Title: Somewhat Damaged Author: Kelandris the Mad Fandom: View Askewniverse: AU from "Dangerous Territory" on Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob Rating: R for language, NC-17 in spots for drug refererences, violence and sex. Songfic. Status: New Archive: Drop me a note and it's yours. And on that note... Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net Series/Sequels: Sequels "Ten Minutes over the Line", which sequels "Dangerous Intentions", which sequels "Dangerous Territory". Disclaimer: Nobody makes money off this but the people who deserve to. Hopefully that's still mostly Kevin Smith, Jason Mewes and View Askew Productions. Notes: Once more into the breach, dear friends...Jay's still not coping. Jay'd rather leave than deal. Also, Taylor and Dylan make their quasi-second appearance--considering this is the Mercyless universe, the events in the challenge story never happened. Summary: Jay thinks about the fight that happened, and decides to stop thinking. Warnings: PAIN. Bad for brains to read. Warning you now. Heavy drug action, hallucinations, flashbacks every five seconds. Jay hating Bob, Jay hating himself. Bad stuph. And the worst of it-- DAMN it, I'm nearing the end and there's ANOTHER STORY in this! MOTHERFUCK! "Somewhat Damaged" by Kelandris *so impressed with all you do tried so hard to be like you* *Heartbeat. Jagged. Stuttering to a halt. Breath pulled out of him in thin jerks, along the lines of the stitches that held his spine together. Rag doll on the floor, faces of boys who were friends, who were not friends, over him.* *Faces moving away, pretty boys, fallen angels. Moving away, arms locked around each other, and he wished�he wished�he wished he weren't so fucked up. He might follow, if he could. He might follow, if he could get off the floor. Stitched down by circumstance, stitched down by his own fear, all his limbs stitched too tight to breathe.* *But he was loosening the stitches. His mind expanded, moving past the black line knotwork of pain and grief, moving through the shattered splinters of bone around the cage of his heart. Here. Here was where the trouble started.* *Heartbeat. Jagged. Skipping. Slowing down, breathing coming in shallower gasps, slower pacing, and he began to relax, the staple- bands around his head releasing. He exhaled, feeling particles of him spinning away, leaving him, leaving him weightless on the floor.* *There was a knock on the door and his mind spun back to what had happened before he arrived. Before the pretty boys and their pretty silver needles got to work. Before he left Bob.* *The knock sounded again and the echo sent him screaming along the threads, diving through the mesh of the weave to the center, watching his heart beat. Watching it stutter to another halt. And even this did not stop the memory from surfacing.* *flew too high and burnt the wing lost my faith in everything* Jay lay in bed, staring at his hands. He curled them into fists over and over again. He saw the place across one knuckle where the old scars had split, and blood was drying to dark flakes on his skin. Other places were red, scraped where he'd struck across buttons or buckles. Other places were bruised. Open. Flex. Close. Flex. Open. Hard knuckles, callused, fingernails bitten to the quick. Traces of black polish left, mostly all gone now. Blood along the ridges. These hands, he thought. These were the hands that hit Bob. These were the hands that-- *He remembered the bottle, grabbing the bottle at random, slamming it against Bob's hand on the table. He heard the crack but thought it was the table, or another bottle, and came at Bob again with the bottle in his hand. He came at him again and sliced--* *--through--* *--Bob's--* *--arm--* Jay whimpered, a full-body shudder passing through him. He curled on his side, breathing through his mouth until the spasm passed. No, he thought. No. No. *lick around divine debris taste the wealth of hate in me* Never meant to hurt Bob. Never meant to cut Bob. Never meant to-- *He remembered falling to his knees, hitting soft carpet and still feeling alley grit under his legs. He remembered unsnapping Bob's pants (so familiar), flipping them open (*so* familiar!), pulling out his roommate's cock. Autopilot. He was on autopilot and he didn't want this and he hated this and he craved this and he slid Bob's cock into his mouth, tonguing the head, sucking him in, and realized how quick Bob was getting hard.* Jay flinched again, rolling over, staring at the ceiling this time. There was a small stain in one corner and he focused on it, mapping its edges with his eyes. Must be the roof going, he thought, turning his attention back to his hands. He raised the left one into the light filtering through the blinds. This hand, he thought. This hand held the bottle neck. This hand very nearly-- Blinking, he stretched the fingers of that hand out, staring. The back of his hand itched, and idly, he scratched at it. Flakes of blood scraped away, lining his fingernails in rusty black. He scratched harder, hoping for injury, hoping for pain to wipe his mind clean for a while. Didn't happen. There was redness over the knuckles, and blood grimed into the skin, but no cuts. No skin splits. Nothing other than a little scraped skin, a little bruising. Huh. He blinked heavily, his eyelids feeling like lead. He wasn't hurt. No split in the skin. So that meant it wasn't-- --his-- --blood-- *He rolled off over the coffeetable, air moving under him, around him. Silent Bob's pushed him off the table. He fell through the air, falling, falling, feeling each distinct moment of time like a blow: the push, the turn, the fall. He scrabbled for purchase, for stability, reaching for some way to strike out. His left hand curled around the neck of the bottle, briniging it against Bob's hand on the table.* *Crash*, he heard. *Crack*. *And then up and over in an arc against the arm, *slicing* into Bob as he dove to one side--* *shedding skin succumb defeat this machine is obsolete* "Fuck this shit," Jay muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I'm outta here." One quick motion threw him from the bed, and before anything else could stop him, he stripped out of clothes, pulled on fresh ones, shoved some cash in a pocket and left the room. *made the choice to go away drink the fountain of decay* Coast was clear, he thought, looking around. He grabbed his coat and a knit cap from the closet, shrugging into both as he turned around. Across the room, then, he saw what he hadn't seen before: a glowing red circle of light, hovering in midair. The end of a lit cigarette. "Going somewhere?" Silent Bob's voice was colorless, soft as the drifting smoke over his head. The glowing circle moved towards the kitchen counter, flicked part of itself into an ashtray, rose to face level again. He said nothing else, just leaned against the counter, waiting. And Jay couldn't speak. He wanted�he didn't know what he wanted. Talk to him, maybe. Tell him�he didn't know what to tell him. He opened his mouth to try and suddenly got angry: what the hell was he *doing*? He didn't need to fucking explain *shit* to some fucking user asshole *rapist* alky�that he�loved� Jay straightened up, swallowing. "What the fuck you want?" he asked sullenly. "I have to want?" Soft, Bob's voice, so very soft, like being strangled by angora. It made Jay tense up, flex, toss his hair back defiantly. "What the fuck kinda question is that? You on something?" Pained laughter, nearly too low to hear, answered that question. "Were it only so simple," Bob whispered. "Sadly, I think I'm back to cold sober." "What the hell you--" *Bob was bucking against Jay's face, and all he could remember was the taste of Bob in his mouth. Autopilot. Autopilot. Something inside was screaming, shredding itself trying to get away, trying not to think about what was happening. But something else, something more powerful, wanted this. Wanted this desperately. Jay heard himself, murmuring, humming, moaning deep in his throat where Bob was thrusting inside, and Jay was trembling, twitching, his muscles urging him to run, run now, before it was too late, before he did something horrible, before--before--* *Something sharp shifted in him, and he cringed, but he flicked his tongue out in spite of it, curling it around the head, plunging the pointed tip along Bob's tender skin, wrapping it, supple muscle, over the rounded head and tugging--* *And Bob came, crying out, bucking against him, shaking like he was gonna fall down, and Jay's cynicism took over. Just like the others, he thought. Every other fucker out there. Blow `em and they're happy and it's all they ever want and it makes me nothing�*Nothing*� and I don't wanna be *nothing*�I don't wanna be--* He shook his head, violently, driving the recall away. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to remember what he'd done, what he'd said, any of it. He glared at Bob, as if he was the sole cause for everything he'd done. "Fuck you," he hissed, venom dripping. "Anything you got, you got for fuckin' free. You oughta be grateful." Bob's hand slamming down on the kitchen counter made dishes in the cabinets rattle, and Jay jump back a good foot. But his voice, when he spoke again, was still that colorless, still voice, quiet as fog. "Grateful," he said thoughtfully. "Suppose I am. What then?" "What, you want another?" Jay sneered. He grabbed his crotch, fondling himself crudely. "I got more for ya, but this time it won't be--" "*No,*" Bob said firmly. "Gratitude requires recompense." "Rewhat now?" Jay watched as Bob stubbed out the glowing coal, and heard him slowly step forward. The shadows held him like a lover, refusing to let more than a glitter of light touch his hair. Leather rustled as he moved, and Jay frowned. **He got his armor on. Why? He wasn't just up thinking?** The ramifications of that would have stunned him into silence again, but he shook his head. Not thinking about shit was becoming his new mantra. Finally, Bob stepped into a patch of light. Yep, still Bob. Tubby ass in leather, rounded belly, hair dark and sleek and shining. Face still Bob, a little set, a little cold, and the eyes-- Jay swallowed. The eyes were *not* the same. Bob's eyes were fucking *scary*, chips of jagged brown, the centers going on and on, down into black, forever. He shuddered, remembering stories he'd heard on the street about Bob's family. Some kinda Russian mafia gig, killers for hire. He'd never bought it until now. Now, Bob looked like he could quite easily beat the life out of Jay, wash his hands, light the apartment on fire and walk away. The blond was suddenly obscurely relieved. All those fuckin' years on the street, tricks had tried him, tricks had played him, and a few had occasionally injured him. None had actually accomplished snuffing out his little junkie's life. Maybe Bob was up for the effort. Might be worth it, he thought sourly. He cracked his knucles, waiting for round two. Didn't happen. Bob tilted his head to one side, those eyes still so cold Jay got chills. "What if I wanted to return the favor?" *fear a hole exquisite red fuck the rest and stab it dead* *Sudden flash: Bob thrusting into him in the alley, hands on Jay's hips and Jay just beginning to thrust back, just beginning to *want* it, just beginning to want it like he'd never wanted any of the tricks, never, never wanted anything but their cash, but he wanted this, he *wanted* Bob in that moment like he'd never craved anything but drugs to numb the pain and--and--* *broken bruised forgotten sore too fucked up to care anymore* Jay yelped, stepping back, shaking his head. "Fuck you, man," he said, his voice trembling. "Don't *do* me no fuckin' favors." Bob just looked at him. Bob just looked at him with those scary motherfuckin' eyes and he realized he was breathing hard. Breathing hard and looking at Bob and suddenly wondering what would happen if he walked over now, pulled Bob to the carpet, slid his cock between those full lips and let that poetic tongue taste him for the first time, wrap around him and suck him in and make him feel--make him feel-- Make him feel fuckin' *gay*, what the fuck *was* this?? Shit, he'd been hangin' with one asshole way too long if this was what came of it. And Bob, my God, *Bob*�what the hell was with that? Big fat ass, big fat *guy*, fuck, he'd seen Bob walk out of the shower, for Chrissakes-- *Sudden flash: Opening the door as Bob was in the shower one day, seeing a flash of wet flesh through the gap in the curtain, and Bob just standing there, water sluicing through the dark hair on his chest, sleeking the dark hair on his head down to long, silken strands of black, and Bob's cock in his hand, wet, gleaming, monstrously thick, and Bob's head thrown back, timing his breathing to the squeezing of his hands--* *--and Jay had thought he was so fucking beautiful just standing there, under the water, and for a pained moment he'd wanted to-- wanted to--* He backed away from the thought but it pursued him, chased there by Bob's cold eyes. **Fucking *admit* it, already! You wanted to strip naked and get in there and bend over for the Bob! Have him do *exactly* what he did in the alley, and don't even fuckin' lie to me that you didn't want that too--** "No!" he cried, never sure afterwards whether he was answering the voice inside or Bob's. "No, fuck you, I am *gone*, motherfucker! I am not gonna stay here and be your new girl!" **You don't *get* it, do you? You don't get to *have* me!** echoed crazily through his mind, and fighting his way through the echoes, he made his way to the door. "Don't fuckin' follow me, either!" he screamed, slamming the door behind him. The last thing he heard was Bob sighing. "As if I have to," he said, and then Jay pelted down the stairs, knuckling away sudden tears, and snarling all the way to the bus stop. **Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck--** The bus came, and he vaulted inside, dropping in coins and slouching to the back. He checked the time. Shit, last bus of the evening, now where the hell was he going for the next six hours? *poisoned to my rotten core too fucked up to care anymore poisoned to my rotten core too fucked up to care anymore poisoned to my rotten core too fucked up to care anymore* After the bars closed, he sighed, walking around downtown Highlands. Wasn't that fucking much around still open, and he shook his head. He had enough for a couple nights at a motel, sure, but after that he'd need to go back for his stuff, and Bob'd probably be there, all wounded and shit, or maybe he'd have passed the three-day wait for a gun-- Jay shied away from that idea, and then looked around. Hey. He knew this neighborhood. Shit, he hadn't been here for years. Now, which building was it? Big grey one. He struggled to remember, looking around him. Shit. They were all big grey buildings. He walked for a bit, fighting recall to work. Roses. Something about roses. Big ones. Big�*grey*�roses�carved! Carved on the building, and now he looked around, marching in little circles, and there it was, there it was, the Tibor Arms. Jumping up the small set of stairs, he punched a button next to a black strip with white writing on it. "D.T." was all it said. *Bzzzzz*. He waited. He pressed it again. *BZZZZZZZZ!* *click* "Better be money or tail," came the curt, young voice on the intercom. Jay smiled loopily. "Might be both," he said, feeling cocky. "'S Jay." There was silence for a moment, then the click of the intercom activating again. "What, she decide to kick you out early, boy? Or you just like watching sunrise?" "Fuck, no. Just lemme in, dude." *Bzzzz* rang the door, and Jay grabbed it. He was already up the stairs before it had a chance to close, hearing dimly behind him, "414, in case you forgot." That, he hadn't actually. For some reason he always remembered where Dylan and Taylor lived, just not what their building looked like. It wasn't like he came here that often--to Dylan, he was still in the minors, dealing pot and hash. Dylan dealt the rough stuff--the ass- kicking opiates, the hospital-grade painkillers, the heavy derangers and rearrangers. Sweet angel heroin, among others. Maybe just what he needed. *in the back off the side far away is a place where I hide where I stay tried to say tried to ask I needed to all alone by myself where were you?* When he knocked on the door, Dylan opened it a notch. He looked nineteen. He always looked nineteen, until you saw his eyes. His eyes were grey, nearly silver, and cold as gunmetal. Actually, Jay thought, swallowing, his eyes bore a marked resemblance to Bob's right now. *That* was disturbing. Dylan wore a black silk kimono, the tassels of the red silk belt tying it closed trailing on the floor. He looked sleepy, his hair rumpled, and before Jay could speak, he nodded. "Yes, in point of fact, we were asleep. Before you toss us any opening forays into the obvious." "Oh," he said. He felt stupid now, but he shook it. Hope was around the corner, after all. "Need something," he said. "I'm sorry." Dylan's eyebrows went up. He looked over his shoulder. "Tay!" he called. A murmur from the back room. "Stir your beautiful ass, sweetheart! We're gonna need coffee!" Jay shook his head as Dylan clicked open the door, motioning him inside. "I don't need no fuckin' coffee, I need--" He stopped. Taylor had emerged from the back room, rubbing his eyes with one pale little hand. His blond hair haloed his face, and his emerald eyes were half-lidded. He pulled his kimono closed, the flash of white hip soon concealed, and smiled sleepily. "Hey, Jay," he said, his voice the very definition of `fey'. Then he peered closer at Jay's face, leaning against the bedroom door. "You're very far away from all right, aren't you?" He shrugged, starting to twitch. "What the fuck does it matter? You gonna turn away a quick sale `cos you got moral qualms?" Dylan looked at Taylor, who pulled his hands inside the red silk he wore, beginning to crack up. Dylan followed, and soon they were both bending over, laughing nearly too hard to stand up. "What's so fucking funny?" Jay finally said. He stalked over to a chair, seeing rolling papers out. He looked around, spying a carved wooden box, and flipped it open. "Ooh," he whispered. He lifted the box to his nose, inhaling the pungent scent of spice and smoke from the wisps of black leaves in the box. "What is?" "Moroccan kif, and don't change the subject." He walked over to the chair Jay sat in, kneeling beside him. "You know we have more exed clients than clients still walking the streets. We aren't exactly pillars of moral rectitude. But you do qualify--" "As much as anyone does," Taylor added. "--as a friend," Dylan finished. "Consider it�professional curiosity." Jay leaned back, shaking his head. Taylor disappeared into the kitchen. He heard canisters and utensils clinking together, and he closed his eyes. "I just want to forget for a while," he whispered. "'S been a bad night. Been a motherfuckin' *bad* night, and I don't wanna think about it no more." "Argument with Bob?" Jay's eyes snapped open. "What the fuck--" "Oh, who *didn't* see that coming?" Dylan sat back on his heels, watching Jay's face. It must have done something entertaining, but Jay had no clue what it had been. "Apparently everyone but you," Dylan said softly. "Or maybe you don't remember the night Bob dragged your ass out of here, saying if I sold you heroin again he'd do his best to kill me?" "Not hardly likely," Tay said. Dylan looked over his shoulder, smiling. "Which, love? Bob killing anyone, or Bob killing me?" "Both." Gurgling sounds emerged from the kitchen, and Tay walked out, cinching the white silk belt tighter. "I'd hate to have to kill him, he's a nice guy." "Fucker," Jay hissed. "Oh, so that's how it is. What on earth did he do?" "Don't wanna talk about--" He sighed through clenched teeth. "What part of `I don't want to remember' did you not get?" he cried. "That bad. Okay, hold on a moment, would you?" And he rose, disappearing into the back room. *how could I ever think it's funny how everything that swore it wouldn't change is different now* Jay's head jangled, bits of wire and glass clinking together, and he nearly rolled up a smoke, his hands twitching. But he waited. Teeth gritted, he waited, smiling at Taylor in a way that made Taylor shake his head and return to the kitchen. Finally, after far too long, Dylan emerged with another carved wooden box. "China white," he said softly, "would be perfect for this. Sadly, I don't want to violate your Bob's injunction�at least not technically." "He's not my Bob," Jay muttered. "Not now, not ever, not after�" "Right. So." He flipped open the case, revealing a long syringe and a little vial full of swirling liquid. He caught gleams of pale blue swirling through stripes of deep red, and blinked rapidly. "What is it?" he asked, reaching for it. "Tsk tsk�I don't know if you really want to know anyway. Besides, you're in far too much of a state to inject yourself, frankly." That's when Jay noticed how badly his hands had started shaking, and he leaned back, watching Dylan prep the shot. "A little diazepam in liquid suspension, some ketamine for lift, a little Amy, a little Alice. Some GHB, some MDMA, and just a little aggregate hypericin for color," he murmured. He took one of Jay's long arms, pushing the sleeve up, stroking along the vein. Jay shuddered and Dylan looked up sharply. "Bad night," he repeated. "*Baaaad* night," Jay said. He watched as Dylan squeezed his arms, watching the veins pop up like obedient pets. "What's that last one� hyperi-whatever?" "Hypericin," Dylan said, concentrating. He slid the needle in as Jay hissed air through his teeth, slowly depressing the plunger. Slowly, slowly, the liquid entered his system, and Dylan drew the needle out, smoothing down the little bubble where the fluid had pushed the skin up. "St. John's Wort." "Saint John what?" "I can't believe you," Taylor said. He pulled Dylan to his feet. "You gave him an antidepressant?" "Thought it might help." "With K?" "Well, that's not *all* that's in there. Thought it might help as a buffer, though. And there's a little quinine in there, help stop the shakes when they start." "And when would that be?" Jay asked, and felt his ribcage arch forward. He gasped, jerking, and fell off the chair. "Right about now," Dylan said, linking arms with Taylor. "Coffee ready?" "Should be. Think we're out of cream, though." "Pity." They walked into the kitchen. *just like you would always say we'll make it through then my head fell apart* Jay lay there on the floor, twitching, and his head still circled with shark fins. Breath shuddered out of him, and his heart pounded in his thin chest. The room flooded with red suddenly, and he tossed hair out of his eyes, trying to clear it. "Thought we'd forgotten about you?" the voices said. Sounded like they were speaking underwater or something, like bells chiming out of tune. Jay tried to turn his head, but the muscles felt like rubber. Then Taylor came into his frame of focus. It was Taylor. It wasn't Taylor. Taylor didn't have dragonfly wings, for one, blurring as they vibrated, nor did he have a mouth full of glittering needle-thin spines. They cut into his lower lip when he smiled, the blood running down his chin in thick crimson streams. He held a large spool of black thread, and a curving needle with barbs on the tip. "What're you--" Jay started, and gasped. The needle descended, and dug into his skin. He arched up as he felt the thread pulling at him, pulling under the skin. The needle dipped again, painting his nerve endings with fire, tugging at his skin in odd places. He felt flushed and dizzy, washed in waves of pain and the excruciating sensation of feeling coarse- woven thread pulling between layers of epidermis. He twitched, moaning, and the Taylor-thing laughed. "Yes, yes, good...Now you're sewn up, now you're sewn up proper." The Taylor-thing rose, chiming like bells and pottery clanging together, and drifted through a wall, which shuddered like cold flesh. Jay tried to shiver with it, and found he couldn't move. He couldn't move except for muscle spasms; he couldn't move except for his eyes blinking, darting, moving from side to side watching as much of the room as he could, as the walls changed colors and the furniture howled. He watched and looked and blinked and twitched and finally, passed out from sensation overload. *fade* *to* *black* ***** *and where were you?* Heartbeat. Jay's heartbeat. Jagged now, twitching in time to the muscle twitches along his spine. Heartbeat stuttering, fibrillating now and again. His head lolled to one side, jerking to the left in a random pattern. Breath pulled out of him in thin jerks, along the lines of the stitches that held his spine together. Rag doll on the floor, faces of boys who were friends, who were not friends, swam into focus over him. "He's going to live through this, right?" "Tay, my darling, if he's *lucky* he'll die. Unfortunately, Jay has rarely been a lucky boy. I think he's going to live a great number of days past this one." The knock on the door was loud, or at least, sounded loud to the blond on the floor. Maybe it sounded loud to the boys in the room, too. Dylan pulled up, frowning slightly, and opened the door to the length of the chain. Jay caught a glimpse of leather and began to tremble. **Please,** he thought, **don't be mad.** Then he blinked, gasping. **Please, don't have needles for teeth either.** "I'm afraid you'll just have to wait--" Dylan said softly. The voice on the other side of the door was just as loud. "Let me in or I break the door down." Sighing, Dylan pushed the door closed, slid the chain away, and opened the door. Some kind of time must have gone by; he and Taylor were fully dressed in nearly matching black outfits, and Tay had washed his hair and tied it back with a strip of black leather. Where the hell had he been? Silent Bob stepped cautiously into the room. When he saw Jay on the floor he snarled, and reached for Dylan. He fisted one hand in the man's shirt, pulling him close while the other arm cocked back for a punch. "I told you, you *ever* sold him heroin again--" *snick* Neither man moved as Taylor stepped close to Bob, holding the switchblade taut against the jugular. Everyone took a moment to breathe. The thing that had been screaming before in Jay's mind, when he'd fallen to his knees in front of Bob, now was sobbing, shrieking, wailing at the thought of Bob dying, of Taylor slitting his throat. The ketamine in his system prevented Jay from moving. It didn't prevent him from thinking. There were other intoxicants in that witch's brew Dylan had concocted that gave him a little distance from the thoughts, though--he wasn't crushed by their intensity, he had a little room to move, to contemplate all the factors. Arrange his emotions in neat little rows and see them for the first time. Huh. Interesting. "You told me," Dylan said precisely, "not to sell heroin to him again. I took you seriously. What I gave him wasn't heroin." There was a moment when Jay truly thought the fight was going to break out. Bob's arm trembled, wanting to clock Dylan; Dylan's eyes flicked to Taylor's; Taylor slid the knife into Bob's flesh a single, precise millimeter. **Bob,** he called out. He tried to move his lips. **Bob, please. Please, Bob.** He concentrated, throwing everything he had at the flesh he was trapped in. Finally, a weak, trembling thread of sound emerged. "...hrr..." he said. The three standing over him looked down. *how could I ever think it's funny how everything you swore would never chainge is different now* And Bob stepped back, dropped his hold on Dylan, moved out of the range of deadly Tay's reach. Taylor, for his part, calmly cleaned the blade on his sleeve and snicked it closed, standing next to Dylan. Bob reached down, carefully scooping Jay up from the floor, and lifting him like a child. Jay could hear Bob's heartbeat. It was a little revved, but it calmed down, standing there. He blinked a few times, then furrowed his brow imperceptibly. No one but Bob would have noticed. "What?" "...haa...peh," he whispered. Bob frowned. Jay tried again. "...peh...duh..." He swallowed. He was moving in slow motion still, but the world was whipping by. It wasn't fair. "...peh...fah...sipah." Bob thought for a moment, looking down at Jay. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, then into the pocket of his tee-shirt. Nothing. Then he reached into the pocket of his jeans, Jay feeling the careful fingers moving only through the stuff in his pocket. He pulled out the wad of bills, rifling through them. "Name it," he said softly. "Nearly tempted to give that one away; it may end up being a public service," Dylan said sardonically. "But then you'll feel all indebted, and I can't have that on *my* conscience. Let's call it a C-note and call it done." Wordlessly, Bob handed over a hundred, then walked out the door, holding Jay against his chest. Jay sighed, allowing his eyes to close. Now, if he could just get some sleep, maybe it'd all turn out to be a dream or some shit. He sighed again. No such luck. Damn, he wished he knew where he stood with Bob. He felt them walking down the stairs, out to the curb, where he heard a car running. "He okay?" Damn, that sounded like Trish. What the fuck? Bob shrugged, the movement shaking Jay, but he was too busy puzzling stuff out to struggle to complain. Bob slid carefully into the back seat, moving Jay until he rested, half-laying down, on the seat beside him. "Go," he said, and Trish pulled away from the curb. Jay felt a hand descend from above, stroking his hair. It was soothing, comforting on some level, even if it was Bob. "Stupid fool," Bob whispered. "Stupid, stupid fool." **Yeah,** Jay thought, drug transients disorienting him with the car's movement. **But at least I tried, man. Least I did something...** He trailed off, feeling sleepy again, and missed the voices in his head asking what he meant. *like you said you and me make it through didn't quite fall apart where the fuck were you?* END (Song is Nine Inch Nails' "Somewhat Damaged", off the album _The Fragile_. Quote below is from the same album, the song "I'm Looking Forward to Joining You, Finally". Which nearly screams for songficcing.) ***** Kelandris the Mad the smell of sunshine I remember sometimes