Title: Shadow & Light
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Rating: Songfic. Trippy bit of existentialism. Mention of sex, 
homosexuality, murder.
Status: New
Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note...
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Series/Sequels: Nope.
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: Weird little stream-of-consciousness piece based on weird 
little stream-of-consciousness song. You'll have to tell me if it 
works or not.
Summary: Bob thinks on Jay and remembers. Yes, it's that flippin' 
vague.
Warnings: Homosexual implications, murderous recollections, bad 
history on parade.

"Shadow & Light"
by Kelandris

Dark man stands in the shadows, sees the pale man made of light. He 
watches. He always watches. And he aches, somewhere deep inside, 
for someone he knows he'll never have, has no right to want, has no 
expectation of ever receiving.

The pale man made of light is unaware. Unaware of so many things, 
the way the light glitters over his long hair, the way his eyes flash 
when he's angry, the hopeful, cut-adrift youthful look he gets when 
he's confused. Or wanting. Or thinking hard, sometimes.

*I was afraid you'd hit me if I'd spoken up 
I was afraid of your physical strength I was afraid
you'd hit below the belt I was afraid of your
sucker punch I was afraid of your reducing me*

Dark man in the shadows walks beside the man in black. For all that 
light holds him like a lover, he dresses in black, clings to shadows 
himself, and is overwhelmed sometimes by his own inner darkness. The 
dark man can no longer count how many times the gold-haired man has 
crept into his bed, during storms, or during nightmare cycles, 
begging like a child for physical comfort. To be held, to be 
protected, to be kept safe in a life that has known too little safety.

It changes nothing. They go on. Each day progresses forward, more 
walking in place, never truly altering the pattern of their conjoined 
lives. At times the dark man does not care. Times like this he's 
afraid of himself: afraid of how deeply he *does* care, afraid of how 
much he wants.

Afraid of who he wants.

*I was afraid of your alcohol breath 
I was afraid of your complete disregard for me I was afraid 
of your temper I was afraid of handles being flown off 
I was afraid of holes being punched into walls 
I was afraid of your testosterone*

The man graced by light holds such anger inside. Sometimes the man 
in the shadows stands amazed--it is *his* job, after all, to attack 
all aggressors, and yet, by and large, he is at peace. He is 
comfortable with the use of his fists, and knows that there are times 
not to use them, as well. The man graced by light has not yet 
learned this, and strikes out at random. He has beaten everyone who 
cared for him at one point or another. He has a habit of striking 
out at girls, and has spent a few nights in jail because of it. They 
always press charges.

The man at his side never has, never would. The first time it 
happened, he was shocked, surprised. Subsequent times have seen him 
calmly restraining the flailing fists, the kicking body, until that 
body dissolves into tears and apologies. He takes that as he took 
the fists before, with calm equanimity and such understanding as he 
can adopt. It is not easy, life with the gold-haired man. But that 
part of him, hidden beneath layers of cotton and leather, flesh and 
bone, the secret locks he keeps chained around his heart--that part 
of him thinks no life would be better.

*I have as much rage as you do
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell as you have
and I've kept mine bubbling under for you*

Such anger. Such rage. So much pain that he does not yet know how 
to shed. And yet, not unwarranted--his childhood, the dark man 
knows, was the stuff of nightmares from the start. Horror stories 
are less horrifying than some of the truths of his day-to-day 
existence. The man in the shadows knows this, has heard some of the 
tales, has confirmed them by other sources, and weeps silently when 
the man of light remembers, and breaks down. All he can give of 
understanding is a nod, a shoulder to cry on, and even with that, the 
man of light disregards him. He has claimed on more than one 
occasion that the man in the shadows has no understanding of his 
pain. It would make him laugh, save that that would cause another 
kind of argument entirely.

Who better to understand pain than the man who stands in shadow? 
Brilliant, brilliant beyond any other in his family, born that way, 
not made, and still expected to bow his head to the whim of his 
father, become a foot soldier in a forgotten war for dominance. He 
was to learn the gun, learn the use of the blade, learn the use of 
his body as a weapon. Even as a young child, he saw people murdered 
by his family's hands, and remained to this day ethically torn. You 
do not reveal your family to the outside world, he was told, until 
those words engraved themselves on his soul. Murder is wrong, the 
church said, until those words were engraved besides. He could not 
betray his kin to authority; authority said their actions were 
wrong. What was a child to do in such a situation?

Worse was the mere fact of his existence. Youngest son in a large 
family, youngest child of them all, wanting only his books and higher 
learning, college and degrees, a job outside of his family's domain. 
It was not to be. Early on, before finishing high school, he had 
been kidnapped by a rival family. He understood the why of it--the 
direct approach had not worked; killing off certain of his uncles had 
not worked; now it was up to them to convince the patriarch that 
their word was law.

Over the course of a night, a day, the day and night following, they 
beat him, they yelled at him, they tried to worm their way into his 
confidence. Little of it worked. He told them what they asked, as 
he had been instructed: he didn't know anything essential, and his 
Da had always told him, tell them what they want to know. If it ever 
happens, should it ever happen, tell them what they want to know. Do 
not lie. They'll kill you if you lie.

So he told them. He told them when they asked the first time. He 
told them when they beat him. He told them when they gave him drugs 
to loosen his tongue. His story did not change. Finally, they sent 
a young and attractive member of the gang in to reason with him, and 
it was not her fault that she had long, blond hair. 

*you were my best friend
you were my lover
you were my mentor
you were my brother
you were my partner
you were my teacher
you were my very own sympathetic character*

It was alarmingly easy to talk to her, to let himself think he was 
talking to him. Him, the golden boy, the boy dancing in light, the 
boy with eyes that were haunted and shadowed even then. He told her 
nothing new, but he trusted her with a little bit of himself, for her 
resemblance to him, to his golden one.

And then his family burst in, sound of gunfire loud in his ears, and 
shot her dead. Shot all of them dead. And all he could think, over 
and over, until the words he was screaming were stilled and silent, 
ripped from his throat forever--it could have been Jay. *It could 
have been Jay.*

And he knew then, he had to get Jay out. If nothing else, he had to 
set Jay free.

*I was afraid of verbal daggers I was afraid of the
calm before the storm I was afraid for my own
bones I was afraid of your seduction I was afraid 
of your coercion I was afraid of your rejection*

And he had set out to do just that. But the kidnapping had delayed 
him. While he was gone, the horror had escalated. While the family 
tended to his wounds, clucked over their littlest chick, Jay went 
through hell, was turned around and marched back through, and was 
released to try to walk through again to whatever exit he could 
find. Scars were created then that the man in shadows thought might 
never heal.

It mattered when the boy, unaccustomed to his new silence, came to 
the golden boy's home. But it didn't matter enough. They argued, 
his throat closing over the words he longed to say, and he watched as 
the boy ran from him, ran from his nightmare existence, ran to 
another nightmare that the man in shadows would not discover for 
another year.

*I was afraid of your intimidation I was afraid of
your punishment I was afraid of your icy silences
I was afraid of your volume I was afraid of your
manipulation I was afraid of your explosions*

And when he did, again his throat closed over the words he would 
say. All he could see behind his eyes was blood, staining blond 
hair, and he couldn't speak. He couldn't force the words free.

He could force Jay to come home with him, however. And he did. And 
they were partners, after a fashion--he was the blond's Muscle, and 
the blond was his voice. Sometimes they were not the words he would 
have chosen, but after all, it wasn't his throat that formed the 
words.

Over time, words came back, words of his own, formed from the healing 
parts of his soul. He still had little contact with his family, and 
Jay had even less with his, but it was enough that they lived for 
each other. They shared space, they shared what words were relevant, 
for in private the man in the light was as stripped of words as he 
had been, back when he'd seen crimson streak yellow in a dim, cold 
room. It was enough. He was content.

But now the man in the shadows lived in the dark of love restrained. 
He couldn't speak of it, but emotions bubbled up inside him, blocking 
his throat, stinging his eyes. He lived in dread of the day when he 
could no longer hold it back, and he knew that day was coming.

*I have as much rage as you have
I have as much pain as you do
I've lived as much hell as you have
and I've kept mine bubbling under for you*

And what good would loving him openly do? It would not change the 
habits of the man touched by the sun. It would only lead to 
heartbreak for both of them. What did he want, really? Roses and a 
thatched cottage and a white picket love? They'd go mad within the 
week, both of them. Then what? Eternal devotion, a love kept only 
for him? He could not rein in someone as damaged as his golden love; 
all he knew was the giving of physical affection. A few times, 
during lightning-filled nights, even he'd been on the receiving end 
of some lustful kisses, hands in new places, tongues in better ones. 
Neither of them ever brought such moments up in the light of day. 
What purpose could it serve?

*you were my best friend
you were my lover
you were my mentor
you were my brother
you were my partner
you were my teacher
you were my very own sympathetic character*

No, the man in the shadows thought. Better he never know. Better he 
never suspect. Better to be the bodyguard, protecting him from all 
harm, taking the women away when he was through with them, keeping 
him out of the fights his words brought on them. Guarding him. That 
was all he really needed. Just to have him nearby, and occasionally 
to touch, and occasionally just to watch.

Like now. Watching him. Eyes flicking right, flicking left, 
ascertaining that any who approached were safe. Wandering the byways 
and highways with the only one he wanted to share his life with, the 
only one he longed for, the only one he loved. Though he would never 
say it. Though he would only think it, and trap each new thought in 
a small little box, and toss each little box into a small little 
chest, and toss each little chest into the darkest regions of his 
mind, never to be exposed again. It hurt, this clenching of his 
emotions, this repression, this need in him for things he knew he 
could not have. But he could live with pain. He had before.

*you were my keeper
you were my anchor
you were my family
you were my savior
and therein lay the issue
and therein lay the problem*

"Bob."

*?*

"I love you, man."

*!*

END
(Song is "Sympathetic Character" by Alanis Morrisette)
*****
Kelandris the Mad
if I did not have thee, what else would tears be for