Dawson’s Creek dances usually end in tears. This one is no exception. After being convinced by a super-excited Andie, the gang decides to attend their homecoming dance for the first time as The Gang. Dawson, Joey, Pacey, Andie, Jen, and Jack all in the same place at the same time. Unfortunately Jack recently kissed Joey, and when Dawson finds out he decides it’s time to throw down. Meanwhile Pacey fails to perform on the dance floor for the lovely young Andie McPhee, but somehow finds the motivation when asked by the elusive Christie Livingston. The only good to come of this episode is that we finally get to see the only OTP that matters meet. Jack and Jen get to hang, and it’s clear almost immediately that they need each other. It’s our second run through a great ep, we hope you like it.
As promised in the episode we are also happy to present this week’s MTSG fanfic in its entirety:
(Y volvió a pasar) And it happened again: A sailing fic in 5 stanzas.
(1) Meeting Will at the Capeside bus station in the middle of the night, again. Beaten. Shirt bloodied. And then alone in the darkened driveway, Pacey hugging him while Will fiercely didn’t cry, and then inside, cleaning him up and leading him to his bedroom, lending him a clean t-shirt, and lying awake beside him until Will fell asleep, making sure no-one else in the house heard anything. Never asking what had happened. Because he knew Will’s dad.
And running into Doug on patrol that time, who took one look at Will’s face as he got off the bus and saw his nose, and took them to the ER, asking no questions. When Pacey started to say something, to explain, Doug tersely cut him off, ‘Not my jurisdiction,’ and never mentioned it again, but took them both back to the Witter’s, and after that, his parents never asked questions when Will showed up, and ignored Will in the same way that they ignored Pacey.
(2) And then the night, in bed, when Will pressed himself against Pacey and very tentatively kissed him. And Pacey froze. Then he saw the look of paralyzing panic that slowly came over Will’s face, and Will tried to pull away, but Pacey held on to him, whispering ‘It’s OK, It’s OK,’ over and over till Will stopped struggling.
And once calm…
“It’s like that, huh?” Pacey whispered, almost a statement.
“Yeah,” came out, Will’s eyes shut tight, his voice not quite loud enough to be a whisper. Then a cracking voice, scarily close to begging, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t tell…”
“I won’t.” And then without thinking too much, Pacey kissed him gently. And Will kissed him back, and there was fumbling around, and then hands under clothes, and then hands pulling t-shirts off, and there was kissing and caressing, and Will’s mouth found him, and Pacey was taken aback, and then taken in, and then when Will slowed a bit, Pacey figured fair’s fair, and tried his best to return the favour, but it only took Will less than a minute before he yanked Pacey’s head off of him by the hair as his whole body tensed, and Pacey knew he would have to wash his sheets before his mom found them …
And after, Will staring at the ceiling, and out of nowhere, whispered matter-of-factly, “He’ll kill me.” And Pacey didn’t have to ask who or why, and knew it wasn’t hyperbole, and just pulled him in and held him.
(3) And what had been vices became habits. Because no-one had ever needed Pacey the way that Will needed him. He’d never been able to be there for someone the way he could be there for Will. Maybe he fucked everything else up, but he hadn’t fucked this up. And if it wasn’t love, wasn’t true love, well, it was somewhere in the general vicinity.
So when that asshole English teacher gave Jack shit about being … like Will, Pacey just fucking lost it. And maybe Jack recognized that it wasn’t about him, and Pacey was grateful Jack never asked about it.
And he made it clear that Will was free to come and go, and say as little or as much as he wanted, only drawing the line at Will talking about how Doug was kinda good-looking. And knowing that when he didn’t hear from Will it was because Will had to be careful about his dad not finding out that he was talking to ‘that white trash punk from Capeside’ because in the wrong mood and following one too many drinks, if it wasn’t Will who got the beat down, it’d be his mom.
(4) And then a chance for a ticket out. Boarding school. Away from his dad. And the only person Will could talk about it with was in Capeside, so he showed up there. And they talked about sailing, and rowing, and the girls Pacey was seeing, and Richie-Rich prep school jerks, and maybe just saying ‘fuck it’ and taking off together on the boat for the summer. They talked about everything except what kept happening when they ended up in the cabin of the boat or in Pacey’s bed.
And every day, taking the Albin Vega 27 out on the bay, and checking out the standing rigging, tightening or loosing stays, getting the trim just right, lubricating the wenches, cleaning and oiling the salvaged jam-cleats, arguing whether the slightly frayed main halyard needed replacing, checking the hull and the mast-step for the fibreglass cracking, but mainly, the two sharing the rush of the boat healing on a close reach, wind and spray buffeting their faces, both leaning far over the windward side, sheets in hand, watching the sails, every movement designed to keep the boat in balance and moving forward.
And then when it was calm and sunny, dousing sails and anchoring off Crescent Island and going skinny dipping, then sprawling on the deck until they felt like hoisting sail and heading back.
“You know, Pacey, you should install a roller-furler, easier to hoist sail and reef when you’re sailing single-handed.”
“Yeah,” Pacey agreed, looking up to check the luff of the mains’l, “Roller reefing would be good.” Then looking straight at Will, “But I’d really rather not sail single-handed, buddy.”
And Will quickly looked forward at the luff of the jib, snapped the jib sheet free, and let it out by a few inches, and re-cleated it, looked at Pacey and replied with a wry smile, “Yeah, buddy, same here.”
(5) And Will always gave him shit about the name, “Twoo Wuv”. And Pacey would chuckle and say that chicks liked it. And Will would play-punch him on the arm, and Pacey would just let him and never respond in kind, because Will was the one guy on earth he would never hit. Even in play. Will had been hit enough.
And the annual regatta, Will crewing for Pacey, and they almost had it after a perfect upwind leg, every single tack just perfectly smooth, the two moving together with practiced choreography – Will reading Pacey’s tactics on his face. Pacey didn’t have to bark orders, Will only needed a look or a nod from Pacey to trim up or ease off or come about or jibe; until the last leg, when Carpe Diem cut them off at the buoy, and they won the protest but lost the race, and Pacey just plain lost it, and Will had to physically drag him aside before he punched someone. Will got him to calm down as he held him back by threatening to snog the jesus out of him in front of the whole town, and Pacey tried to stay mad, stay tough, but couldn’t help but crack up laughing.
“I’ll do it, bro. Don’t think I won’t!”
“Alright, alright, you win, Krudski.”
And they went back to the boat, arms over each other’s shoulders, laughing, and derigged, folded and stowed the sails, and locked the rudder and cabin down, and headed back to Pacey’s and got out of wet sailing gear, and Pacey didn’t invite him into the shower, but didn’t object when Will joined him. And eventually they got clean, but not before the hot water gave out.
Theme by Sound of Days.
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