Title: Tunnelling Under
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse, general
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob w/Mercy implications
Rating: PC-13 to NC-17. Slight het sex, intoxicants, slight
language.
Status: posted...2001?
Archive: You must send an email to me and let me know where you
intend to archive. Private archiving allowed as long as you
don't intend to publish. Behave.
Email address for feedback:
Kelandris
Series/Sequel: Sequels: In order, this sequels ren's "Tunnel
Vision" and my "Light at the End", and may end up with one more
section--at least. :< [Note from future daze: This lays in the
middle somewhere between the four stories in the "Feather" saga,
followed by "Descent", and then ties back in because I fucked up
to the "Dagger" series. Whoof.]
Disclaimers: All characters belong to Kevin Smith and the View
Askewniverse. If I really get into this, I probably will too.
Or at least go into hock when I walk into a video store, go
into rut, and buy all the DVDs at once.
Notes: Drunken weirdness all around, I guess. Het sex
mentions. Slight vampire action. Hangovers. Illegal
intoxicants.
Outline: The morning after, Mercy-style.
"Tunnelling Under"
by Kelandris the Mad
Mornings after were never less than interesting. Mornings after
certain nights before were nothing short of problematic. Mercy
awoke, feeling as if every single one of Hannibal's elephants
had expired in her mouth. Messily. Also, that Hannibal himself
was kicking furiously at the base of her skull. Her joints
ached, the bones in her head seemed as if they were grating
together, and her throat was drier than desert sand. Even
breathing hurt.
Blinking took more effort than seemed possible, and after
evaluating for a moment, she came to two conclusions. First,
she wasn't going to die of this--more's the pity, there was a
cure for hangover and overwork. Second, she was in the living
room, lying halfway between the couch and the floor, as it
happened. One hand scraped against the unbelieveably rough
carpet--and she'd spent some time lying on it a few months
back, so it had to be her senses ramped up to ridiculous
levels, not the carpet suddenly altering into steel wool.
She lay still, reconstructing the shreds of last night into
some cohesive whole. She knew she and Silent Bob had laughed
themselves nearly hysterical--silent, but still hysterical--at
Jay, at themselves, at everything that had happened. Weakly
leaning against each other, they had barely the energy to
remain upright. Everything had happened so quickly with that
mystical whatsit--infestation--Dailenth?--that at first she
didn't understand why she was so drained.
Then she factored in all the healing she'd done, plus staving
off the Dailenth long enough for Bob to reach Jay--and oh, how
fortunate they all were that Bob merely touching Jay was enough
to satisfy the maddeningly vague clause of the poison! And she
knew why she was so tired.
She turned her head, expecting to hear the creak of the hinge.
No one in the kitchen. She expended a little effort, closing
her eyes, and heard heartbeats, dim through the closed bedroom
door, which meant the boys were still here. Aching, suppressing
the groans, she rose painfully from the couch, staggering into
the kitchen. Glass. Sink. Water. That's all she wanted right
now. Even filthy parasite-ridden American water was better than
the ache in her head, in her limbs, down her spine.
A sudden flash of memory startled a whimper out of her, and she
nearly dropped the glass. Jay. Jay and whisky. What the hell...
**Jay had found the whisky, that was it. And she, she and
Silent Bob, still recovering in the bedroom, had looked at each
other, startled and a little afraid. A week of deprivation and
insanity and now the boy wanted hard liquor. Not a good
combination.
**She remembered Bob rising first, and tottering, fetching
against the doorframe with a thud. She rose next, supporting
the bearded one over to the couch, where he more fell against
the padded back than sat down. She could imagine how he felt,
for she was drained to a wraith of her former self, choosing
simply to fold up in place on the floor rather than stagger her
way to couch or kitchen.**
She pressed the glass to her forehead, relishing the cold.
Where was the rest of last night? Alcohol, all right, she
could see that; neither Jay nor Bob had any experience with
mystical poisons, she understood that. But why was--
**flash**
She did drop the glass this time, hearing it thunk into the
metal sink. A sensory flash of Jay licking her skin, amber
droplets running down her neck, and Bob murmuring something
unintelligible to Jay as he poured whisky down Jay's neck, down
his arms, over his bare, flushed chest...
She shook her head, dazzled. All right, maybe she'd been
wrong. Maybe something had happened. But then, why had she
been out on the couch? She drained the glass of water, filling
it again and carrying it carefully back to the couch. She set
it down on the clean table, raising an eyebrow at seeing the
table bare of any clutter. Odd. She sat back against the
couch, thinking. Whisky, something to do with the whisky.
What?
**"You need to be protected," she said, her voice a broken
vessel. She was lying on her stomach on the floor, her ankles
neatly crossed and her feet in the air. Jay was downing a
beer--at least he hadn't stayed with the hard stuff--and
shrugged, pointing to Bob on the couch.
**"Merse, I'm already protected, I got *him."" He smiled over at
Bob, who nodded, barely smiling back. "I don't need no one
else."
**"Not that kind of protection," she croaked. She sat up. She
opened her mouth and--**
She blinked. Whatever it was, was gone now. What the hell had
she said? More to the point, what the hell had happened?
Shaking her head, she finished the second glass of water,
leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes.
**All right, old girl. You are this grand mystical thing, so
what say you arrange last night in some semblance of rational
order?** Humming softly under her breath, she cast a simple
memory enhancement spell, breathing in and out quietly.
**There, that should wor--**
She gasped, sitting bolt upright and holding her head.
**"C'mon, let's go to bed," Jay said, waggling his eyebrows
in a very comical fashion. Mercy looked at him upside-down,
from where her head hung over the couch.
**"Darling boy, you're assuming I can move," she said,
laughing. She watched the upside-down Jay shrug, smiling.
**"Your loss, babe," and he staggered off, closing the door
completely by accident when he fell against the other side.**
**The three of them on the carpet, the bottle of whisky tipped
over on its side, and they were kissing, kissing as if they
couldn't get air without their lips pressing against skin.
Mercy grabbed Bob, turning his head to one side and lightly
nicking the skin open with the tip of one fang. He screamed,
arching forward, and she and Jay both watched as Bob's formerly
limp organ rose like a flag, bobbing with desire and need.**
**Silent Bob shook his head violently when Jay brought him a
whisky, and Jay smiled quirkily, nodding and pressing it into
his hands. Bob bit his lip, looking at Jay, and Jay shrugged,
and Mercy just smiled, draped over the couch like a throw as
she marveled how much these two communicated without words.**
Mercy staggered to the bathroom, bending over the tub and
turning the faucet on. Icy water hit her head and she yelped,
but it took the sting away from some of the images.
**Mercy's arms were loosely thrown around Jay's shoulders, and
her eyes were reflecting orange glow into his silver-blue ones,
and he just watched her, smiling faintly, kneeling on the carpet
and filling her with long upward thrusts, his hands clasped to
her hips. She heard a bottle drop to the counter in the
kitchen, and she turned, looking at Bob standing there, one
hand on the glass he hadn't dropped, one hand still cupped
around the neck of the bottle that was no longer there.
**"Poppet," she said, her voice rich and accented and cracking in
steady waves, "I'd rather you didn't shatter anything we might
have to summon the energy to clean." She looked down at Jay,
smiling, her fangs shining like stars.
**"Actually, dear boy, I'd rather you come here just now. I
think our Jay has designs on your edible flesh."**
Her head was saturated now, and she was starting to shiver. She
turned enough hot water on so that the stream was no longer
arctic, but stayed in place, breathing heavily.
**"Oh, no, dearest, up's *that* way," she said, trying to
point Bob in the right direction. Jay hummed something caustic
in the distance. She couldn't make out the words but she was
fairly sure, were he to put the original on to play, it would
feature overdriven guitars and a drum solo. Suddenly Jay rose
to his feet and staggered off to his room, saying "yeah, yeah"
under his breath. She stared up at Silent Bob, weaving on his
feet, and he shrugged. They both watched as he brought out this
contraption and a bag of green flakes out to the living room.
Her eyebrows rose. She hadn't seen a water pipe since...oh,
goodness, the 1800's or so. Which meant the green flakes in the
bag were--
**"Ah, no, gentlemen, this is where I opt out." She rose
unsteadily to her feet and Bob put an arm around her waist,
looking the question at her.
**"I believe," she said dryly, "the operative word is
'allergic'. " Actually, she thought, the operative word was,
she wasn't sure how she reacted. The last time she'd played
with marijuana it had been in an environment laced with kif
smoke and opium, and someone had shared an interesting
laudanum/brandy mix around as well. It could have been any of
those substances that had caused her odd reaction.**
She shut the water off, shaking. Standing, she reached for a
towel, squeezing the water out of her hair and hearing it drip
into the tub. So, whisky at least, possibly some pot as well,
but neither substance before had ever caused amnesia--
The dagger. With a sudden flash, vivid as blood on white tile, she remembered
the dagger, the dangerous thing Heaven was hunting her for. Was it possible?
Well, she didn't know, she'd never been stabbed with it before, and
besides--
The clean table. Flipping her hair over her head, she turned,
looking out the open door at the table. No bottles. No
dagger. No debris from the bottles Metatron had
shattered--now, *that* she remembered, so why could she not
remember the rest of it? Her gaze turned towards the closed
bedroom door.
**flash**
**"Don't touch that," she said softly, reaching one long arm
around Jay to pull him from the table. "Please, that thing is
dangerous even when wrapped."
**"What the fuck is it?" the boy asked. She traced fingertips
over his forehead, down his cheek, and he shivered, leaning
back against the broad expanse of Bob's chest. Bob protectively
curled an arm around him, both men looking at the table.
**"It's the Merikit dagger," she said bleakly. "A thoroughly
vile item that has the ability to slay angels."
**"Who would want to kill an angel?" asked Jay.
**"The inventor of the blade," Mercy said darkly. Bob's gaze,
which had drifted to the table, locked with hers again, and he
slowly shook his head. She turned her gaze away, leaning back
on the carpet. Some things were not meant to be understood,
she thought. And others--**
Alone again with the shreds of memory remaining, she sighed,
and walked into the kitchen. She filled one sink with hot
water and soap, and began to clean the glasses scattered on the
counter, waiting for Bob and Jay to wake up. If they remembered
any more than she did...it was bound to be an entertaining
morning.
END
*************
Kelandris the Mad
damn, this could end up a four-parter
