Title: Warmth
Author: PeteyDG
Feedback: Absolutely! PeteyDG@aol.com. But please, please be gentle . . . 
I bruise easily :)
Pairing: Jay and Bob. Always.
Archive: Feel free.
Disclaimer: Wish I could say I own Jay and Bob, or at the very least, just 
beautiful, tortured Jay, but no. No I don't. Kevin, Miramax, ViewAskew et 
al have that pleasure.
Sequel: None planned.
Rating: An R, I suppose. References to sex, some talk of cocks and tongues, 
implied child sexual abuse . . . but no actual penetration portrayed, so 
there you go.

Notes: I've been writing a non-slash Jay and Bob over on FanFiction.net, 
which some of you may be familiar with, a never ending monstrosity called An 
Unlikely Friendship (shameless plug!), which starla so kindly asked to host 
on her very own website, and which has a story arc longer than my arm and 
will probably go on into eternity, surviving the nuclear holocaust alongside 
the cockroaches . . . but I've been so enjoying all the magnificent slash 
here on the list (which by the way plays hell with keeping my almost 
father/son version of them on track in that other world) that I was finally 
inspired to slash the boys myself. 

It's quite the sappiest thing I've ever written, which is saying something.

OH and sorry but I just absolutely suck at titles.


Warmth
by PeteyDG


Jay likes warm things. Thick blankets and six layers of clothes and coats 
you can get lost in. He likes coffee too, and hot tea and hot chocolate, 
anything comes in a scalding cup he can wrap his long, slender fingers around.

Jay likes warm things because he's always so fucking cold. Chilled straight 
down to his marrow. 

Can't remember a time it wasn't that way. Heat was always off in that 
fucking rat hole tenement he grew up in, bed was always hard and covered with 
nothing more than a thin sheet, cause his mother and father seldom spent a 
penny for anything they couldn't snort or smoke or shoot up. Drugs provided 
their warmth. They gave little thought to the thin, shaking boy sleeping 
fitfully in the back room.

At least until he got pretty enough to sell. 

Fourteen years old, honey blonde hair hanging down his back in waves and lazy 
curls, sleepy hazel green eyes and a deceptively innocent face, almost six 
feet tall already, lean frame, long graceful limbs. A walking wet dream, and 
his parents knew it too well, and one day when it came time to pay a dealer 
and they didn't have cash, they offered their son instead.

That's when he left. His lip split during the failed struggle, his ass 
burning from the forced penetration, Jay had grabbed every thread of clothing 
he owned and the thin sheet from his bed, still sticky with semen, and shoved 
them into a battered gym bag, thrown his few comics on top and walked out the 
door.

Fourteen and homeless by choice in the dead of a New Jersey winter. First 
things lost were the comics, rifled through then torn apart page by page 
because the fucker ripping him off was angry there was nothing of "value" in 
the bag.

The clothes were next, the few he hadn't been wearing. Wiser by then, he 
slept on top of the gym bag, but the effort hadn't really mattered in the 
end. They'd even taken the dirty sheet.

Last thing to go was the absurd notion that he was somehow safer on the 
street than he had been in his own bedroom. That without junkie parents 
pimping him out, he'd be able to keep his ass to himself.

Dark alley, weakened by too little food and too little sleep, it had still 
taken two of them to hold him while a third ripped his jeans down to his 
ankles and nailed him to the pavement.

Colder than he'd ever been, after they'd gone, bruised and bleeding and too 
tired to even pull his pants back up for a while, so he'd just laid there 
breathing in the stench of the garbage in the dumpster that hid him from 
general view.

Coulda died that night, Jay remembers now, hands closed around a cup of 
coffee. He sure as hell thought about it. Thought about just letting go 
right there. No need for a gun or a knife or a drug or a noose, as close to 
hell as he already was, coulda just closed his eyes and let his heart stop 
beating and faced whatever it was that came next.

But he hadn't. The instinct to survive was too fucking strong, honed by 
fourteen years of ducking and dodging angry fists when his folks were sober 
and jonesing, fourteen years of scavenging for food in sparse, cockroach 
infested cupboards when they were high.

"Hey." Voice over his shoulder demands attention, soft and sweet as it is, 
and hardly ever heard. Clear even in the noise of this bar. Waiting for a 
connection, a sale, but it don't look like the guy's gonna show tonight, and 
that's what Silent Bob is thinking at Jay right now. Doesn't have to speak 
to say that. Then he eyes the cup of coffee, wondering why it isn't a beer, 
and his brows arch.

"Cold." Jay answers. "Just really fucking cold tonight, some reason." For 
a split second, the hardness Bob adopts on the job shifts and his face goes 
tender with worry or concern, or maybe just love. Warmest thing of all, his 
Silent Bob.

Probably woulda been dead by now, by eighteen, razor sharp survival instinct 
or no, if it hadn't been for Silent Bob. He'd found Jay outside a pool hall 
a few years ago, blood dribbling into his eyes from a gaping cut on his 
forehead, babbling incoherently. 

Jay never had remembered the confrontation that had left him senseless, but 
he thanked God for it every so often, because otherwise, well, otherwise 
maybe Bob woulda never happened to him.

Couple of years older than Jay and a few inches shorter, Silent Bob was a big 
fucker, broad chested and strong and a little bit fat around the middle. 
Silky dark brown hair to his shoulders, dark brown beard and moustache 
framing full red lips, dark brown eyes that were always watching, always 
scanning for trouble. Didn't talk much, hence the name.

Bob had been dealing back then, same as Jay'd been trying to do but with a 
damn sight more success. A little weed here, a little blow there, using his 
ominous silence and his bulk to collect debts for some of the other guys. He 
knew of the boy, watched him run in their small town circle with something 
more than professional interest. Skinny, twitchy, a mouth that never shut. 
Ferociously beautiful and way too young. When he'd found Jay bloody and 
disoriented outside Sharky's, there hadn't been a question of what to do.

Took the kid back to his place, doctored the cut, cleaned away the blood and 
put him under a blanket on the couch.

Jay would never have gone with him had he been in his right mind. He took it 
in the mouth every so often for a twenty or a fifty, if he could get it, but 
that was where he drew the line, and he didn't go home or even to a shit can 
motel with anybody to do that, cause inside there were doors and locks and 
blind corners that could kill you.

And of course, he wouldn't have believed Bob had anything so innocent as a 
bandaid and a night on the couch in mind.

But he had, indeed. 

Jay had bolted the next morning, after a hot breakfast and a hot cup of 
coffee, flinging a few harsh words that Bob had left unanswered. Harsh 
because he felt unnaturally safe in that apartment, across the table from 
this dark, quiet presence that radiated so much warmth. Harsh because he 
needed distance.

They crossed paths sometimes after that, Jay uneasy but courteous because he 
knew better than to fuck with Silent Bob, who had a reputation for cold 
violence. One that Jay wasn't quite sure he believed anymore, not after that 
morning of eggs and bacon and coffee and a soft touch to his shoulder which 
left a warm handprint that seemed to last for days. 

He tried to tell himself it was the debt that itched at the back of his mind, 
the thought that he owed the tubby fucker something, and not the memory of 
that warmth that finally drove him to suggest a beer and a toke one day 
outside the local QuickStop, his treat.

They'd hardly been apart since.

Hadn't been an easy alliance, at first, make no mistake about that. Jay was 
guarded and prickly and quick to anger. The ache that frequently tented his 
jeans whenever Bob was around made him defensive. Didn't care about being 
gay or bi or whatever the fuck, and he sure as hell didn't give a fuck what 
somebody else might say about who or what gave him a boner. 

It wasn't that he worried whether Bob's door swung that way, either, cause 
the looks and the quirked eyebrows and of course, the rock hard erections 
that seemed to answer his own, they spoke volumes, said things Bob never had 
to utter with that damned silent tongue of his.

And for that matter, if it had just been sex, that woulda been fine and easy. 
Shit, they woulda banged each other two weeks into the friendship if that 
had been the case. 

They'd struck a business partnership by then, at Bob's suggestion. He wasn't 
much of a salesman, owing to the propensity for silence, and Jay wasn't much 
of a muscle, so why not combine their efforts and double their money? And 
while they were at it, the kid didn't really have a place to stay, did he, so 
why not move in? They'd share the rent.

And so he had. And yeah, that night, they probably woulda fucked like 
rabbits that night if it had just been about sex.

But it hadn't. Oh no it hadn't. It hadn't been about anything as simple as 
sex from the beginning, from that first morning when the sunlight slanting in 
through the blinds had pulled Jay from his muddled, headachey sleep on Bob's 
leather couch and he'd screamed because he didn't know where the fuck he was.

And Bob, big, soft, warm Silent Bob had been right there, put that gentle 
hand on his shoulder and it had calmed him instantly. No drug, no booze, no 
sex, no anything had ever felt this way. That hand had opened his heart and 
shattered his walls in a millisecond.

Which scared the hell out of Jay. Why wouldn't it?

Sounds silly now, he muses, smiling as Bob settles onto the stool next to 
him, waiting patiently for him to finish the coffee, surveilling the bar with 
practiced ease. Jay tosses a few careless insults at him and sips slowly, 
scoots over a bit until their bodies make contact and the warmth, God that 
warmth that his Bob always carries, seeps into him and makes it's way down 
into his chilly bones.

Silent Bob smirks at the insults and continues his survey of the crowd. The 
words mean nothing, just the bluster that Jay wears like a coat of armor, 
nowadays only in front of others. The firm ass against his thigh, though, 
that he has to work to ignore. 

Bob doesn't care, either, what people think. He's got enough reputation now, 
and enough muscle to back it up, that no one would dare to bother them 
anyway. It's the responsibility that keeps him in check. But Jay, 
firecracker that he is, he likes to stir the shit and make life difficult.

Threatening to suck him off on the sidewalk, dry humping him inside the 
QuickStop, grabbing his ass and cupping his balls in front of the pet store 
at the mall . . . when really all the boy has to do is grin in that sly way 
he has, or comb those long fingers through his own blonde curls, and Bob's 
cock salutes.

It's why he never meets Jay's gaze in public. Avoids those green-gold eyes 
and those pale pink lips and that sweet face as best he can because if he 
didn't, he'd forever be pushing Jay into the nearest corner, the nearest 
shadow, and devouring his mouth, wrestling with zippers and Y-fronts and 
getting them both arrested for indecent exposure.

Or worse, much much worse, he'd miss something, a look or a sudden movement 
from a stranger or a sometime friend, and his Jay might end up bruised or cut 
or worse. And he can't let that happen. Ever.

So tonight, Bob waits, and Jay drinks his coffee and rubs his ass against 
Bob's leg. And they think about the same thing. About that moment a few 
years back when the gig was suddenly up.

It wasn't even a dramatic moment, on it's face. 

Ten or twelve weeks sharing an apartment, sharing breakfasts, if you still 
called the first meal of the day breakfast when it was eaten at noon, sharing 
space on the couch and cigarettes and joints and beers and the occasional 
movie. Pretty in Pink, as Bob remembered it, they were watching Pretty in 
Pink and Jay was holding forth on the sappiness of the entire flick.

Animated and electric and waving his hands around, as usual, and Bob had long 
since stopped watching the film and was instead watching his roommate, his 
beautiful, mercurial roommate. A few months of regular meals and unmolested 
sleep looked good on him, had chased away the dark circles under his eyes and 
softened his bony angles.

One of those hands had brushed Bob's arm and it was like being set on fire, 
the flames licking through his bloodstream and seeking out his cock, which 
stiffened immediately. The chatter had stopped and Jay had turned, hollow 
light from the television flickering across his face and Bob knew, as he had 
countless other times, that the boy was struggling with a similar response.

For his part, Jay remembered nothing about the movie, or his endless talking, 
which poured out all the time, unbidden by Bob or even himself. Main thing 
he remembered was Bob's eyes. Dark and deep and loving and patient. 
Waiting. Just waiting.

He'd been aroused for awhile, his cock full and straining against his zipper, 
shit, just sitting there on the couch next to the man was enough by that 
point to drive him half mad, and he'd planned on jerking off the minute they 
went their separate ways at bedtime. Maybe even finding himself a bitch the 
next day, someplace warm to put his poor, tormented dick, but then he'd 
touched Bob by mistake.

Silent Bob had been wearing a short sleeved shirt that night, something he 
didn't usually do, so Jay's fingers had touched bare skin. Warm bare skin 
had registered somewhere in the back of his brain, someplace primal and 
hungry for all the human touch he'd never had, and he hadn't been able to 
stop himself turning and looking into those brown eyes.

That had been the end of it. The end of all pretense. 

Hadn't been a wild fuckfest that followed, just a kiss. Jay had leaned in 
slowly, hesitant despite all the signals both of them had sent and received 
since the day he'd taken up residence on the couch. Bob had met him halfway, 
sitting up, leaning forward.

For a few seconds it was all Jay could do to keep breathing as he explored 
Bob's lips with his own. And then Bob's tongue had slipped out, dipping 
inside his mouth, and his strong hands had come up to cup Jay's face, his 
fingers gently sliding into the golden hair at his temples.

Jay thought he might die right there, that his heart might just stutter too 
many times to right itself, or he'd forget to breathe altogether. It felt so 
fucking good. So fucking good. So fucking safe and perfect to have Bob 
holding his face and his tongue so carefully tracing every contour of his 
mouth.

And then he'd recovered himself and his own tongue kicked into gear, and it 
was a whole new fucking world then, tasting Bob, tasting beer and tobacco and 
some sweetness he couldn't quite describe because it wasn't just on his 
tongue, it was rolling through his brain and spreading through his heart like 
liquid gold.

His own hands found Bob's face, stroking his beard and his cheeks and his jaw 
and his earlobes and his neck and fuck, Bob's skin was so fucking soft and 
warm.

Yeah, warm. Silent Bob was all about warm. Warmth that couldn't help but 
melt the ice that always fills Jay's bones.

He looks back again at Bob, whose face is flushed from stoically withstanding 
ten minutes of Jay's rump grazing his leg. Time to take his Bob home, to 
their home, to the safety of that apartment and that couch, away from all the 
eyes and the dangers of the business that puts food on their table. Time to 
take his Bob home and drop the walls he's maintained all fucking day long.

"Come on, Lunchbox, let's get the fuck outta here."

Silent Bob's eyes light up and he smiles. Finally! Finally they were on 
their way home. He follows Jay out of the smoky bar, down the street, and 
onto the bus which is just now pulling up, barely listening to the stream of 
words that flow from his partner's mouth. 

Scans the aisles and the seats as they make their way to the back, and once 
they're sitting down and he's sure there's no threat about, he puts an arm 
around his boy, whose mouth stops and whose shoulders begin to relax.

Bob knows about the ice, the cold. Became his mission in life quite some 
time ago to give his warmth to this slender, fragile boy, at least a little 
bit every single day, as much as he can tolerate. He can't wait for the bus 
to pull up outside their building, to follow his boy up the stairs and into 
the sanctuary of their apartment.

To love Jay long into the dark night, holding back the demons, wrapping him 
in warmth until the chill has been driven from every corner of his slim body, 
and hold him tight until morning.