Disclaimers: Jay & Silent Bob are the intellectual property of Kevin Smith and View Askew Productions, and I have no intent to profit financially from the use of these characters. This chapter was written by web author Nix and originally posted on FanFiction.net under the title Charity. It is the inspiration and foundation for the rest of this story and is used here with the utmost respect and thanks.

ONE

I never really planned on this whole intimidation racket to begin with. I mean, I was raised with the whole fucking "turn the other cheek" philosophy recited at me every other week, which is not exactly conducive to wanting to make with the head injuries. It was kind of . . . self-preservation.

Sounds funny, considering what I look like now. I will admit that I'm a scary looking bastard. But I wasn't always. And in a town where everybody is balls deep in everyone else's shit two seconds after it happens, if you're a nerdy looking kid who'd rather hang out in a Radio Shack or – God fucking forbid – a bookstore instead of tossing a football back and forth or running around the track like a little bitch, you have to either get very big or learn to get punched in the face.

I was never real good at getting punched in the face. So I went with the other option.

Leaning against a light pole, I rummage in my pocket for a lighter and a cigarette. A few quick motions and the smoke is rolling on my tongue, a fucking lot warmer than the weather out here. It's too cold to even snow, which might add some shred of value to the fact that it's been gray outside for the last month and a half. Grayer than usual for Jersey, anyway. I stopped going outside in the day because it was getting too depressing.

Then again, depressing might be an improvement over so fucking crowded you have to swim through all the nice people. People shoving each other, dragging children around so they can get their precious shopping done as fast as they can, cursing each other and me for walking slow enough to enjoy the colored lights strung up in dirty windows. Happy fucking holidays.

Much as they bitch, their expressions change and they apologize as soon as they get a good look at me. I half regret that, not out of some fucked up guilt complex but because it's getting too easy. Six months ago, I'd have had to break some bones or draw some blood to get the proper respect, because six months ago I still attempted the occasional polite smile. But now, now they don't fuck with me anymore. Amazing, how much you can communicate with just your facial expression.

Colored lights only hold their appeal for so long. Maybe I'll go home, watch the Breakfast Club and be marginally content. Marginal is as close as I'm getting. I should call Mom, but I probably wouldn't get an answer so I won't bother. Her non-fuckup children will be there; she doesn't need to be bothered by the one she had to summarily toss out.

Great. More depression. Forget being content, I'm going to get off-my-ass drunk.

I pull out of the way of some woman trying to drag a toddler with one hand and a stroller with the other, turn on my heel and –

Trip.

Only a brick wall and my reflexes keep me from falling on my face. I turn, snarling, ready to throw a punch, and scowl at the leg stretched out from the alley and the bundle of clothes attached to it. I wait for the stammered apology.

A dirty, pale hand emerges from the clothes and reaches up to tug back a hood, exposing an equally dirty face. A kid, skinny and hard-eyed and no more than fifteen, at the most, glares up at me. His voice is rough from smoke and cold when he snaps, "Watch where you're fucking stepping, lardass!"

For a few seconds, I'm not sure whether to kick him or laugh. Finally, I settle on taking a step back, out of the flow of traffic. In one quick motion he's on his feet, all nervous tension and bravado in the set of his mouth. His ragged clothes and worn knit hat can't be enough to keep out the chill. His fingers are white and his lips are almost blue. "What the fuck you looking at, bitch? You wanna start something? Just cause you're all big and shit! I can take you! C'mon, motherfucker!" He lifts his fists.

Apparently I don't have to go home to be entertained. Leaning against the wall, I narrow my eyes at him and keep enjoying my cigarette without making a move or saying a word.

And, as expected, it throws him off.

Relaxing enough that he stops bouncing on his toes, he tilts his head and squints at me, so bewildered that he holds still for a moment. I had a kitten when I was kid, one my brothers liked to kick the shit out of, used to look at me that way whenever the status quo, such as human contact equals pain, was shaken up. It's an expression that doesn't last long on this kid's face, which quickly tightens into something like resignation.

"Quit looking at me like you wanna get in my ass." There's an edge to his voice now that makes him sound older than he looks. The fists drop. "I don't do that shit. Best you're gonna get is a twenty for head, and bitch, that better be up front."

The look of disgusted horror on my face makes him ease down, just out of reach, clutching his thin, tattered jacket over his stomach. His hands are bony. I wonder when he last ate. I wonder why I care.

"You ain't one of those religious fucks, are ya?" Taking my silence as an affirmative answer, he makes an explosive hand gesture and nearly yells in frustration, "I told you people – "

It's a good thing I waited to move. Just my straightening up makes his teeth click shut, his eyes wide and wary. I move forward one step, wait for him to stop trying to back through the wall, and point at the coffee shop across the street.

He blinks, then demands distrustfully, "What?"

Okay. Let's try that again. I point at him, then at myself, then at the coffee shop again.

Something shifts slightly, behind his eyes. "You wanna buy me coffee."

I nod.

"Why the fuck do you wanna buy me coffee?"

I shrug.

Looking cagey, he eyes me, then glances across the street. I can see the hunger battling with the suspicion. He's quiet, lips drawn into a thin line. Then he sighs, his shoulders slumping for a moment before he steels himself and looks back up at me. There's a desperate sort of mask written on his face as he shrugs and informs me with angry dignity, "Hell. Fine. But you ain't giving me no hot beef injection, coffee or no."

Something about the way he moves across the street like an old man, stiff and a little shaky, convinces me to tell the waitress to bring half the menu along with the coffee. I settle for a sandwich I'm not going to eat and watch as he wolfs down a bowl of soup. He eats like he's afraid someone's going to take it away, his eyes darting up every time I move to put a french fry in my mouth. I pretend I don't see him flinching.

He looks like he's been on the street for a while. His cheekbones are too sharp, and he's filthy. I'm not sure what color his hair was originally, but it's lank and greasy now, dangling limply to his shoulders. He has a fresh cut on one cheek and the remains of a black eye. The smell on him keeps the waitress at a distance.

One bowl of soup, two hot sandwiches and an order of fries later, he shoves the plates out of reach, his hands folded over his stomach. With the edge of hunger off him, he looks even younger. Tired dark eyes glance at me, then away, out the window. The crowds on the streets are thinning out, finally. "Bum a smoke off you?"

I light one and hand it over without a word, both of us ignoring the dirty look it gets from the waitress. He doesn't thank me, just draws on it for a while. When he suddenly jerks into motion, his hands waving around for emphasis, it makes me start half up in the booth. "You can fucking talk to me, you know. I ain't stupid or contagious. You can't make yourself homeless by association."

"I don't talk. As a general rule." I pick up a fry and bite it in half. It's cold and greasy. "Nothing personal."

"Oh." The kid looks down at the scratched table, then back up at me. "Well. Mind if I ask who the fuck you are?"

"Bob." The coffee's cold, too. Damn, the things I have to do for dramatic effect.

"Bob?" His nose wrinkles, transforming his face, and I get a fleeting glimpse of what a good looking kid he might be if he wasn't covered with filth and burdened with the responsibility of surviving on the street. "Man, to hell with that. How're people supposed to tell you apart from every other tubby bitch named Bob?"

"There's nothing wrong with Bob."

"Sure, if you don't mind having a fucking lawyer's name. Sounds like you got a business degree or some shit like that. You need a new one."

"No I don't."

"And I don't need your goddamned charity, didja think about that?" The kid glowers at me, a raw look in his eye, then turns his head away to stare out the window at a stray cat loping between cars to cross the street. "I don't want you thinking I owe you or nothing. Cause I don't. This was your fucking idea, not mine."

I don't say anything, because there's nothing to say. Wasting words on this situation would probably only make it worse.

Flicking his eyes away from the window, he considers me for a moment. Then his lips twist into something close to a smile. He grinds the cigarette out on the plastic tabletop, then tosses the butt into my coffee. "Silent Bob. There. You get your name, I get my food, everybody's fucking happy."

He gets to his feet and I wait long enough for him to fix his coat around so none of the tears in it are sitting over bare skin. Then I ask "Where are you going?"

"Ain't none of your business, bitch." Combing his fingers through his hair, he makes a face when they come away greasy. He looks at his hand for a moment, at the grime and the dirt, and pain flicks through his eyes for a split second. It's gone when he raises his head, but it was there. It was there. "And stop fucking staring at me! I told you, I ain't gonna let you up my ass – "

His attention suddenly turns from me to the guy in the booth across the aisle, who's watching him with fairly obvious disdain. "Yeah, what the fuck you looking at, huh?"

In about two seconds, he's going to start something. Well fed or not, the guy in the booth could take him down, so I stand up myself, making his head snap back around to me. Kid's got the attention span of a ferret on speed. I ask the first thing that comes to mind, and wince. There's a reason I don't fucking talk. "Is it my business to ask what your name is?"

The kid eyes me hard, shifting back and forth restlessly from one foot to the other. If he's always in this much motion, he'll burn off that food pretty quick. "No. It ain't. But seeing as it's Christmas and all," and his smirk is somewhere between bitter and genuine, "I'll tell you anyway." Fussing with the hat shoved down almost to his eyes, he walks backwards to the door decorated with cracked glass and a paper snowflake. "People call me Jay."

Jay. Same as the noisy, raucous birds that used to tempt Mom's cats close and then fly away, laughing. Yeah. That fits.

His back hits the glass. He leans against the door, blocking the way, and offers me a lazy grin. "Merry Christmas, Silent Bob."

The door swings open and he steps backward out into the cold without tripping. It's starting to snow, somehow, whiting out the windows, carried on harsh winds that make Jay stagger on the sidewalk. He turns around, hunches his shoulders, buries his hands in his pockets, and starts walking for parts unknown. I sit back down in the warmth of the coffee shop and watch him go, not really sure why, until I can't see him anymore.

That smart ass grin . . .

Yeah. No way in hell he's going to survive the winter. Hell, I doubt he'll survive the week. I won't be seeing that one again.

I don't wanna think about how much that bothers me. So I don't. Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.