love goes bye-bye. Love is 
fucking *gone*. Loves me. Fucker.**

**All fucking week, man, I worked my ass off,** he thinks, 
puffing "Fucker could have fuckin' said somethin' *sooner*�**

Angry young man leaning against a plaster wall. Angry young man 
chain-smoking angrily, dancing angrily, cursing angrily. 

**All fuckin' week,** he thinks, wanting to crack his knuckles on the 
wall, split the skin, maybe even beat the crap of the *moron* who 
wanted to *love* him. Shit. Goddamned motherfuckin' shit.

*sorry we broke up
sorry I missed you
sorry I wanted
only to kiss you*

"Hey, boy."

Two guys walk towards him and Jay looks up, irked. The night had 
been slow, and he'd been getting ready to riff off Randal the next 
time he came out, warning them how late it was and how he'd just as 
soon call the cops on them as slap them. But the guy didn't sound 
like a customer. The tone of the greeting was oily, sarcastic, 
contemptuous. What the fuck? 

Old retail clues filter through his fried brain, and he shrugs. 
Remember the customer is always something, he thinks. Right? He 
attempts a smile and the boy laughs. Jay's face hardens.

Remember the customer is always *shit*, he thinks. He shakes his 
head, gesturing at the parking lot in front of him.

"Clear out, okay? Or my Muscle's gonna make some dents in your 
frame."

The boy just laughs, poking his companion.

"Yeah, I just *bet* your Muscle'd like to get his hands on my ass. 
Unless he's still more interested in yours."

They bend over, laughing, and Jay wants to kick them both in the 
head. What the fuck was this shit? Okay, yeah, he an' Bob've held 
hands maybe, and once, someone might have caught `em kissing down an 
alley, or under shelter of a bus stop overhang. But c'mon, straight 
couples did that all the *time*�

His brain inverts. Oh, shit. They were thinking he and Bob were�
which, okay, yeah, they were, kinda, but he wasn't all that fucking 
comfortable with other people *knowing* that he and Bob were�

�and meanwhile, the laughing fucks were staring at him like he was 
funnier than Eddie Izzard. And shit, this had to fucking *stop* 
already�

He leans forward and grabs one of the guys, kicking off from the wall 
of RST Video at the same time he pulls the squirming body towards his 
face.

"You shut the fuck up," he hisses, and strikes the first blow. It 
was all fists n' fury past that point, with a few shots landed from 
the enemy team, but more land from his lightning fists-o-death�at 
least, until Bob comes out of the Quick Stop, frowning, and shoulders 
into the fray. He separates all combatants into their corners, and 
stands glaring at everyone involved.

One guy's nose was bleeding. The other's left eye was swelling 
shut. Jay has a cut on his cheek from someone's ring, and a stripe 
of bruising along his neck--he can feel it, wincing when he touched 
the abraded skin. And Bob was looking at him.

"They fuckin' started it, dude!"

Both boys began protesting, and that's when it got really ugly. 
About the third time Jay hears the phrase "gay fucks" he snarls, 
launching himself at the guy who'd started it all. Bob barely holds 
him back, and finally, sighing, releases him. He punches and pummels 
and pounds, screaming, until the boys combined efforts, pushing away 
from him and running across the parking lot.

"Fuckin' hate crime in action, you homophobic fucks!" he yells after 
the retreating pair. "I oughta call the fuckin' cops on your fag 
asses!"

Jay feels Bob's eyebrows go up from behind. Shit, what the fuck had 
he said now�he reviews his words to the rapidly departing braincases, 
and sighs.

"Man, it just gets under my fuckin' skin, they laughin' at me and 
shit�Laughin' at *us*�"

Bob just shrugs, grabbing Jay's chin and angling it towards the 
light. Jay pulls away, grimacing.

**That kinda behavior gets us *into* this shit, Lunchbox, you don't 
fuckin' see that??**

"Lay off me, fat ass," he says aloud. "I'm fine."

The eyebrows rise again. Nearly as clear as real words, he picks up 
the subvocal comment comprised of body language, glints in the deep 
brown eyes, facial movement.

**I can't care?**

"Fuck you, man, all you care about is getting' blown."

The eyebrows come down; the amazingly expressive face darkens. Bob 
turns, stalking off to the bus stop.

**Shit.**

"Dude, I didn't mean that, I meant--c'mon, let's not do this, let's 
just fuckin' go home, okay?"

**Love,** Jay thinks, shaking his head. **See how love turns on you?
**

Bob turns on a dime, facing him again so suddenly Jay nearly ran into 
him. He opens his mouth. Jay flinches back. Bob squeezes his eyes 
shut, shaking his head, and turns to walk again.

"What the fuck was that, then?" the blond yells. "You were gonna hit 
me for apologizing?"

Bob shakes his head, lips twitching.

**That wasn't an apology.**

"Fuck it wasn't, dude, you just don't know how to recognize shit. 
What, you wanted me to drop to my knees right here, suck you off? 
Yeah, I bet the entire fuckin' town would know about us then, huh? 
Every fuck in the tri-cities'd be laughing their asses off when they 
heard that."

"Did it ever occur to you," Bob says through clenched teeth, 
slowly, "that I might not care what other people think? I only care 
what you think. And if you don't care, I don't care. But if you 
care so much, why are you with me?"

"What `with you', dude, we live together." He shrugs, trying 
desperately to turn the conversation. Fuck, there was supposed to be 
that *Silent* part about *Silent Bob*; he wasn't holding up his end 
of the fucking bargain at *all*.

"I love you," Bob says softly

**Shit! Again with the `I love you' crap! Man, don't he ever 
fuckin' learn??**

Jay shakes his head. **Nuh-uh, can*not* do this right now, can*not* 
have this talk. Can*not* deal with this shit right now. Love is 
fuckin' transitory. Love doesn't last. Love beats the shit out of 
you and then goes scores for another crystal of whatever-the-shit-it-
is-this-week and comes home with three guys to pay for it and 
sends `em over to you when she's done�Shit. Love. Love is shit.**

He pulls one arm back, fisting his hand.

"Take that back, man. Take that *back*, we do not fuckin' love each 
other."

Bob just looks at him, and Jay shrieks, sending the other hand 
forward in what would have been a flurry of blows. But Bob reaches 
out, almost casually stopping his fists from moving forward, from 
hitting him, and Jay pulls at him, beginning to cry. 

"Fuck you, man," he sobs. "Go fuckin' love some other shit. I 
*hate* this shit, man, I hate people lookin' at us, and laughin' at 
us, and pointin', and�and�I wish I'd never started sleeping with you!"

Bob stares at him, incredulous, then disappears.

*sorry I promised
to love you forever
made you feel guilty
oh, when you left me*

**What the *hell*?**

Jay falls forward into sudden empty space, falling down and nearly 
braining a guy sitting in the shelter. He catches him, strong arms 
holding him up and away from the unforgiving pavement, and for a 
moment, he just hangs there, caught in the man's arms, breathing hard.

Then he sits up, cracking his neck by head rotation, shaking his body 
back into place. He didn't know what the hell was happening, but 
he'd find a way to deal, and then he'd go home and--HOLY FUCK!!

Jay presses himself against the plexiglas wall of the shelter, 
staring in horror at the man seated on the far bench. His spiky 
brown hair stands up, his dark eyes kind, if sad, his expression 
painted in equal parts amusement and misery. The hood of his grey 
sweatshirt is pushed back.

Bartleby raises a hand, waving carefully. 

"Hey, Jay."

"Hey," Jay says, his voice trembling. "Didn't you�uh�"

Bartleby smiles quirkily.

"Angels never get off that easy. I'm part of the management team for 
Limbo now. That doesn't take a lot of work, so if God gets some odd 
jobs He, in His infinite glory, need done, He sends me."

Jay frowns. "I thought Metatron ran all the errands."

Bartleby looks down, brushing a speck of dust off his jeans.

"Metatron is�under Punishment for a bit. Don't ask why."

"No problem. Like I care anyway. So�uh�you're not here to kill me?"

"Not exactly. You ever read Dickens, Jay?"

The blond looks blank. Bartleby sighed.

"How about `Scrooge'?" he tries.

Jay laughs, pushing away from the barrier.

"Oh, fuck yeah, that was fuckin' funny--Bill Murray runnin' around 
that big office building, tryin' to get away from the ghosts. I 
liked that flick."

"Well, you're now in that flick."

"What the fuck?"

"With some slight alterations. God, may His holy Name be praised 
eternal, thinks that if I set it up so you go through patches of your 
childhood and youth, you may be less than cooperative later on."

"Fuck, no. I am *not* goin' back to my mom's place. You can go 
ahead and fuckin' kill me."

"As I said. So He, holy are His Names and His great works, decided 
we'd alter reality a bit, see if you like this version better than 
the one you had."

"You gonna keep doin' that?"

"Doing what?" Bartleby looks up, derailed from his explanation.

"That `Holy is the name of God' shit."

"Sorry," Bartleby says, shrugging. "It's become a habit."

"Right�So what is God's great plan?"

"Well, you wished you'd never slept with Bob, right?"

He thinks back. Shit, he did. Bob was gonna fuckin' kill him. He 
opens his mouth to speak and Bartleby stands up, taking him by the 
hand.

"That wish has been granted." He turns, leading Jay from the 
shelter, and takes a step towards the road. Jay's eyes widen at the 
cars zipping by but before he can say anything, Bartleby wades right 
in, pulling Jay after him. They seem to glide through the cars as if 
they're made of mist. Or Jay and Bartleby are. Whatever, it's 
unnerving as hell. They get to the other side and Jay realizes 
Bartleby is saying something. He stops flinching so hard and tunes 
in.

"As I said, God, Glory and Power and Radiance forever--" He breaks 
off, chuckling slightly, and shrugs. "Anyway, God's done a little 
editing for you. You have your own apartment now. You share it with 
Rufio."

"Rufi?" Jay cries. Shit, he remembers that guy--he'd been the first 
one to realize how over his head Jay was, his first week on the 
street. Taken him in, taken him places, showed him how to dress, how 
to act, how to�His mind shut down a little when he remembered some of 
the other things Rufio had shown him to do. And how often they'd 
practiced, to make sure Jay was good enough, fast enough, capable 
enough to do them. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Why the hell'm'I livin' with Rufio, man? Why not Bob?"

"Because you and Bob had an argument. Remember? You moved out the 
next week, and later, when you saw Rufio rummaging through the mall 
trash, you thought you'd do him a favor--kind of like the one he'd 
done you--and you've been fairly inseparable ever since."

Oh, shit, this was getting worse and worse.

"I'm not--uh, back on the game, am I?" He was *totally* not ready 
for that. Not even with Rufi at his side.

Bartleby shakes his head, stopping in front of a little duplex house 
on the far side of Leonardo.

"No, no, nothing like that. You still deal. In fact, Rufio's your 
Muscle now."

Jay nearly laughs aloud, thinking of that. Little skinny Rufi, 
watchin' his back. Yeah. Sure. The laughter stops in his throat as 
the door opened, and Rufio walked out.

Holy shit. Rufi's taller, nearly six feet now, and his formerly buzz-
cut brown hair is long, bleached blond with reddish roots, and 
shining like a tequila sunrise. His face still bears the ravages of 
extreme drug use, the eyes deep and hooded, the brows flat. But the 
lips twitch into a smile now and again, and a striped tank top barely 
conceals the rippling muscles across his chest and shoulders. He 
walks the bag of trash he holds out to the curb, flipping the can's 
lid open and dropping the trash inside. His snakeskin pants gleam 
under the street light. 

**Damn. Boy is *hot*, now.** He thinks about it. Well, Rufio'd been 
hot before, but it had been all surface glitter�lipgloss and torn 
clothing and attitude. Now, he'd filled out some, looked strong, 
looked powerful. Looked capable enough to be his Muscle.

"Hey," he says softly.

Bartleby shakes his head. "He can't hear you. He will later, 
though." The angel leads the way into the house after Rufio, and 
they trail him to the kitchen, Jay looking around in wonderment.

"I live *here*?" he says, his voice awed.

"If you want to," Bartleby replies.

He looks around, brushing his golden hair back over one shoulder. 
The house was clean. Fuck, more than clean, the house was *nice*. 
They had furniture that didn't look too bad, and a big TV, and there 
were all these little Christmas decorations, poinsettia plants, 
lights, even a fuckin' tree with bows and icicles and joints tied to 
the branches. It was�sweet.

He walks around, looking at all the gleaming surfaces, and then sees 
the card by the door. The return address he doesn't recognize, but 
the name is Bob's. He looks up at Bartleby, questioning.

"Here's the only traditional part," Bartleby says softly. "I'm 
pretty much the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present, and Marley too."

"Marley? Dude, you'd need dreads for that," Jay says abstractly.

"No, not that--never mind. But there is a Ghost of Christmas Future, 
sort of, and when the end comes, you'll see her."

Jay's head shoots up. "That sounds fuckin' ominous."

"I know. But it's your choice, Jay. It's your choice all along."

And Jay thinks about it. Different life. Different life, maybe a 
better life. `Cos maybe he wasn't hot shit for Bob, either, now that 
he thinks about it. All that shit about lovin' him, maybe he just 
needs to deep-dick some girl he knows and get over Jay for good an' 
all. He ignores the slight twinge the thought gives him, and turns 
towards Bartleby, nodding.

"Yeah. Do it. Let's do this shit."

Bartleby smiles sadly, but nods. "God thought you'd say that. May 
His Holy name be revered."

"Right."

"What?" he hears Rufio say, still in the kitchen.

Jay looks around for Bartleby. He wasn't in sight anymore. He 
watches as Rufio wandered out, a beer in each hand.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," Rufio answers. His voice is low, scratchy, but still manages 
to make Jay shudder as it scrapes down his spine. "Didn't hear you 
come in."

Jay takes the beer, taking a deep swallow, and holds up the card he'd 
found.

"What's this?"

"Came today," Rufi says, frowning. He scrubs at the crown of his 
hair, ruffling through the bleached strands. "From your old boy."

"*Not* my old boy," Jay says firmly. Rufi smiles, shrugging.

Consumed by curiosity, Jay opens the envelope, pulling out a large 
foil card. 

"Tricia and Bob," it says, "request the honor of your attendance at a 
going-away party."

"What the hell? Going away for what?"

"Just a reminder: RSVP if you haven't yet for the wedding December 
24th, 2001."

The bottom dropped out of Jay's stomach.

"Bartleby you shit," he whispers. Rufio leans toward him, concerned.

"What'd you say?"

"Nuthin'. Wanna go to a party?" he says darkly, waving the card in 
the air.

*****

*sorry I showed up at your party
sorry I drank up all the Bacardi
sorry I puked up on your bedspread
sorry I wanted to be your boyfriend again*

Jay is drunk. Rufio is long gone, having gotten far too 
uncomfortable far too early. He sits on someone's floor, in 
someone's bedroom, holding on to someone's bed. He's waiting for the 
floor to stop spinning, and wishes he didn't have such a vindictive 
head. It keeps replaying the party, from the moment he walked in the 
door. Seeing Bob standing there, thinner, prettier, tilting Santa 
cap on his head, bright red sweater adrift in snowflakes covering his 
torso. Tricia on his arm.

Tricia on his arm.

Tricia on his motherfucking *arm*.

Suddenly ill, he turns, trying to make it to the door, and fails. 
His chest heaves, and he sprays used rum over the coverlet, wiping 
his mouth on a pillowcase and sliding to the floor. The door opens 
behind him and he clenches his eyes shut. He absolutely could not 
deal with any more of Tricia Jones right now.

It wasn't Tricia.

Bob walked over to where Jay had fallen, kneeling and touching his 
hair lightly.

"Jay? You want me to find you a ride?"

"Fuck off," he says blearily. He hears Bob frown in the darkness and 
nearly laughs, but he might throw up again. He clings to the side of 
the bed and the shreds of his pride, but he feels his mouth opening 
again.

"Was it so bad?" he hears himself ask.

"What?"

"Us. You. Me. Was it so fuckin' bad that you had to run straight 
at Tricia Jones when I left?"

There was silence for a moment, then one of Bob's patented deep sighs.

"You didn't want to be with me, Jay. Why is this coming up now?"

"Yeah, why the hell�'Course I didn't want to be with you. Who wants 
to be a fuckin' fag?"

"Right," Bob says, standing. His voice sounds thick, and Jay cringed 
against the floor. But Bob just left the room, and Jay stays until 
he was sure the hot, scalding tears he'd felt starting were over with.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this. He crawls to the door, easing it open, 
straightening, and creeps out the door. No one notices him go. No 
one cares.

*what can I do?
it's over it's over it's over it's over
what can I do?
I am the loser*

The cold helps Jay to sober up, and he hangs out for a while in the 
bus shelter across the street. Stamping his feet from the cold, he 
keeps shaking his head, to make sure he wasn't going to fall down. 
An hour into waiting, he grabs a handful of snow, clearing his mouth 
of the taste of bile, spitting out the fouled water. He repeats it 
several times, watching the guests leave.

Finally everyone seems to be gone and he creeps over to the house 
again, going from window to window, peering in. A brightly lit 
wreath is in one, a set of holiday ornaments in gold and silver is 
strung across another. Across two of the back windows someone had 
written JOY and MERRY CHRISTMAS in that fake snow spray. He thinks 
it might be Bob's handwriting.

Finally, he finds Bob's window, his heart clenching when he sees 
Tricia's head pillowed on Bob's broad arm. He stands there, watching 
Bob breathe, remembering a rose-tinted week that seems like it was 
years ago, now. He remembers, the memories unaccountably vivid, 
remembering Bob's rose-petal mouth encircling his cock, kissing his 
belly, kissing the side of his neck, the sensitive nape that sends 
shivers through him, just thinking on it. He unzips, not thinking, 
just feeling the need to hold his own flesh in his hands, if he can't 
hold Bob's.

*sorry I saw you and I heard birds sing
sorry I touched you and I heard bells ring
sorry I jacked off outside of your window
while you were sleeping
I thought you'd never know*

He pumps himself quickly, imagining being in Bob's arms again. 
Imagining Bob's soft hands stroking his naked body. He imagines 
kissing Bob again, sliding down his torso, curving around his leg and 
fastening on his cock as if his entire life was that moment, that one 
single moment, of making Bob happy.

"Ahh!" he cries out, feeling his balls tighten, feeling that rush of 
pleasure overwhelm him. He pumps harder, jacking himself at 
hyperspeed, and all too soon, spraying come onto the snow, watching 
as the snow began to melt from the heat of it.

Then, panic sets in. He hears rustling inside the room and runs off, 
barely allowing himself time to pull up his pants. He hides behind a 
bush on someone's lawn, decorated with bright gold lights. He 
watches, barely breathing, as Bob's face looms in the window, looking 
out. He looks down and Jay follows his gaze, and his breathing stops.

Forget the damning evidence of the big Doc Marten prints everywhere. 
He'd dropped his fucking *hat*. Hol-lee *shit*, Bob was gonna kill 
him.

Biting his lip, trying not to see the black hat like a puddle of ink 
against the white snow, he looks back at Bob's face. It was set, 
still, the eyes narrowed, and then Bob's shoulders slump, and he 
leans his forehead against the window. 

Jay sits there for a long time after Bob returns back to bed, seeing 
the forehead pressed to the cold glass, watching the shoulders shake 
silently in memory.

Had big Bob been crying? For *his* ass?

**Shit.**

(to be continued...)