Title: Razors 
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, somewhen around Chasing Amy
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: NC-17 for homosexuality, active graphic sex, prostitution, 
adult themes.
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: One-shot? But no, it's sequelled by "Ribbons", she 
says as she finally finishes "Razors". Damn it.
Disclaimers: Jay and Silent Bob belong to Kevin Smith's fevered 
imagination. What I do with them belongs to mine. Nobody this end 
of the screen's getting paid for this and no copyright infringement 
is intended.
Notes: I can blame this partially on our new chum Scorpio. Riding 
home from Otis Orchards, I was thinking about my anything-for-a-
twenty boy, and Scorpio's it's-all-about-the-green boy, and about 
what might happen if Bob had a jealous streak.
Summary: What happens when Bob gets jealous.
Warnings: Language. Angst. Boy torture (sorry, boys!). 
Inaccurate comics description.

"Razors"
by Kelandris


Silent Bob has an Action Comics #12 on his wall. He's never taken it 
out of the plastic. It features a Wil Eisner Shadow story and the 
first appearance of the Riddler, complete with sneer and Tommy-gun 
and green bowler hat. Occasionally he sits up nights, hand trembling 
next to the smokes on his headboard.

He never smokes in his room. It would be bad for the computer, for 
the comics, for the collectible action figures and the books bound in 
leather and cloth. But he's tempted on these long nights, terribly 
tempted, because he knows how Jay acquired such a rare and precious 
thing.

He remembers the comics con. Bank and Holden had talked them into 
it, or rather, Bank had talked Jay into it. Bank could talk Jay into 
just about anything on the pretext of "It'll be fun". And Jay could 
talk Bob into anything simply by asking. Some things he 
instinctively resisted, but sooner or later, if Jay wanted it, he had 
to find a way to make it happen.

He never dreamed it worked the other way as well.

Thankfully, they weren't asked to wear the stupid costumes. Though 
the thought of Jay in white spandex did appeal for some reason, they 
were just asked to show up. They didn't even have to stay 
in `character', whatever that meant. The only rule they were handed 
was, no dealing at the con, and they'd both readily agreed.

So mostly they wandered the dealers' tables, saying hi to the odd--
and some of them were *very* odd--fan here and there. And that's 
when he'd seen it. An Action Comics mag, high on someone's 
backsplash board. He'd stopped, staring at it, noticing the price 
and dismissing it along with the comic. He couldn't possibly afford 
it, as lovely as it would be, and so strolled over to the next 
table, where some idiot kid was selling Punisher mags for one-fourth 
of their value.

But Jay had noticed. Jay noticed more than Bob sometimes gave him 
credit for. He'd noticed the pause, the look, and the sigh that he 
thought was only audible to him. And as he moved one table farther 
away, Jay walked over to the dealer, a rat-faced man with steel hair 
and hard eyes, and began to talk.

For some reason, he remembers the man's name. Tom. 
Tom...something. Maybe the last name was never really important to 
remember. Just the first. Just the fact that he was named Tom.

He should have seen it, he thinks now. Should have stopped it. He 
could have done something. Done some *thing*, no matter how 
insignificant it might have seemed at the time. But he'd been the 
blithe spirit wandering the woods, and--not for the first time--
completely ignoring Jay. His mind had been relining the cover, line 
by black ink line.

It burns in him, burns inside him, this uncomfortable knowledge. 
This unquenchable fire of guilt. His eyes slit and his hands clench, 
and so much of him wants to deal with it the way he's dealt with 
everything else: knock it down, drag it outside, and beat on it until 
it can't make any more trouble for him.

But that would mean hitting Jay. And he's never hit Jay. He never 
would. That would mean the end of having Jay around. That would 
mean Jay would leave, or he would. One of them would have to. And 
that would be the end of everything.

Three tables away, he'd turned to look for the twitchy blond, and 
realized he hadn't seen him for a while. And that was odd--the 
dealer who'd had the Action book had covered his table with cloth, 
the top row of expensive books put away somewhere out of sight.

Bob was by no means an idiot, but where personal relationships were 
concerned, he realized he was a little slow. He'd dated, some, but 
sooner or later all girls discovered either the hidden violent 
streak, or found his silence oppressive, and left. He'd had offers 
for everything from a quick fuck in the back room to a long-term 
merging of assets, and frankly, he was happier overall with the 
tumbles and good-byes than the ending confrontation of the women he'd 
let move in. Only one had gotten out of hand: the woman who'd 
smashed one of his Batman figures in a fit of rage. He could no 
longer remember what the original fight had been about, only that it 
had escalated quickly into a screaming and throwing-things match of 
wills. And she'd broken the figure. And he'd hit her.

More than once.

After the inevitable aftermath, he felt he'd accepted all the 
responsibility he could: he had driven her to the hospital, after 
all, and turned himself in to the security guard on call. Later he'd 
sold his car to pay both the hospital bills and the fine the court 
assessed. He did six months in Joliet for that mistake, four of 
those in solitary confinement for beating up two guys who'd wanted a 
new playmate and thought it should be him. And he'd received 
eighteen months probation, which he dutifully served.

And nearly eighteen months to the day, long after he'd found a new 
apartment, a new job, gotten more of a life, he'd met this skinny 
little street kid. Grime ground in on his thin wrists, turning 
tricks for twenties, jittery and paranoid and foul-mouthed as any 
Joliet guard. He'd been sixteen to Bob's twenty, and something in 
him had just turned over.

"Hey," he remembered saying. "You want a place to stay?"

Staring at the comic, Bob nearly smiles. It had taken Jay a long 
time to accept the offer; longer still to stop trying to figure out 
the angle. At first he'd assumed Bob was just a sugar daddy who 
wanted a live-in, but Bob said no, and kept saying no, trying to get 
it through the blond's apparently dense-as-dwarf-star-matter skull. 
He hadn't offered him a place to stay because he wanted sex. 
Granted, Jay was beautiful, even then--even thin and strung out and 
bruised and pinched-looking. But no, it was just a place. That was 
all.

The next jump Jay had made had been almost amusing. They'd passed 
through the overt "Wanna fuck?" questions, into the still-
overt "Lemme blow ya" comments. Bob had resisted everything. As it 
was a one-bedroom apartment, that had been easier than it sounded, 
because Jay slept on the couch, Bob in his bed in the one separate 
room.

But one night Bob had woken up to find Jay tugging down his shorts. 
He'd been torn between anger and amusement, and looking into Jay's 
scared and confused face, he realized the amusement had won. He'd 
hugged the kid, feeling him tense like mattress springs, then 
released him. And kicked him out of his room.

"Go to sleep," was all he said.

So Jay, off-balance, had teetered between the concepts of Bob-as-
friend and Bob-as-unknown quantity. Of course, after the first time 
some group of gangbangers had gone after Jay, and Bob had stepped in 
to pulp their leader, he'd moved into Bob-the-Defender turf. Which, 
in a way, was much better than Bob-the-scary-enigma, but less 
appealing than Bob-the-friend.

And then the fights began.

The first had been over drinking. God knew where he got it, but the 
sight of a bottle in a brown bag constantly in Jay's hand had first 
puzzled, then irritated, then angered him. And he couldn't afford 
being angry at Jay for long.

At that point, they had just started dealing, and were spending a lot 
of time in the tri-town area, hanging out in back alleys and in all-
ages clubs. He constantly watched for cops, but now there were two 
reasons to peg them--and only the first was visible. The second 
would send them back to Joliet, however, for a significant amount of 
time. Time he did not want to spend behind Joliet's bars.

So he'd sat Jay down one night and explained, as gently as he could, 
how dim a view New Jersey took on underage drinking.

"You tryin' ta tell me I can't drink?" Jay had said belligerently, 
and there it was again, as expected. The huge fear Jay had of 
authority figures, coupled with his anger at being afraid. And here 
Bob was, telling him what to do.

"No," he said gently, as if he were trying to soothe a feral, wounded 
cat. "I'm telling you, you can't get *caught* drinking. Or..."

He trailed off, playing the ace into the empty space between his 
words, the card he didn't yet understand.

"Or," he repeated, "they'll take you away from me." His brown eyes 
burned into Jay's propane-flame blues, watching the boy intently.

"Noo!" he had wailed, and thrown the bottle to one side. He launched 
his rail-thin self from the back-alley stairs he sat on and wrapped 
his arms around Bob's legs.

Rocked, Bob stood there, hands lifted slightly from his sides. 
Christ, he's young, Bob thought, then looked around, scowling. If 
anyone comes by, they're gonna think--

Then he shrugged. Fuck if it matters what they think, and he 
permitted a rare show of affection: he stroked Jay's hair, once, then 
lifted his hand.

"Shh," he said softly. "It's okay."

"Yeah," he heard, Jay sniffling at his waist. He was on his knees 
now, and he looked up at Bob, his eyes shining like sapphire stars 
under the streetlights.

"You want I should--?" And one of Jay's hands moved to his crotch.

Christ, Bob thought. Sixteen going on forty.

"No, Jay," he said patiently. "I already told you no."

And then Jay had jumped up, and walked out of the alley, talking a 
mile a minute. And that had been the end of that fight.

Bob's hand hovers over the cigarettes again. Slowly, he brings it 
back into his lap, closing his eyes. He breathes in and out for one 
long moment, and then opens them. The comic is still on the wall. 
The guilt is still fresh.

The second fight, he remembers, had lasted far longer. The second 
fight had been over drugs.

Drugs. Bob had no problem with drugs, *per se*. He had no problem 
with natural highs, had toked up once or twice himself before Jay had 
moved in, and he was part of the deciding factor in their current 
dealer status.

But Jay seemed to be on this spiraling downward cycle, crack to smack 
to horse and worse. He'd become the dumping ground for any 
experimental shit anyone in the tri-state area wanted to test. If 
Bob had a reputation for violence, Jay had a reputation for opening 
his mouth and keeping it open, no matter what some idiot wanted to 
put inside.

Anything-for-a-twenty Jay.

Jay'll do it, he'll do *anything*.

Jay the Toy, Jay the party boy, whore for hire--there wasn't an 
epithet Bob hadn't heard, and if he'd heard them, Jay knew them by 
heart. Jay was seventeen when the second argument happened, been on 
the streets for four years, off for only one, and he still had his 
rig, and he still kept his stash.

Finally, Bob had had it.

Jay had been jittery all day, twitchy, paranoid, and the third search 
through the apartment had resulted in Bob getting Jay's attention, 
then deliberately reaching underneath the coffee table. He brought 
out Jay's kit, dangling the broken, shredded pieces before him.

"This what you wanted?" he asked softly.

Jay began to swear volubly, growing louder and louder until Bob 
stood, facing him.

"New rules," he said, hating saying it, hated watching Jay's face 
shutter closed and his stance change. The blond immediately looked 
sullen and cocky, a bad mix.

"No more of the hard stuff. Nothing experimental, nothing you don't 
recognize, nothing you inject. Deal?"

"Fuck you," Jay said shrilly.

"You keep this up, you'll be dead by eighteen. You want that?"

Jay just swore at him, reaching for the kit. Bob pulled it out of 
reach, suddenly frustrated with the whole situation.

**Who elected me this kid's keeper, huh? How come I have to deal 
with all this shit? Fuck it.**

"ANSWER ME!" Bob thundered, and Jay dropped the pretense of bravado, 
shrinking back from the sudden volume.

"You gonna hit me now?" he asked in a small voice. But there was a 
dangerous look behind his eyes.

**Great. Paranoid junkie with a death wish. Why did I want this?**

"Jay, I'm not going to hit you," Bob said aloud. "But I get mad 
sometimes. You're being stupid. You can do better than this."

He nearly had him, he could tell. He wavered, holding that ace, not 
wanting to lay it down just yet. And maybe he should have given in, 
for Jay was waiting for *something* to happen. When Bob said nothing 
else, he stormed off towards the door.

"Jay," Bob had said placatingly, and the boy had turned on him.

"Don't you `Jay' me!" he swore, his voice high and frightened. "Like 
you fuckin' care, you're just tryin' to keep from callin' the cops!"

"I don't want you OD-ing here--" he began, and immediately knew how 
bad that had sounded. Jay had just laughed hysterically.

"Well, maybe I should go OD somewheres else, then! That way when the 
cops come, they won't be here, to mess up your precious clean 
*record*," he snarled, and stormed out.

And Bob had stood there, stunned. He would have sworn to God Jay 
hadn't known about his past, hadn't even known who he was before he 
returned. It wasn't like they shared a common social circle, even 
now. He would definitely have laid odds that Jay hadn't known about 
him going to the courthouse when he'd turned 21, and filing to seal 
his juvenile record.

Apparently, he'd been wrong. He'd been completely wrong.

By the time Bob had grabbed a coat and left the apartment, Jay was 
nowhere to be found. For a moment he was tempted to run back inside 
and call a cab, then he stopped, inhaling deeply. The air tasted of 
apples gone to ground and diesel, and he stared at the bus stop sign 
in front of him.

**Think, Bob, think. Bus isn't due until 7:40, so he has to have 
gone somewhere close. Somewhere he could walk to. Or run to,** he 
thought, grimacing. He looked up the street to the left, turned back 
to the right, shielding his eyes against the headlight glare.

**Has to be someplace he can get to from here on foot...**

He looked up at the stars for a moment, watching their distant 
glitter, then slapped his forehead. Of course. DJ's, it had to be.

He ran upstairs, knowing he'd be kicked out for this, for sure. He 
grabbed the stash of rent money anyway, knowing a debt to DJ would be 
worse than living on the street for a while, if it came to that. He 
knew *exactly* how that fuck would take it out on Jay. And frankly, 
Jay would crack just seeing the handcuffs, never mind the rest of it.

By the time he got there, the party was in full swing. He found DJ 
first, digging out of him how much Jay was into him for. DJ seemed 
terribly disappointed that he wouldn't be showing the blond the 
downstairs later, pouting over the seven crisp hundreds Bob had 
passed him. Bob could have cared less. He wandered through DJ's 
house, searching for Jay, and finally heard his thready voice coming 
from the farthest back room. When he got there, Jay was telling a 
string of loopy, surreal jokes to a mostly strung-out audience. 
Sighing, he realized talking to him now would do no good, and leaned 
back against the wall to wait, looking out the window.

And that had saved them both, because he saw one cop had been stupid 
enough to leave his lights on and flashing down the alley. Only a 
second, but it was enough, Bob had seen.

He ran over to Jay, picking him up bodily and sprinting for the 
door. DJ tried to stop him, but he ducked the outflung arm, 
gesturing his head towards the back. It was all the hint DJ would 
get, and he didn't catch it, because he turned, ambling slowly 
towards the back to see what Bob had meant.

Bob was six blocks away, Jay giggling in his arms, when the bust went 
down. Bob was just glad that he and Jay were away from the cops, and 
Jay was still alive, when Jay had begun shuddering against him. Then 
he'd started violently throwing up. 

That hadn't been the end of it. By the end of that night, Jay was 
throwing up blood, twitching and shuddering through convulsive 
attacks that left him more and more drained. Bob didn't dare take 
him to the hospital--God only knew what he'd taken. At the best 
they'd throw him into detox for three months. At worst--off to 
Joliet. He knew Jay wasn't ready for Joliet.

So he did his best to care for him, soothing him through the 
nightmares, cooling his brow through the fevers, pouring what felt 
like gallons of medicinal teas a friend gave him down his throat. 
Two weeks into it, his landlord did indeed kick him out, and he went 
to stay with his family. It was the only place he could think of off-
hand, with no way to keep working--Jay had to be taken care of--and 
no way to keep paying rent. 

Bob shakes his head, walking to the computer. He starts it up, 
playing Spider Solitaire, but his mind is still too full of the 
past. It had taken nearly six months to get Jay completely straight, 
during which time he fought his family nearly tooth and nail, only 
his eldest sister on his side. And in that time he'd learned more 
about Jay's childhood than he'd ever wanted to know. His father had 
been one nasty piece of work. His mother was even worse. And the 
steady stream of boyfriends, johns, dealers and pimps in and out of 
Jay's life hadn't helped an iota.

It tore at him, this knowing, sunk razor hooks deep into the meat 
around his heart. He'd thought Joliet had been bad. He'd thought 
Joliet had been as bad as it could get. Joliet had been heaven in 
comparison. Apparently, Jay had been everyone's Toy from a *very* 
young age, and it had just rolled downhill from there.

Most of what Jay had said he couldn't remember afterwards, which 
might have been a good thing for both of them. He did seem to know 
instinctively things had changed. He was only occasionally tempted 
to shoot up, and every time he did, Bob would patiently track down 
the dealer who'd sold to him, and beaten the crap out of them, and 
that had been the end of that source. 

In between relapsing, Jay took to wandering into Bob's room late at 
night. At first, Bob saw this as yet another attempt at sex, but Jay 
actually reassured him.

"Naw, Bob, I just need you to chase away the jones for me. Read me 
somethin'?"

Jay liked poetry, or maybe it was just he liked Bob's voice when Bob 
read poetry. Poe and Shelley were too close to *having* a jones, but 
Yeats, Browning, Frost and Whitman were good, and sometimes he tossed 
in Shakespeare or ee cummings or any of a hundred others he had in 
compilation form, from Donne to Eliot and back again.

Six months, he thinks. Six months of hell and an overdose, all to 
read poetry off and on for the next five years. And Solitaire isn't 
helping. He turns in the chair, staring darkly at the comic on the 
wall.

**And then, there was the fight we never had...which obscurely led to 
this.**

And that's what he can't stand, what Jay did for this...this thing. 
Yes, precious, yes, rare, but at its heart ephemeral. It was 
transitory, at its heart just paper and ink, plastic and staples. 
Incidental. Even Shakespeare's First Folio was only paper and ink at 
its core, and it's not worth carving off bits of anyone's soul for. 
Carving off bits of Jay's soul.

He remembers, he'd looked around for Jay and the dealer, and the 
first thought across his brain was God damn it, he's *dealing* at the 
con!

And he'd been right, but it hadn't been the green.

By the time he tracked down the right access tunnel, Jay and the 
dealer were standing at the end of the narrow space. Bob had 
honestly thought Jay and Tom were just negotiating. He knew Jay was 
carrying, promise or no promise, and thought the brainless wonder had 
decided a quick sale would make up for breaking the promise to Bank. 
Thankfully, there were big rolling bins lining the tunnel 
haphazardly, so he used them as cover, getting as close as possible 
so as to hear what was going on.

He got more than he'd ever wanted.

"So," Tom had asked, his voice as hard as his eyes. "How bad you 
want that comic?"

"My man, I am willing to bargain here," Jay said expansively. He 
brought out the bag of pre-rolled, and Tom just laughed. He reached 
out, tapping Jay's lips with one finger, staring him down.

"How bad,' he said softly, pacing out the words, "do you, want that, 
comic?"

Jay flinched back for a moment, staring at him, and in that moment, 
Bob had been ready to break cover and drag Jay out--by force, if 
necessary. 

But Jay had shocked him. Jay dropped to his knees, taking the condom 
the man offered as if he did this every day of his life, unzipping 
the man's pants with one hand while he tore the foil wrapper open 
with his teeth. He slid out an already stiffening cock, breathing 
softly on it while he rolled the condom down. Bob watched the 
muscles in Jay's jaw work, and tried to get up, and found he couldn't 
move. He couldn't *move*. Why the hell not? Why the hell was Jay 
*doing* this? What could he possibly get that would be worth this?

He was astonished to find that he was angry. Really angry, angrier 
than he'd ever been with Jay. Hard on the heels of that realization 
came another, even less comfortable one. Was he lying when he said 
he was off the game? Has he been doing this all along?

It made him sweat, just thinking about it. And it would haunt him 
later, the fact that he completely forgot the comic. He watched as 
Jay slowly slid the condom-clad cock down his throat, wrapping his 
hands around the man's hips, sucking on him intently.

Bob shook his head, trying to clear it. Jay's mouth was reddening 
slightly from the pressure of the cock distending it. And Bob 
suddenly wanted to roar, wanted to scream, wanted to throw the bins 
down the hall towards the pair, and then he stopped, falling back 
against the wall and panting nearly audibly.

**What the hell is this? Why does this make me so angry? He's not 
dealing, he's not shooting up, so why does this--**

**It's not me,** he finished.

Bob stopped breathing. He put his hands over his mouth to keep 
contained any sound. He was twenty-six now, he'd learned the value 
of silence too well. But he didn't dare say anything. Jay might 
hear.

No.

*I* might hear.

**Show me that again, sugar, I didn't see what you said--**

Had it always been there? Spend seven years with a guy, there's 
gotta be something there, right? But he'd never seen it, never seen...
And yet--last three years, hadn't it been, he'd virtually stopped 
dating. Jay still bed-hopped at random, went out with anything had 
tits and a vague interest, but Bob...

"Y'know, for a genius you're pretty stupid, Lunchbox," said the back 
of his head in Jay's voice. How often had Jay said that to him? How 
the fuck had he not *seen*--

No. He hadn't *wanted* to see. He didn't want to hear, right now, 
either, but the man ten feet from him was getting loud.

Jay's good at his work, he thought sarcastically, but it didn't 
help. He wanted, with a sudden searing passion, to feel how good 
Jay's mouth was himself.

**I gotta get out of here, I gotta, I gotta get outta here--**

And he had, Bob remembers with astonishment. He hadn't left the con, 
but he'd gone back out to the front. Even sat for a while with 
Holden and Banky, shot the shit in the comics world. And after a 
while, Jay had emerged, jittering and twitchier than he'd been since 
his smack days.

And Bob had wanted...he feels his fists clench, and the anger rise, 
irrational but ever-present. The desire to beat on something, 
anything, until the problem's gone. But hitting Jay would compound 
the problem. The sound of flesh striking that flesh would only bring 
back the sounds he'd heard in the maintenance run.

Which had been part of the fight they'd never had. The edges of it 
could now be defined as his own jealousy, which neither of them 
wanted to openly acknowledge, and Jay's insistence that he was 
worthless.

Worst of all was the thought that made sweat burst over his brow and 
his muscles twitch.

**God, I wish that was me.**

Bob sits, swinging in the chair, his mouth trembling. Damn him. 
Damn him for doing this. Damn him for bargaining another piece of 
his soul away. Damn him for leaving.

**What? What's that you said? I couldn't hear you for the screaming-
-**

He blinks, standing. He's heard the door open, in the living room. 
And close. And what the hell was it now? Turning, he walks to the 
living room, walks over to Jay's bedroom door, and flings it open. 
The bed is empty.

**Motherfucker. I'll--**

Have to get after him, he thinks, pushing the other thought aside. 
He quickly shrugs on clothes, pulls on his trench, and runs down the 
stairs. The bus doors are just opening. Jay isn't looking around, 
just pays his fare and walks to the back of the bus. Bob checks his 
watch.

**Midnight. Last bus. Wherever you're going, you're not expecting 
to come back tonight?**

Running now, Bob reaches the doors just as they begin to close, 
hoping like hell the blond doesn't look up, catch him getting on. He 
swipes a bus pass through the slot and takes a seat in the middle, 
slouching in the seat. Once the light strips flick to red again, 
from white, and the bus starts moving, he dares a look over his 
shoulder.

Jay sits, twitching on the back seat of the bus, looking out the side 
window. His hands won't stay still, rising to his hair, clenching in 
his lap, vibrating in the air. But he doesn't look up, He doesn't 
seem to know that Bob is on the bus too.

Thankful for small favors, he flips the collar of his trench up, and 
pulls the ballcap he'd grabbed in the room around front, tipping the 
front of it down to hide his face. He can still watch Jay, and hope 
he'd catch the stop and be able to get up without getting caught.

They must have stayed on the bus for twenty miles, until it gets down 
to just him, Jay, the driver, and a nervous, pregnant woman that 
keeps glaring at all of them in turn. When Jay pulls the cord, the 
woman looks up, and for a frightened moment, Bob thinks the woman's 
the one that pulled it.

But no, the bus is slowing down, and Jay's rising, shuffling to the 
back door. Bob bites his lip, considering his options. Finally, he 
walks to the front, through the bright lights, hoping that Jay won't 
care about any other patrons getting off at the same time.

The front doors accordion open, and Bob gets out a spare second 
before Jay's doors open out. He scans the territory quickly. Bar 
turf. Glowing sign in front of him across the sidewalk--"Rusty's", 
it says. "BEER-WINE" flashes in the window, strobing crimson into 
the night air. Three, four cars are parked outside, and quickly, Bob 
walks to one of them, pressing his hand against the door as if he 
were unlocking it.

Jay's too self-absorbed to care. He walks from the bus and walks 
straight into Rusty's with never a backward glance. Well. Score one 
for Oblivious Boy. Bob turns, making his way to the bar slowly, 
pushing the door open and peering around.

Man, this was a dive. Women he didn't think even Jay would be 
interested in sit in dispirited poses, staring around the bar as if 
it were a very bad dream. Layers of oily smoke had hazed over all 
the windows. He sees several dead flies, desiccated little feet in 
the toxic air, between the bottles behind the bar. Great.

He also sees Jay, pushing his way to the back, to the back door. 
Shit. Now he has to follow? How fucking obvious is that?

But he does, the patrons clearing out of his way much quicker than 
they'd cleared for Jay. He waits a beat or two at the closed alley-
way door, breathing hard. Fucker. What does he think he's *doing?* 
Then he pushes the door open just enough to squeeze through, looking 
around quickly.

He hears voices around the corner, and walks to where he can just 
peer around, through some loosened slats in a pallet, tilted up 
against the wall. Two men stand there, and one's Jay, and Jay looks 
severely unhappy. The other...

Tom again. Fuck. What *is* this, Jay's new thing? Then Bob's mind 
burns the image of the comic across his skull and he flinches, nearly 
falling over. Still? Still paying for that damned comic? Bob 
swears silently, blinking in the dark.

"You sure you don't want anything else?" Tom says sarcastically.

"No, man," Jay spits, "Think I've had it with your payment plans. 
Thanks."

"Have it your way." Tom lifts a strand of Jay's hair, shaking his 
head. "Pity. This *has* been fun."

"Oh, yeah. Loads," Jay snarls. He twitches, shivering, looking 
around the alley. Bob quickly ducks back against the wall, inhaling 
sharply.

"Well, then. What are you waiting for?"

Jay sighs, and Bob hears them shuffling a bit, and the plastic snap 
of another condom package tearing. He clenches his eyes shut. Fuck 
this. He does *not* want to see.

Fuck, he has to. Looking around the wall again, he sees Jay on his 
knees, zipping down Tom's jeans, rolling the condom down his 
stiffening cock. He sighs again, and opens his mouth.

Bob shuts his eyes again, pulling back and sitting on the alley 
floor. His hands clench into fists and he breathes through it, 
breathes through the sudden spasm of anger, of rage that fills him. 
He wants nothing more in this moment but to pull Tom out of Jay's 
open mouth, push him against the wall, hit him until his eyes swell 
shut, his mouth breaks, his nose is flat pulp against the cracked 
bones of his face. He wants to hit him until his knuckles are raw 
meat, cut open by the bones he's shattering. He wants to kick each 
of Tom's ribs loose. He wants to splinter his legs and crush his 
feet. And then Jay--

And he presses his fists against his face, fighting back sobs. Oh, 
God, Jay. Who for some reason he can't even understand is doing this 
for him. He'd never asked. He'd never ask for *anything* like 
this. He can't understand.

And beneath the rage, beneath the sick feeling in the pit of his 
stomach, is a fluttering sensation of hurt and pain, which really 
rocks him back. Why is he jealous? Jealous of some idiot in some 
alley getting some blow job from some...

From Jay. He scrubs at his face, scrubs angry tears from his eyes. 
Fuck this. Fuck this. Call a fucking cab, get out of the alley, 
leave Jay here, let him find his own fuckin' way home...

"Ahh!"

Tom's voice. Tom having a lot of fun. Bob hangs his head. And why, 
he asks himself, why isn't he stopping this?

**Because that would cause worse problems,** he answers himself. 
**Because then Jay would be pissed at you for interfering. He set 
the terms, Tom upped them, and Jay said yes. Jay *said yes*. And 
he'll hate you if you knock Tom out and drag him off somewhere to 
beat bloody, because then he'd be indebted.**

**Okay,** Bob thinks, **so why is he indebted to me?**

Silence for a moment, in the darkness, broken only by Tom's moans.

**Indebted to--**

**Yeah, hadn't thought that through, had you? He's *doing* all this 
out of some obscure need to pay you back. For what?**

**For--**

For a whole lot of things, it suddenly occurs. For getting him off 
the streets, off the game. For getting him clean. For protecting 
him from his own stupidity. Obscurely, for arguing with him in the 
first place, for yelling at him, for *caring* enough to yell at him 
and risk the friendship they've been forging. More than his parents 
ever did for him, that's for fucking sure.

**And what does Jay do when he feels indebted? He lashes out. He 
feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He insults. He sneers. And 
finally, he does something that he hopes is gonna wipe the slate 
clean, something mind-bogglingly huge... Like an Action Comics #12. And 
he doesn't think this is any better, or any worse a way, to pay for 
it than cash.**

Bob thinks on that for a moment, heart falling onto the alley floor.

**Because he's not worth any more than the couple hundred the guy was 
probably charging.**

Holy fuck, is that it? He's doing all this to pay off some debt, and 
it's just natural for him to blow some guy for the mag rather than 
buy it outright? He does a quick calculation in his head. Yeah, it 
would have strapped them some, but he had most of the money at the 
con, and could've gotten more if Jay had needed--

And Bob freezes in place, not even breathing for a moment.

**But then, he would have had to ask me. And it was a gift. It was 
something to clear the debt between us. So he couldn't have asked.**

He thought for a moment longer. No, there's more. He'd told Jay, no 
dealing at the con. Because that's what Holden and Bank had told 
them. So. He's got bud on him--Jay pretty much always carries bud--
which, *because Bob had told him so*, he couldn't deal. So all he 
has left are the skills of his hands, and that's where his head 
automatically turns. Tom, now, he's just a fuckin' perv, there's no 
way around that--but Jay could've said no. He could've clocked him 
one and gone on his way. Why hadn't he?

**Because he couldn't think of another way to repay me. Because I'd 
already turned him down for sex.**

Bob realizes he hasn't inhaled in a while.

**Don't panic, I'm sure the on switch is somewhere around here--**

Meanwhile, Tom's inhaling rapidly, and pounding the wall, and 
emitting these hoarse, static cries as Bob peers around the corner 
again. Jay's sucking for all he's worth, hands splayed out on the 
coarse brick, and Tom's bucking up into his mouth, fucking his face, 
and moaning--

Bob bites his lip, shifting uncomfortably. Slowly, as if it's for 
the first time, he inhales, his breathing shuddering out of him.

**Shit. I did this. *I did this.* I have to tell him. How can I 
tell him? What the fuck do I say? I say anything, he'll close up 
again and never come out. I don't say anything, and we're still 
arguing with each other about shit we can't discuss. FUCK...**

He thinks hard for a moment, considering every option. Then, throat 
nearly closed by grief, he gets up, goes back into the bar, orders a 
shot of bourbon quietly. He downs it, walks to the back, and calls 
the first cab number on the wall. He hears it's going to be ten 
minutes and he waits, counting it down, then leaves the bar at the 
ten-minute tick. He gets in the cab and goes home, unlocking the 
door, leaving it unlocked as Jay had. And he goes back to bed and 
waits for Jay to come back.

END
*****
Kelandris the Mad
but if we argue and I don't stay up, how will you know it hurts?