Title: Monkey 
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: Songfic, first of all., R for some cursing, R for adult 
themes and mentions of drug use, heroin, and drug paraphenalia. 
Nothing stronger, though, and in a lot of places, this is PG. Not PG-
13, just PG.
Status: New
Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: Is that a sequel I see before me? Sadly, yes. 
Well, not so sadly. That one will be How Bob Gets Jay Off Needles. :>
Disclaimers: All parts of my fannish being are enriched by the 
presence of Kevin Smith, Jason Mewes, Jason Lee, Ben Affleck, and all 
the merry characters at View Askew Productions (including their 
current master, Miramax,) save for that pesky financial part of my 
being, which receives no compensation whatsoever for these tawdry 
little tales.
Notes: Would love to know where this stuph comes from, I'm telling 
you. I'm really waiting for my JayMuse to get tired of the heavy 
stuph and go back to weed at this point.
Summary: Jay practices the fine art of forgetting.
Warnings: In compliance with the new ratings, some previously 
unmentioned categories along with the traditionals. Mentions of drug 
use. Mentions of heroin, to be specific. Subdued KelAngst. Another 
BobCries fic. Longer quotes than I like to use of the quoted song 
material. Needle use. And no sex. (Yes, that's a warning. This 
story would have been much happier with sex. Damn it, where's Okoro 
when I need him?? Maybe I'll just resort to writing pop songs about 
the Little Stars... .)

"Monkey"
by Kelandris

*I don't know just where I'm going
but I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
'cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
when I put a spike into my vein
and I tell you things aren't quite the same
when I'm rushing on my run
and I feel just like Jesus' son
and I guess that I just don't know
and I guess that I just don't know*

"Hey, man."

"Hey."

"Pass it."

Tap of finger against glass, ringing dully in the smoky air. Squirt 
of milky fluid from stainless steel. The eyes on the other side of 
the glass tube inspected everything critically, and lights from the 
party deranged their color.

Blink. They were green. Blink. They were brown. Blink. They were 
blue again, and closing as he slid down to the floor, brushing the 
fall of blond hair from his shoulders.

"Here."

"Coool."

And Jay took the hypodermic needle, sliding the spike into the 
primed vein. Pain slashed briefly across his already unsteady mind, 
and he depressed the plunger, breathing through it.. A brief slash 
of pain across an already unsteady mind, and Jay just breathed 
through it, breathed through it.

"Aaah..."

":Lemme see." 

"C'mon, then."

The boy who'd handed him the needle clambered over to his side, 
looking down at his eyes. Jay opened them as wide as he could, and 
watched the reflection in the boy's black eyes: the iris opening 
like a camera lens, expanding, occluding all source of other color in 
his unfocused orbs. He blinked slowly, and inhaled, and the H sucked 
him down.

*I have made the big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
'cause when the blood begins to flow
when it shoots up the dropper's neck
when I'm closing in on death
you can't help me now, you guys
and all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk
you can all go take a walk
and I guess I just don't know
and I guess that I just don't know*

The struggle to keep breathing was draining, and he let it go, he let 
it all go. Autonomic functions struggled on without him, electricity 
sparked through overloaded neurons, and memory zapped out here and 
there. Some of the voices began to whisper; others stopped speaking 
entirely, and that was when he was finally able to relax.

The feeling built in him; the quiet head, so peaceful. No accusing 
voices, no screaming, no whimpering. No pain. No pain, and no 
reason to expect pain, and now, if he could just keep breathing, keep 
the tightened fist of his heart pumping... it would be wonderful. He 
stroked his hands down the outlines of his ribs. It would be 
wonderful.

Then Bob walked into the room. The other boy made some sound, 
crawling away from Jay, and Jay just sighed.

**What the hell you want now,** he thought. Or maybe said. He 
couldn't be sure, but that was a flash of anger on the big man's 
face. He stepped close, leaning down, pressing two extended fingers 
to his jugular, feeling for pulse. It was erratic, slow then fast, 
then slow again--he knew this. He knew why.

**Bitch, why you bother me,** he thought tiredly. **Just pick it up, 
lemme go.**

That sounded so good, he repeated it aloud, his voice a hoarse ghost 
of its former aggressive self.

"Lemme go," he whispered. Bob just shook his head.

*I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sailed the darkened seas
on a great big clipper ship
going from this land here to that
in a sailor's suit and cap
away from the big city
where a man cannot be free
of all the evils of this town
and of himself and those around
oh, and I guess that I just don't know
oh, and I guess that I just don't know*

The look Bob gave him was one that made him close his eyes. No pain, 
but the pain of the body laboring. Wasn't that why he'd come back 
here? No pain, no memory, no past. No future, if that's what it 
took, to drift for a while in the smooth elastic strip of now, this 
moment, this minute, this time. But here Bob was, interfering again, 
pulling him to feet that didn't want to bear his weight, wrapping his 
big arms around Jay's waist, and bearing him from the room to the 
unlovely sounds of the dream's decay.

The rest of the party was too loud, and he hung his head. Bob made 
some sharp sound, swinging him into his arms, and he gave up, 
collapsing bonelessly against Bob's strength. Colors bounced off his 
eyes, light flared redly through his eyelids. He'd lost enough color 
in his face to make his pale eyelashes look like narrow cuts 
underneath his bruised-looking eyes. He didn't care. He didn't care.

"Hey, check it--the good drugs must be here, Jay's passed out 
already!"

Jay couldn't figure out why Bob tensed at that, especially when he 
just wanted to laugh. Oh, honey. Heroin wasn't a good drug. Shit, 
heroin was a life sentence, one that he willingly returned to the 
cage for, time after time.

"Junkie Jay... there he goes."

"That's early. Usually he waits a few fuckin' hours."

"Yeah. Hey, you got any more of the purple stuff?"

Junkie Jay and the bearer of his burden cruised through the party, 
the comments he heard cruising through his mind, and he didn't 
disagree with any of them. He was vaguely amused that Bob seemed so 
angry at them; fuck, he knew he'd heard worse, usually from Jay to 
him. Or about him. Or because of him.

But they were moving towards the door, he could tell by the arctic 
jets of air striking his skin with a sound like halved bells, and 
soon, they were outside in the cold night.

*heroin, be the death of me
heroin, it's my wife and it's my life
because a mainline in my vein leads to a center in my head
and then I'm better off than dead
because when the smack begins to flow
I really don't care anymore
about all the Jim-Jims in this town
and all the politicians making crazy sounds
and everybody putting everybody else down*

Beautiful, beautiful, it was all so beautiful. The music fading into 
intelligible static behind them, the moaning of night wind and 
speeding cars, the asthmatic wheezing of the bus's air brakes as it 
slowed down next to the stop. Bob tilted Jay up, and he put his feet 
under him for the first time in what felt like hours. He was 
wobbling, and Bob kept his hand on his arm, but he was standing.

Bus driver made some comment, but Bob just shook his head, Jay 
feeling the motion all the way down the arm. They walked back to 
seats and he drifted, peaceful, floating, resting on Bob's shoulder. 
And he flew, outstripping the groaning bus gears cranking over, 
overtaking a 737 overhead as it angled down to land, eyes popping out 
of the back of his head and trailing behind him on long, glistening 
threads of fiber and tendon.

Then Bob was shaking him, and his feet wouldn't work again, so Bob 
had to carry him out the back door of the bus, and up the stairs to 
home. He really thought that would be the end of it, Bob carrying 
him back to his bedroom, stripping off his pants and shirt, untying 
and removing his Docs. Bob had done this before; Bob had done it all 
before. Jay had given him opportunities enough, after all.

But there was something new here.

After pulling back the sheets and sliding Jay underneath them, tired 
and boneless as a child, Bob sat on the bed, holding Jay's hand 
loosely. For once, Jay didn't mind. It was comforting, it was 
touch, touch was good right now. Undemanding touch, touch that 
didn't lead to fifty bucks in the dark and the taste of latex in his 
mouth. It was good. It was soothing.

Then Bob asked why.

Jay's eyelids fluttered, but finally, he managed to find his way to 
the controls and pry one of them open.

"Why what?" he whispered.

Bob gestured helplessly at him, running fingertips down the injection 
site, watching as Jay flinched away mildly. Oh. Why H. Why the 
heavy fuel, when he could be running organic and green.

"Makes me forget," he said

*and all the dead bodies piled up in mounds
'cause when the smack begins to flow
and I really don't care anymore
ah, when that heroin is in my blood
and the blood is in my head
then I thank God that I'm as good as dead
and thank your God that I'm not aware
and thank God that I just don't care
and I guess that I just don't know
oh, and I guess that I just don't know*

**Makes me forget everything,** he thought, and slipped away to the 
feel of Bob shaking the bed as he cried.

END
(Song is Lou Reed's "Heroin")
*****
Kelandris the Mad
everything's coming up roses, or so they tell me