Title: Broken Social Scene, #5: It's All Gonna Break

Fandom: Veronica Mars

Characters: Mac & Dick

Rating: R (language)

Note: Sequel to Broken Social Scene, #4: Finish Your Collapse and Stay for Breakfast

Note #2: Okay, I loved Dick in Postgame Mortem but it solidified the fact that the Dick I'm writing about is so completely 100 AU character-wise :).

Note #3: This is unbeta'd, the timeline is probably really screwy and it is definitely rough - I just kind of sat down and started writing… hopefully it doesn't suck too hard.

Note#4: Part 5 in a 5 part series.


7:15 on a Sunday morning.

This isn't the first time you've woken up and not known where you are, limbs like lead, head feeling so completely hollow that it's almost good… until you move. And then the world takes a second to catch up with you.

Which… not as fun as it sounds.

This is not the first time you've woken up in a bed that wasn't yours with a girl who's name you don't remember and who's face you couldn't pick out of a line up.

You open your eyes as much as they'll let you and the light filtering in through the curtains is too bright and it's too early and you're surrounded by pink. Pink curtains, pink sheets, pink pillows... like, Pepto Bismol pink, and your mouth feels all chalky on top of alcohol-fuzzed just thinking about it.

There's a knee hooked around yours, warm smooth skin against yours, and when you turn your head (slooooowly) you see blonde hair fanned out on the pillow beside you but you can't see her face.

You really hope she's not a dog.

You tend to fuck anything that'll let you when you're drunk or high and seeing as how that's pretty much been your natural state these past few months you've had more than a couple bitches approaching you on campus that you never would have done had you not been wasted.

You (slooooowly) slide your leg out from under hers as a steady drumbeat starts up behind your squinted eyes and you wonder if moving this soon is such a good idea after all. The idea of being surrounded by all this fucking pink any longer than you have to be is bordering on unbearable though so you keep going, keep swimming slow motion through the stale sex-saturated air and sweaty sheets until they slide away and you're clear of them and the damp heat of her skin against yours.

You sit up a little too fast and the world does that full tilt boogie you know so well and you close your eyes tight, press your hands hard to your forehead trying to stop it before bending at the waist and blindly feeling around on the floor for your underwear.

Even the carpet is pink and you're starting to get vaguely worried about how old this chick is when your fingers tangle in a thong.

Black. Lace.


You look over your shoulder and she zigzags into view.

You reach out, lift her hair up so you can see…


Tasty and (probably) Legal wiggles her shoulders deeper under the sheets and you take your hand back quickly (too quickly, fucking tilt tilt tilt till you're almost cross eyed trying to regain some equilibrium and not fall off the fucking bed). She mumbles something in her sleep, a soft little giggle and you slide down to the floor crawling on your belly like an army dude trying to find your clothes.

You pull on your underwear, wriggle into your pants still keeping to the floor, and grab your T-shirt on your way out, taking exaggerated steps so as not to stumble into any of the furniture that's pitching and rolling around you.

When you get out the sunlight hits you like a slap in the face and you stand in it trying to figure out where the fuck you are.


It's more about the sleeping than anything else, although you would never ever (except maybe under some kind of like, bamboo-under-the-fingernails, fire-ants-in-your-jock torture) admit that to anyone.

You don't even like to admit it to yourself, that all you really want is rest.

So you surround yourself with the facts, the distractions that make you you.

The ABC's of Dick Casablancas.

Dick likes to drink.

Dick likes to surf.

Dick likes to swallow little pills that look like candy and have some random shit stamped on it like Mickey Mouse giving you the finger, or a boob.

Dick likes to smoke up.

Dick likes to fuck.

So he does. You do.

You do all these things that the old you used to do but you've kicked it up a notch.


Or whatever.

The fact of all facts is you're bartering with your liver, your brain cells, and a hell of a lot of sperm for a couple hours of shuteye.

You can't get any on your own. Not unless you're so overcome with alcohol you can't help it, or so exhausted from… exerting… yourself there's nothing else you can do but drop. And the sinking is sudden and deep and endless then. You don't dream when you've drunk or fucked yourself to sleep. You just… end for a couple hours.

You like it, you want more of it.

So you go with your "brothers" to the bars. You flash your fake, and then your MasterCard, you knock some back until some girl bites and then you're out of there and in her bed and screwing your way toward oblivion.

But you're getting tired.

Tired of the effort it takes to be numb.

It's not enough to get you to stop though, because as exhausted as you are of all this… shit... the shit of being you to the nth degree… it's worth it to get through a night without waking up in a panic every five minutes, like you're missing something. Something important.

Which doesn't make sense.

Beaver was never important. He was just there until he wasn't anymore.


You thought Parker would be a good one. You know. Sweet. Like afterwards she'd let you fall asleep in her arms. Which is not something you ever thought would appeal to you.

But there it is.

You didn't pull out your sob story at the bar – that's for later, that's for when you start to sense they may not be interested. Parker was interested. She shook her ass in your general direction, smiled a lot. Touched your shoulder and leaned in close to tell you her name.

That's a dude's name, dude.

She laughed. Sounded like Christmas. Silver bells and all that shiny pretty stuff.

Hands on her hips, head cocked to the side, hot as hell and grinning, Do I look like a dude to you?

You lost track of her when you went to buy some more E.

You didn't find anyone else willing to put up with your drunk ass that night, so you thought you'd whip out the dead little bro card, cry at her door maybe, and if she didn't want to do you maybe she'd at least let you sleep with her. In her arms maybe like a stupid little kid.

But she wasn't there.

She was there.


It's four a.m.

You've been wandering around campus in the dark. It's cold. You're not nearly drunk enough.

You're in the southeast quad. At the bench again.

You woke up that morning and her head was on your stomach, her brown hair that was just brown and not blue or pink or red or purple or green spread across your chest and smelling really good.

You thought about leaving her there. You didn't want to have to look at her looking at you and knowing what she knows, knowing the real story behind the one you've been using to get laid. To get sleep.

You slept.

You slept here. Outside. On an iron bench that left welts in your face with a girl who wasn't giving you any lying on top of you fully clothed.

You slept the whole night through.

And when you woke up and it all came spiraling back, who you are, what he did, why he did it, you watched her sleep wondering how someone was allowed to know so much about something that was private to you and what was left of your family when she barely registered at all on your radar.

Not even a blip.

This girl is nothing.

Like he was nothing.

You hate this girl

Like you hate him.

Except you don't.

So you stayed with her. You watched the sunrise. You shivered.

You sit on the bench for a while. Watch the sunrise.

Her hair smelled like strawberries.

Which is so fucking typical.


You don't mean to do it but you do. Like you didn't mean to ignore him completely but you did and then it just became… normal. Like breathing.

This feels normal.

Knocking on a door.

This feels like breathing.

She opens it.

It's 9:30 on a Friday night and she's home and that's lame.

But you're glad.

And you're not drunk.

You're not high.

You're not particularly horny either.

But you're here.

She blinks at you, wide-eyed like last time.

You wait for the urge to say something nasty even though that's not why you're here.

You don't know why you're here.

You wait some more as she stares. Nothing's coming to you.

"Parker's out…" she finally says all quiet and you shrug because you figured she would be.

Which begs and pleads the fucking question…

"What are you doing here?"

You shrug again because really, you really don't know.

This is where your feet took you. You're just here. Occupying the negative space. The space he left behind.

And she whispers, "Do you… want to come in?"

You don't answer. You don't know that either. She blinks.

And then she just turns. But she leaves the door open for you and you step inside and close it.

You look around so you won't have to talk. She has posters of bands you've never heard of on her walls. She has a red bedspread. Red like twists of her hair that's brown now brown, but you remember when it wasn't.

She was so 1998.

So lame.

So not cool.

She still is.

She's still not.

She and Beaver would probably have gotten married and had lots of really lame really uncool children.

So maybe all's for the best.

Your eyes start to burn and you haven't even pulled out your card yet. Not that you think it will work for you here, with her. She's got the same hand.

Your eyes start to burn and you're not faking it this time, you're trying to stop.

She doesn't say anything and for a second you like her for that.

You sit down on the edge of her bed and she stands in the middle of her room, Parker's half behind her and it's pink. Really pink.

You look at the floor. A British flag rug under your feet and you wonder if she's been there. If your mom is there.

You can't remember where she said she was flying back to after the funeral.

Everything pretty much sounded like blah blah blah on a loop that week, everything looked like a blur of black. And ugly flower arrangements.

You remember she was there. You remember wondering why...? until you remembered who she was.

Beaver's "girlfriend".

You wonder what the hell you're doing here for the umpteenth time and you fall back onto her bed.

She says, take off your shoes.

You cock your head, look at her from the bed and she's frowning with her hands on her hips like Parker's hands on her hips but it's not sexy.

She's irritated.

So you kick your shoes off and she's looking at you like she doesn't know what to do with this – you being here. You don't either but you wriggle back on the bed until you're against the wall and you close your eyes.

Her pillow smells good, like her hair and after a moment you feel the edge of the bed dip just a little as she lays down beside you, her back to you.

She doesn't touch you and you don't touch her, until you do.

You reach out a hand and press it against her stomach, pulling her back a little so she's not at the edge. About to fall. She doesn't fight you but she stiffens slightly before she lets you guide her back.

And then you're curled around her, you're a lot bigger, she fits inside the question mark your body has made, her thighs on your thighs, her back against your chest.

Your eyes are still burning and you're still trying not to cry until you do and then there's no stopping it.

She feels you shaking. You know she does. But she doesn't move, she doesn't say a word and you like her for that. She just lets you even though her neck (and hair) is getting seriously wet and probably snotty.

You don't know why you're here. You don't know why you're crying except you do and you hug her close when she starts to shake too and you close your eyes.


This is the first morning in a long while you've woken up and known exactly where you are. This is the first morning in a long while you didn't want to run the second you were able to move.

The world is still, the room not spinning, your head not spinning. You're breathing and she's breathing and you're facing each other. Her arms are up against her chest her fists lightly curled and against your collarbone. You're practically kissing her mouth is so close to yours and you swallow.

You wonder if Beaver ever saw her like this, this close up.

You really can't imagine them doing anything more than holding hands and you don't want to.

Beaver never would have had the guts to touch a girl, really touch her. All he had the guts for was murder. Suicide.

You wonder who the fuck that person was.

You wonder if you would have seen if you'd actually looked. You wonder if you could have stopped it.

But according to the papers it went way back before the crash.

Beaver never wanted to play in the first place.

He'd joined Woody's Little League team because it was something you did when you were a kid and Dick Sr. made him.

He didn't want to play in the first place.


You get into a fight at the food court after ass backwardly trying to pick up some blonde.

Logan tasered the guy off of you.

Which ticked you off.

You never asked for his help.

And you really don't need for him to see you like this.

Like you need his help.

That guy could have gotten you at least a night at the health center, he was that pissed.

But Logan fucked that right up for you.

"What, do you want a hug or something?"

You flip him and Veronica off and you go.

Of course they're a couple again.

Of course.

Nothing like a little death and destruction to bring two people together.

It's so sweet you want to barf.


It's 12:15, Saturday night. You mean to be here so you are. You still don't know why though.

She's home like you thought she'd be. She's wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt with a hole at the neck.

You say, "Parker here?"

And she looks like she's been slapped. Her eyes get hard 'cause she thinks you want her.


You nod, "Cool," because you don't.

You wait for her to open the door wider and after a second's hesitation she does. She lets you through.

"What happened to your face?"

"Fell on it."

You sit down on her bed, she goes to the mini fridge and opens it, pulls out a can of Coke.

She plays with the tab but doesn't open it, her fingernail clicking against it and you watch her hands, you say,

"I don't want to talk about him."

She holds out the Coke.

"Put this on your face."

You do and she turns out the light. She gets onto the bed, she's against the wall this time and you lay down beside her staring up at the ceiling, an aluminum can that's so cold it burns hard against your cheek.


1:15 on a Tuesday.

Parker's asleep in her bed across the way.

She lets you in when you knock, goes to the bed without waiting for you to follow.

You lay down beside her, careful to be quiet.

You face each other and she slips one of her earbuds into your ear, the other into hers and she closes her eyes and you look at her, the screen from her ipod lying between you lighting up her face until it blinks off and then you're both in the dark.

And there's music that's quiet and loud at the same time, hard and soft at the same time. Sad and not. At the same time.

i really don't wanna think about those things

i really don't wanna think about those things anymore

and i don't wanna think about those things

this is super-connected

it's time to leave

this is super-connected

it's time to leave

this is super-connected...

You listen to the whole thing while she sleeps and then you do too.


12:10 on a Thursday.

She shifts in her sleep and you purposely move with her before you can think about it, you fit your mouth against hers.

Her eyes open.



She (slooooowly) leans back and looks at you. Wide eyes. She always seems surprised by you.

You open your mouth to say sorry but she puts a finger there, like shhhhh.

She wiggles in closer, puts her hand on your face, your cheek.

She looks at you.

And then she closes her eyes tight when you lean in again and she opens her mouth almost right away letting you in.

You touch her hair, hold her face in your hands and you kiss her hard and she lets you.

You touch her breast because Beaver would never do that and you want her to forget about him like you want to forget about him because it makes you sad, it makes her sad.

You're hard now and she's so soft and Parker's asleep (or maybe not) across the way and you don't care, you don't even think it's hot, you just want to touch her everywhere, you want to be touched everywhere and really feel it, really feel something.

Your hand pushes her pajamas off her hip, your fingers dip below the band of her underwear and she pushes you away. Hard.

You look at each other panting and her eyes are squinted and her mouth is closed tight like she's going to cry and she's shaking her head no, no and you think shit.



You get drunk. Full-on eyes-crossed drunk for the first time in days.

You don't hit on any co-eds. You don't try to sleep with anyone, to crawl into anyone's bed and fuck up their lives anymore than they already are.

You pick a fight and you don't fight back.

You get busted up good. No Coke can's gonna help this.

This is your life now. A tile floor under your face and your blood in your mouth and you wonder if it hurt when he hit the ground or if the falling was worse.


You've hit rock bottom.

You live here.


7:15 on a Friday.

Parker opens the door before you can knock. She's on her way out sparkly and glossy and like, Maxim hot.

She stops when she sees you.

You say, "Mac here?"

She purses her lips and you know she's going to lie.



12:34 on Friday.

You knock on his door. You think he's not home. But at least you can say you did try.

You did try to step back from the ledge. You did try to stop falling.

You're shaking and you hurt and you're so fucking tired of being you.

You're about to turn and go and you're crying and you're not trying to stop yourself because you can't.

But the door opens, the door opens.

"I don't have anywhere else to go…"

And he lets you in, he lets you in.

You crumple against him not even worried about how gay it is that you're sobbing in your best friend's (your only friend's) arms.

He hugs you and it makes you feel twelve and he gives you a bed, he tells you it's yours.

Your head hits the pillow and you're down, you're out thinking of strawberries and wide eyes always surprised by you and you kind of want to tell her sorry, you kind of want to tell her you didn't mean to kiss her but you did and it's not going to happen again you promise.

You think of Beaver like you haven't let yourself think about him in months and you sob into your pillow Sorry Cass, sorry and then you sleep.

You sleep you sleep you sleep because he lets you, he finally lets you.