Title: Ribbons
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: Finally get around to sequelling this; the prequel 
is "Razors". And this sequels again. FUCK, I hate when I do this!
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: Years after the original, I get back to this. I've been 
talking to a friend on the side who's going through shit, and I'm 
going through shit currently, and somehow, it all spawned this.
Summary: The night after the evening before.
Warnings: Language. Angst. Boy torture (sorry, boys!). More 
angst. Sex 'n love n' pain, the big three.
Dedication: This one has one. To starla who's been bugging the shit 
out of me for this. This is yours, angst 'n all.

"Ribbons"
by Kelandris


Bob waits in the dark for the sound of the knob turning. Several 
times he rises, walks over to his computer, sits down and turns it 
on. It's never more than fifteen minutes of playing Solitaire before 
he turns it off again. Finally, he sighs, wondering when Jay's going 
to get home. Is Jay going to get home? Has Jay left him for not 
catching on soon enough?

That thought is enough to get him to walk over to his CD collection, 
track down the copy he has of Alpha Centauri, and plug that in, 
getting involved in the takeover of a planet. It's only mildly 
diverting, even so, and he has to force himself to keep going, 
converting more territory, fighting the occasional religious zealot, 
mind-worming large sections of the continent, which seems pretty vast 
for a random map.

In the middle of building another ocean harvester, he stops, pausing 
the game. Sound. There is sound in the living room. He sets in 
motion the shut-down of the game, and after it closes down, he shuts 
down the comp and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long. He hears long feet shuffle across the 
carpet, and waits, barely breathing, watching the shadow on the other 
side of the door. Finally, there's a timid knock.

Bob's eyes flash to the clock. 1:14 am. Okay. He can do this.

"...Bob? You 'wake?"

Of course he's awake, but Jay doesn't know that. Jay doesn't know 
why he would be. He walks softly to the door, keeping as quiet as 
only he can be. When he reaches the door, he turns the knob so 
slowly even he doesn't hear it creak, and opens the door. Jay's 
standing on the other side.

Just for a moment, the flash camera in Bob's head takes several 
pictures for posterity. Jay's standing there, all limbs hanging 
loose, the most heart-wrenching expression on his face. Jay's hands, 
still at his sides, fingertips barely twitching. The curve of Jay's 
shoulder where it meets his neck, the play of gold hair on the black 
band t-shirt he wears.

He blinks, looking up at Jay's face. What happened? What happened 
after he left? He shrugs, looking away and looking back up, 
conveying insomnia. Jay would buy that.

"Yeah, um...I need to ask you somethin'."

Another shrug. What?

"You...um...you read that comic yet? It's, um, it's...okay?"

That, he hadn't expected to hear. Automatically, he looks up at the 
wall to where he's been keeping the Action Comics #12. He checks it 
over; hasn't been out of plastic, has been dusted, original mylar bag-
strip still intact...He turns back to Jay, wondering.

He shrugs again.

"Fine," he says softly, and the sound of that single word seems to 
rip through Jay, injure him somehow, his teal eyes blinking rapidly 
as he steps back.

Now Bob is concerned. He steps out of his room, reaching out, laying 
a single hand in the briefest of touches on the boy's shoulder. Even 
that small, slight touch though, the blond leans into, tries to 
prolong, tries to stay in contact with him even as he pulls his hand 
back, drops it back to his side.

"What is it?"

"Tom, he, um...He wants the comic back. Says I haven't, um..."

And now Jay looks away, drifts away from him, walks over to the 
couch, dropping his head into his hands.

"Man, I fucked up *so bad*..." he whispers, and Bob wants to kill.

He grabs the telephone in the kitchen, dials a number he knows by 
heart.

"Jana," he says softly. "I'm sorry to wake you, *lubchen*. I need 
to borrow the car."

He listens for a moment, shaking his head. "I'll have it back to you 
before you wake up. I'll leave the keys in the same place."

He listens again, nods, and murmurs some phrase, hanging up. He 
pauses for a moment, then picks up the phone again, dialling a second 
number that's taped to the phone.

"I need a cab," he says, and looks over, watching Jay.

"What the fuck're you--"

Bob just looks at him, and Jay drops his head into his hands again. 
He watches the play of light over Jay's honey hair, seconds turning 
to minutes, counting down. He doesn't even notice until there's a 
knock on the door.

Tatjana and the cab seem to have arrived at the same time. Tatjana 
simply stands in the doorway when Bob opens it, her expression sleepy 
and rumpled, and hands the keys over. Then she walks downstairs and 
steps into the cab, and the cab pulls away, Bob watching until it 
turns the corner. Bob sends up a silent prayer for at least one 
member of his family that asks no questions when he needs her, just 
gives him what he needs. Then he looks back at Jay.

"Where would he be? Right now?"

"Tom? Shit, he's prolly still at that fuckin' bar--"

Bob shakes his head, grabs Jay's hand and pulls him out the door. 
Jay clings to him until they're at the foot of the stairs, and then 
with a violent jerk, he pulls away, stalking a few steps from him. 
Bob shakes his head, opening the cab door.

"Get in. Take me there."

Jay strings off a terse direction, slumping against the cab seat, 
glaring now at Bob. For whatever reason it's happening, Bob just 
shrugs it off, folding his arms across his chest and waiting. 
Everything is going through his mind at speed, a deadly reading from 
a dark pack of Tarot cards--Tom moaning in the access tunnel, Tom 
moaning in the alley; Tom asking, "How bad you want that comic?"

**How bad you want that comic. Apparently, pretty fucking bad. 
Apparently, bad enough to compromise every value in that little blond 
head of yours...that is, if you had any to begin with.**

Bob stiffens for a moment, clenching his eyes shut, clenching his 
hands into fists. That's not fair. It's not Jay's fault he's fucked 
up. It's Jay's dad's fault, it's Jay's mom's fault, it's Jay's first 
dealer's fault...Okay, there is the level of personal responsibility, 
but he takes as much as he can.

Quick image of Jay on his knees, taking everything Tom gives him, 
sears through him and he fights back a growl. He must have still 
made some slight sound, though, because Jay shrinks back against the 
other door of the cab.

Shit.

Time seems to creep by now, his body alternately flushing and 
chilling with the images his mind refuses to shut down, pack away. 
He says nothing, though, just thinking. Thinking of how many years 
this could earn him. Second charge for assault. He'll face it. 
Maybe even...no. Though Tom might desperately need killing, he won't 
kill him. He won't go to jail for murder.

He doesn't think.

But he will go to jail for Jay. Yeah. He thinks, yeah. Couple 
years, maybe serve three, six months, serve out the rest of the 
sentance on probation...He could do that. He could do that. He 
looks over at the blond, trying to look anywhere but back at him, and 
nods minutely. Yeah. He could do that.

The cab pulls up at the same disreputable strip of closed shops with 
broken windows, and he looks out, seeing the flickering BEER-WINE 
sign in the window. He flips a bill at the driver, opening the door 
and stepping out. He hears behind him Jay following. Taking a deep 
breath, he walks into the bar.

It's not hard to pick out that head of hair, those dark eyes, 
piercing even through the smoke haze. The strands of dusty steel 
stand out in the crowd of ballcaps and balding domes and blond- and 
brown-haired metalheads with their mousse and their denim jackets. 
He doesn't wait to make sure he's right, because Bob knows he's 
right. He walks across the bar to Tom's side.

"We need to talk," he says softly. The sound of his voice startles 
the man, and for a second, solid panic is all he sees. Then he sees 
Jay standing behind Bob, and the contempt comes back, the acid lust, 
the sneer. Oh, yeah. He thinks he's on safe ground now.

**One very rude awakening, coming up.**

"Outside," he says, tossing his head towards the back door.

"Yeah," says Tom, curling his lip. "What, your friend there wants to 
renegotiate the deal?"

"You fuckin'--"

Bob cuts off Jay's reply with a raised hand.

"Outside," he repeats softly. He walks to the back door. He doesn't 
look back.

Tom and Jay follow, nervousness flowing from Jay now, like ink into 
water. Tom's just curious. He doesn't so much care about either man 
at this point; his focus is the back alley, where they'll be mostly 
undisturbed.

He walks out to the spot where Tom and Jay had stood earlier, looking 
over his shoulder at the place by the crates where he'd knelt, 
watching. Ribbons of memory tether him to the spot, lash him in 
place, hold him fast. Something breaks inside, and he remembers the 
moment in a rush of sensation and pain.

*Bob shutting his eyes, pulling back, sitting on the alley floor. 
His hands clenching into fists, hard, brutal, brutal as the sudden 
spasm of rage that fills him, of rage that wants only one outlet. He 
wants only to destroy what he sees before him, break the tableau so 
that it cannot be rebuilt, break Tom. He really, really wants to 
break Tom.*

He stares at the alley door, waiting until Tom and Jay walk through. 
Tom's swaggering now, and Jay looks like he's been hit; something 
happened while they were walking out of the bar. He left Jay for a 
bare handful of seconds and he's suffered further injury from this 
asshole with a license. Man, how far will this idiot push him? He 
can't believe his hands could clench tighter, but they do, and he's 
back in the alley, remembering.

*He watches, hurt, jealous, wondering why he feels hurt and jealous, 
and wants to hit the walls until his hands split open and bleed. 
No. He wants to hit Tom until his face splits open and *he* bleeds. 
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 turns, watching Jay walk into the alley, some spark of 
defiance dimmed, less anger than he should be carrying 
over...whatever it was that happened.

**He doesn't feel he's worth it. Shit, how can he not know his own 
worth?**

He watches, wanting to spout fire at Tom, breathe smoke, spit bullets 
into that narrow rat's face.

**Because he's never had a feeling of self-worth. All of life is a 
trade. Comics, even. He started his collection when he--**

Bob took a careful breath, stepping forward, cutting off the stream 
of recollection with a sharp, decisive crack of knuckles.

"Jay says you want the comic back."

Tom's sneer grows wider.

"He hasn't finished paying for it yet," he says, his eyes roving over 
Jay. Jay shivers, as if the gaze had an actual tactile presence. 
Bob steps forward, into Tom's line of sight.

"My records say different."

"Really? Boy's told you in what...currency," he says, accenting the 
word sardonically, "he's paying?"

"Doesn't have to. He's done paying."

"Not by my records."

Bob nods, playing out the expected scene. He gets out his wallet, 
pulls out a hundred-dollar bill.

"This should clear his account."

Tom takes it, sighs, and shakes his head, handing it back.

"Would, if we were dealing in cash."

"You are now."

"Oh, the bargain's with you, not your pretty boy?"

"No bargain," Bob says, carefully ignoring Jay's twitch at the last 
phrase. "You take the money and you leave."

"Or?"

Bob cracks his knuckles again, stepping forward. The sound is loud, 
cutting through the quiet, and he has the satisfaction of watching 
Tom flinch. When he looks up again, Bob is looming over him. 
They're of equivalent heights, but he's still looming, managing 
somehow to appear larger than he is. This is Bob the protector. 
This is Bob the avenger. This is Bob in Muscle mode.

Tom rears back before he catches himself, plastering a sneer like 
some flimsy protection that will save him. He hasn't caught on yet.

"Or," Bob says softly, calmly, "you can ignore the offer, and not 
walk out of this alley."

"Oh, what, you're gonna beat me up? Because I violated his honor?"

There's some strangled sound from Jay he does his best to ignore. 
Jay's walking that fine line between aggression and absolute 
cowardice; they've been here before. But this cuts deeper; this is 
Bob finding out what Jay's been doing to pay for the comic, and he 
can't have that. And he might well react with violence to stopper 
Tom's mouth for good. Bob has a limited window of opportunity here, 
before Jay's carted off to Joliet.

And he has a feeling, Jay might have been in juvie, but never 
Joliet. He might not be able to survive the bigs, not with that 
face, not with his hair.

No. It's up to him. It's up to Bob, as usual.

"No," Bob says, punching one fist out like a cobra striking, smashing 
across Tom's jaw, dropping him to the alley floor. "I'm going to 
beat you up because you changed the terms of the payment plan."

"Wha..." Tom says, sputtering, as he tries to get up. He's trailing 
blood down his chin from a split lip. Bob is obscurely satisfied 
with this. He grabs Tom by his collar, lifting him up and slamming 
him back against the alley.

"Go call a cab," he says softly, looking at Jay.

"You gonna--"

"Go, call, a, cab," he repeats, shaking Tom at every word. Jay 
flees, running down the alley rather than returning to the bar.

"Now," he says, returning his attention to Tom, and smiling. He has 
the additional satisfaction of watching Tom cringe away from him for 
a moment, before his pride reasserted itself and he tried to punch 
Bob back. He stopped the punch easily by ducking under it and 
punching Tom in the stomach. All the air whooshed out of him, and he 
dropped to his knees.

"I want an understanding from you," Bob says, lifting Tom's head by 
the hair.

"You...ugh..."

"You're not going to report this."

"The fuck I'm--oof..."

The handy kick that Bob gives him, striking off his inner left thigh, 
makes the man tremble for a moment. He suddenly has an idea that's 
even better than pulping that mouth, that face, that had bargained 
with Jay. He leans in very close.

"You're not going to report this because if you do, I'll have you 
arrested for pedophilia. Maybe even statutory, if we can get his mom 
in on this. You know what they do to child-fuckers in prison? It's 
not pretty."

Tom moans, before shaking his head.

"No. No. No fuckin' way. No fuckin' *way* is he underage! Fuck, I 
first saw him in the hotel bar, man, I *know*--"

"Fake ID. So we can get him into events. He likes...meeting the 
people," Bob says, stressing the last three words.

"Oh...fuck..."

"So. We have a deal? We finish this in cash or pain, your option, 
and you don't speak about this to anyone else."

"Shit. We're good. Fuck, man, we're good. Lemme up, you won't see 
me again."

"Good," he says, helping Tom to his feet. "Don't forget, now. Or my 
Family," he says, capitalizing the last word, "will make sure your 
body's spread quite evenly throughout the five boroughs. The cops, 
if they're *very* good, might find enough teeth on your skull to 
identify you by dental records."

Tom shrinks back against the brick.

"Who the fuck *are* you, man?" he hisses.

"Someone," Bob whispers, leaning in very close and cupping the back 
of Tom's neck in his large hand, "who doesn't want to see this" 
shake, "happen," shake, "*ever*," shake, "*again*," shake. 

"All right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Lemme go. I promise, already."

He steps back, and watches as Tom scurries away, nodding. Then his 
gaze turns back to the bar, and he scowls, cracking his knuckles 
again. Briefly he returns to the bar, ordering three shots of 
bourbon this time, downing each one in quick succession, then leaving 
by the front door. 

Jay's waiting on the sidewalk, hopping from one foot to the other, 
watching the cab pull up with wide eyes. Bob walks to his side and 
he jumps a good foot away from him.

"*Jesus*, man, *warn* a fucker next time! Fuck!"

Bob just shrugs, nodding towards the cab.

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Hey--" he asks, grabbing Bob's arm. "What 
happened with that fuck back there?"

Bob just shrugs.

"Get in."

Jay gets in.

"Yeah, but--"

Bob leans in to the front window, snapping out a short address, 
tossing a large bill to the driver. Then he gets into his sister's 
car, driving it over to her house, the cab following. He gets out, 
unlatches the fence, and leaves the keys inside a Chinese lantern 
that hangs from the back porch. Then he walks out, latching the 
fence behind him, and gets into the cab. He snaps out another short 
address, handing over another large bill, and they go home in silence.

They walk up the stairs in silence, too, Jay uncharacteristically so, 
Bob wrapped in a silence so deep it's nearly palpable. He unlocks 
the door to their apartment, walking inside, sitting down on the 
couch. Suddenly, he's very, very tired, too tired to take off his 
trench, even.

Jay sits uneasily next to Bob, looking at him. He holds his hands 
folded between his legs, and he's actually sitting still.

And Bob has no idea what to say to him.


END
******************* 
Kelandris the Mad
what was that chocolate stuph called again?