(no subject)
Title: The Beavercide
Author: Blondiekins
Disclaimer: The characters of Veronica Mars are NOT mine and no infringement is intended, so please don’t sue me.
Summary: At first, you try to pretend like nothing has changed. You throw your annual back to school bash and you lug around your party pig and everything is gravy. Until you realize that a few losers are trying to break into Beaver’s room. You freak out and suddenly nobody wants to hang out with you anymore.
Rating: PG13 to R for language
Pairing: MaDi
Author’s Note: So many post Not Pictured fics like this, but hopefully mine is a little different from the norm. I ♥ them!
XXXX
THE BEAVERCIDE
At first you try to pretend like nothing has changed. You entertained brief thoughts of not throwing your annual back to school bash, but you're pretending that things are okay so you do it anyway. You soak your house in booze and invite a million people you don't really know or care about and lug your party pig around and everything is gravy. Until you realize that a few losers are trying to break into Beaver's room.
You freak and suddenly invites to parties stop coming. Nobody wants to hang out with you anymore. Your brother was a murderous raping psycho killer and you're just another Dick in Neptune.
So you resign yourself. The Beavercide, as you've taken to calling it these days, left you with a lot of free time on your hands. You used to have hobbies. Things that you loved. Simple things like surfing and getting drunk. Eating pizza until you felt like puking and playing Xbox until your eyes hurt. And stacked blondes. God how you loved those. But surfing holds no interest for you anymore and all the stacked blondes in Neptune seem to avoid Casa de Killer like the plague. And so you resign yourself.
You feel guilty all the time, even though you know there’s nothing you could have done to protect Cassidy. You were just a kid. How could you have known? Still, you can’t shake the feeling that there was something that you could have done. Something you did to make him like that. Hell, maybe you’re just as responsible as Woody Goodman was? Maybe you should have been nicer or protected him? You feel like you should have noticed, because he was your brother and something was obviously very wrong.
But you didn’t notice. You missed the signs, even if you didn’t know what they were at the time. You couldn’t see past your self and your own immediate life. And when Cassidy started acting weird and your father started looking right through him instead of at him, you just followed his lead. You hate yourself for that. You hate yourself for having been your father’s puppet.
You have a lot of time to think about things now. Because eventually, the booze runs out and the pizza gets cold and your eyes burn too much from not blinking during your marathon video game sessions. So you think about Woody Goodman and all of the ways you could kill that bastard if he wasn’t already dead. You decide that you wouldn’t have blown him up like Cassidy did. Instead you settle on something more painful. Something that could be seen and anticipated. Something long and drawn out that would leave Woody crying and begging like the bitch he was.
No, you definitely wouldn’t have blown him up into little pedophile pieces floating in the Neptune sky. That was painless. It was over and done with and Woody never even knew what happened. There was no suffering. And you figure, if someone made you suffer for years, well you would return that favor. But then, that was Cassidy. Sometimes you think you were the only person that really knew him. And you wish you had appreciated him better. Treated him better.
But if you spend most of your time thinking about how to kill someone who is already dead, you spend even more of it thinking about Ghostworld. Cindy. Mac. Whatever her name is. Aside from you, she might be the only other person that really knew Cassidy. And you’re kind of grateful for that because you think, it would be a shame if you were the only one.
You think about her so much, and it drives you crazy. You think about her weird clothes and her weird hair. Her stupid face and her stupid eyes that burn with accusation-even if it is only in a dream. You can’t stand that dream; her accusation. In every dream, she stares at you like there was something you didn’t do for him. Something you could have done. Maybe there is? Maybe you could have been a better brother?
Shoulda, woulda, coulda.
Maybe that’s why, when you finally leave the house and head to the beach, you stick up for a little boy that’s being picked on. Some blonde haired, snotnosed kid that’s being pushed on his ass. Maybe those are your latent protective-brother-skills coming to the surface? Maybe you’re trying to ease your guilty conscience and that accusation from Ghostworld’s eyes? You hate yourself even as you pull the larger kid off snot-nose kid, because years ago you’d been beating up your brother on this very beach.
“Get lost, punk.” You roughly shove the larger kid away from snot-nose kid and for a moment, he looks ready to fight back. You make a fist and act as though you’re going to strike him and he runs off, his tail between his legs and his punk friends hot on his heels and you almost feel vindicated because snot-nose kid looks more like your brother than Cassidy ever did.
“What’s your name, little dude?” You ask him, shoving your hands in your pockets and glancing down at snot-nose kid as he stares up at you like you’re the coolest person in the world. You feel a pang somewhere in the middle of your chest, but you refuse to acknowledge the fact that Cassidy used to look at you this way when you weren’t picking on him or beating him up. Which, if you were being honest, was few and far between.
“Ryan.” He sounds so fragile and small when he answers you and you want nothing more than to protect this kid for the rest of your life. You introduce yourself as Dick and shake his hand when he offers it. But beyond that, you aren’t sure what to do with him now that you’ve saved him.
So you muss his hair and shrug your shoulders. “Alright. Well, stay cool little dude.”
A few steps later you get the eery feeling that someone is following you and when you glance back, Ryan is trailing a few paces behind. You get another pang in your chest because Cassidy used to do that too.
“Wanna learn to surf?” You call out over your shoulder.
The kid agrees and you walk toward the other end of the beach with him, where all the surfers hang out. You’re weary, so you stay just on the edge, where the normal beach goers are and the friends you used to surf with set up camp.
“We’re just gonna watch today.” You tell him, noting the disappointed look on Ryan’s face. “Look, dude you can’t just jump into surfing. It’s like, an art. There are steps, man. And the last step is actual surfing in actual water.”
Ryan nods his head as though he understands and you wonder if he really does. “What are the steps?” He asks curiously as he settles into the sand next to you.
“You know, there’s like watching first.” You make a gesture toward the ocean infront of the two of you as you cut the kid a sideways glance. “You gotta watch something before you can learn it. You gotta watch how a surfer moves and how he handles his board, dude. You know? You have to get an understanding of it.”
“Right.” Ryan nods his head again as he shifts to sit on his knees. You think it’s cute how he’s watching the surfers so intently. So you pick one out. You think it might be easier to focus on just one, instead of trying to watch all of them.
“That guy’s good. Watch how he does it.” You tell him as you stick your hands in your pockets and settle in to watch Casey Gant surf.
An hour later, you glance at the kid and he’s still enthralled. But you realize that it’s getting late and this kid probably has parents that worry about him. Unlike your parents who don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. “Alright, little dude. It’s time to pack it up.”
He stares up at you somewhat disappointed, “Do we have to?” He questions.
You nod. You don’t want to, but yeah you probably should call it a day. “You’re a surfer already little dude.” You tell him as you crouch down and stick out your fist. “Give me a pound.”
He looks at you as though he has absolutely no clue, so you roll your eyes at him. “Ball your fist, dude.” When Ryan does as instructed, you nod. “Okay, now bump your knuckles against mine. And that’s a pound.”
Ryan bumps his knuckles a little too hard against yours, but you smile anyway. “Good. Now take off dude. Your parents are probably freakin’ out.”
Ryan starts to run in the direction that he came from when he suddenly stops and looks back at you. “When do I get the rest of my lessons?” He asks you, cocking his head to the side.
You shrug your shoulders because you honestly don’t know. Sure, you live in Neptune and the beach is readily accessible to you, but you aren’t sure how easily a ten-year-old can get to it. “Tomorrow?”
Ryan nods his head and runs off and you find yourself smiling. And that feels odd. This is the first real smile you’ve smiled since before The Beavercide.
The next day, you’re up earlier than usual. You’re at the beach before ten and you park yourself in the same spot. You went out and bought a board for Ryan last night. You blame it on the booze, but you also find yourself trying to rationalize it. If you’re going to teach someone to surf, they’re going to need a board right?
You wait around for two hours and finally, he shows up. “Hi, Dick.” He greets you warmly, as though he’s known you his whole life. “What’s that?”
“Oh,” you realize that you’ve got the board in your hand so you hand it off to him. “It’s yours.”
“Really?!” Ryan’s face is all lit up and you can’t help but smile. “Wow. This is so cool! Thanks Dick!”
“Well, you needed a board dude.” You shrug your shoulders as if it were no big deal. And really, you have so much money it isn’t. Paying $375 for a customized child’s board was like buying a gumball out of the gumball machine. “A surfer has a special relationship with his board. You can’t just like, pick up any board and surf with it man. A board is like a woman. You gotta know it intimately.”
He’s looking at you strangely and you realize that he probably isn’t into girls yet. So you shrug your shoulders and say, “Okay, never mind that last part. Point is, dude, you gotta know your board. Every inch of it.”
Ryan nods and you feel like a super hero as he stares up at you, waiting for instruction. “We’re still gonna watch today, but you can get to know your board in the meantime.”
“How do I do that?” Ryan asks you seriously.
“Hold it.” You tell him, your voice just as serious. “You gotta develop a relationship with it. You can’t just stand on it. Not until it’s ready.”
He nods again and settles down in the sand next to his board. When you glance over at him throughout the lesson, you’re happy to see that he’s gently stroking its smooth, white surface. And you think this kid is going to be a surfer yet.
For three days, you feel depressed. You haven’t seen your little protege due to rain and thunderstorms and it’s starting to get to you. It’s weird but you’re suddenly realizing that you need this kid. Though he probably doesn’t need you. At any rate, he’s helping you heal.
You’re so lost in this thought that you actually jump when the doorbell rings. You’re fairly confused because you hadn’t ordered takeout and you really don’t have friends anymore. Logan’s stopped coming around because he’s back with Veronica now and she can’t bear the sight of you. You always were more loyal to him than he was to you. You think maybe that’s how Cassidy felt about you as you head toward the door.
You pull open the heavy door and stand shocked for several moments. “Ghostworld?” What the hell is she doing on your front porch? And why is she holding Ryan’s surfboard?
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but stay away from my brother Dick.” She shoves the surfboard into your hands and stares at you. Her weird hair is streaked with red and her stupid eyes are full of accusation. She looks all angry-rocker-chick and you feel a pang of something you'd rather not try to identify. Something different from the pangs you get when you think about Cassidy. “No more surfing lessons. Got it?”
Author: Blondiekins
Disclaimer: The characters of Veronica Mars are NOT mine and no infringement is intended, so please don’t sue me.
Summary: At first, you try to pretend like nothing has changed. You throw your annual back to school bash and you lug around your party pig and everything is gravy. Until you realize that a few losers are trying to break into Beaver’s room. You freak out and suddenly nobody wants to hang out with you anymore.
Rating: PG13 to R for language
Pairing: MaDi
Author’s Note: So many post Not Pictured fics like this, but hopefully mine is a little different from the norm. I ♥ them!
XXXX
THE BEAVERCIDE
At first you try to pretend like nothing has changed. You entertained brief thoughts of not throwing your annual back to school bash, but you're pretending that things are okay so you do it anyway. You soak your house in booze and invite a million people you don't really know or care about and lug your party pig around and everything is gravy. Until you realize that a few losers are trying to break into Beaver's room.
You freak and suddenly invites to parties stop coming. Nobody wants to hang out with you anymore. Your brother was a murderous raping psycho killer and you're just another Dick in Neptune.
So you resign yourself. The Beavercide, as you've taken to calling it these days, left you with a lot of free time on your hands. You used to have hobbies. Things that you loved. Simple things like surfing and getting drunk. Eating pizza until you felt like puking and playing Xbox until your eyes hurt. And stacked blondes. God how you loved those. But surfing holds no interest for you anymore and all the stacked blondes in Neptune seem to avoid Casa de Killer like the plague. And so you resign yourself.
You feel guilty all the time, even though you know there’s nothing you could have done to protect Cassidy. You were just a kid. How could you have known? Still, you can’t shake the feeling that there was something that you could have done. Something you did to make him like that. Hell, maybe you’re just as responsible as Woody Goodman was? Maybe you should have been nicer or protected him? You feel like you should have noticed, because he was your brother and something was obviously very wrong.
But you didn’t notice. You missed the signs, even if you didn’t know what they were at the time. You couldn’t see past your self and your own immediate life. And when Cassidy started acting weird and your father started looking right through him instead of at him, you just followed his lead. You hate yourself for that. You hate yourself for having been your father’s puppet.
You have a lot of time to think about things now. Because eventually, the booze runs out and the pizza gets cold and your eyes burn too much from not blinking during your marathon video game sessions. So you think about Woody Goodman and all of the ways you could kill that bastard if he wasn’t already dead. You decide that you wouldn’t have blown him up like Cassidy did. Instead you settle on something more painful. Something that could be seen and anticipated. Something long and drawn out that would leave Woody crying and begging like the bitch he was.
No, you definitely wouldn’t have blown him up into little pedophile pieces floating in the Neptune sky. That was painless. It was over and done with and Woody never even knew what happened. There was no suffering. And you figure, if someone made you suffer for years, well you would return that favor. But then, that was Cassidy. Sometimes you think you were the only person that really knew him. And you wish you had appreciated him better. Treated him better.
But if you spend most of your time thinking about how to kill someone who is already dead, you spend even more of it thinking about Ghostworld. Cindy. Mac. Whatever her name is. Aside from you, she might be the only other person that really knew Cassidy. And you’re kind of grateful for that because you think, it would be a shame if you were the only one.
You think about her so much, and it drives you crazy. You think about her weird clothes and her weird hair. Her stupid face and her stupid eyes that burn with accusation-even if it is only in a dream. You can’t stand that dream; her accusation. In every dream, she stares at you like there was something you didn’t do for him. Something you could have done. Maybe there is? Maybe you could have been a better brother?
Shoulda, woulda, coulda.
Maybe that’s why, when you finally leave the house and head to the beach, you stick up for a little boy that’s being picked on. Some blonde haired, snotnosed kid that’s being pushed on his ass. Maybe those are your latent protective-brother-skills coming to the surface? Maybe you’re trying to ease your guilty conscience and that accusation from Ghostworld’s eyes? You hate yourself even as you pull the larger kid off snot-nose kid, because years ago you’d been beating up your brother on this very beach.
“Get lost, punk.” You roughly shove the larger kid away from snot-nose kid and for a moment, he looks ready to fight back. You make a fist and act as though you’re going to strike him and he runs off, his tail between his legs and his punk friends hot on his heels and you almost feel vindicated because snot-nose kid looks more like your brother than Cassidy ever did.
“What’s your name, little dude?” You ask him, shoving your hands in your pockets and glancing down at snot-nose kid as he stares up at you like you’re the coolest person in the world. You feel a pang somewhere in the middle of your chest, but you refuse to acknowledge the fact that Cassidy used to look at you this way when you weren’t picking on him or beating him up. Which, if you were being honest, was few and far between.
“Ryan.” He sounds so fragile and small when he answers you and you want nothing more than to protect this kid for the rest of your life. You introduce yourself as Dick and shake his hand when he offers it. But beyond that, you aren’t sure what to do with him now that you’ve saved him.
So you muss his hair and shrug your shoulders. “Alright. Well, stay cool little dude.”
A few steps later you get the eery feeling that someone is following you and when you glance back, Ryan is trailing a few paces behind. You get another pang in your chest because Cassidy used to do that too.
“Wanna learn to surf?” You call out over your shoulder.
The kid agrees and you walk toward the other end of the beach with him, where all the surfers hang out. You’re weary, so you stay just on the edge, where the normal beach goers are and the friends you used to surf with set up camp.
“We’re just gonna watch today.” You tell him, noting the disappointed look on Ryan’s face. “Look, dude you can’t just jump into surfing. It’s like, an art. There are steps, man. And the last step is actual surfing in actual water.”
Ryan nods his head as though he understands and you wonder if he really does. “What are the steps?” He asks curiously as he settles into the sand next to you.
“You know, there’s like watching first.” You make a gesture toward the ocean infront of the two of you as you cut the kid a sideways glance. “You gotta watch something before you can learn it. You gotta watch how a surfer moves and how he handles his board, dude. You know? You have to get an understanding of it.”
“Right.” Ryan nods his head again as he shifts to sit on his knees. You think it’s cute how he’s watching the surfers so intently. So you pick one out. You think it might be easier to focus on just one, instead of trying to watch all of them.
“That guy’s good. Watch how he does it.” You tell him as you stick your hands in your pockets and settle in to watch Casey Gant surf.
An hour later, you glance at the kid and he’s still enthralled. But you realize that it’s getting late and this kid probably has parents that worry about him. Unlike your parents who don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. “Alright, little dude. It’s time to pack it up.”
He stares up at you somewhat disappointed, “Do we have to?” He questions.
You nod. You don’t want to, but yeah you probably should call it a day. “You’re a surfer already little dude.” You tell him as you crouch down and stick out your fist. “Give me a pound.”
He looks at you as though he has absolutely no clue, so you roll your eyes at him. “Ball your fist, dude.” When Ryan does as instructed, you nod. “Okay, now bump your knuckles against mine. And that’s a pound.”
Ryan bumps his knuckles a little too hard against yours, but you smile anyway. “Good. Now take off dude. Your parents are probably freakin’ out.”
Ryan starts to run in the direction that he came from when he suddenly stops and looks back at you. “When do I get the rest of my lessons?” He asks you, cocking his head to the side.
You shrug your shoulders because you honestly don’t know. Sure, you live in Neptune and the beach is readily accessible to you, but you aren’t sure how easily a ten-year-old can get to it. “Tomorrow?”
Ryan nods his head and runs off and you find yourself smiling. And that feels odd. This is the first real smile you’ve smiled since before The Beavercide.
The next day, you’re up earlier than usual. You’re at the beach before ten and you park yourself in the same spot. You went out and bought a board for Ryan last night. You blame it on the booze, but you also find yourself trying to rationalize it. If you’re going to teach someone to surf, they’re going to need a board right?
You wait around for two hours and finally, he shows up. “Hi, Dick.” He greets you warmly, as though he’s known you his whole life. “What’s that?”
“Oh,” you realize that you’ve got the board in your hand so you hand it off to him. “It’s yours.”
“Really?!” Ryan’s face is all lit up and you can’t help but smile. “Wow. This is so cool! Thanks Dick!”
“Well, you needed a board dude.” You shrug your shoulders as if it were no big deal. And really, you have so much money it isn’t. Paying $375 for a customized child’s board was like buying a gumball out of the gumball machine. “A surfer has a special relationship with his board. You can’t just like, pick up any board and surf with it man. A board is like a woman. You gotta know it intimately.”
He’s looking at you strangely and you realize that he probably isn’t into girls yet. So you shrug your shoulders and say, “Okay, never mind that last part. Point is, dude, you gotta know your board. Every inch of it.”
Ryan nods and you feel like a super hero as he stares up at you, waiting for instruction. “We’re still gonna watch today, but you can get to know your board in the meantime.”
“How do I do that?” Ryan asks you seriously.
“Hold it.” You tell him, your voice just as serious. “You gotta develop a relationship with it. You can’t just stand on it. Not until it’s ready.”
He nods again and settles down in the sand next to his board. When you glance over at him throughout the lesson, you’re happy to see that he’s gently stroking its smooth, white surface. And you think this kid is going to be a surfer yet.
For three days, you feel depressed. You haven’t seen your little protege due to rain and thunderstorms and it’s starting to get to you. It’s weird but you’re suddenly realizing that you need this kid. Though he probably doesn’t need you. At any rate, he’s helping you heal.
You’re so lost in this thought that you actually jump when the doorbell rings. You’re fairly confused because you hadn’t ordered takeout and you really don’t have friends anymore. Logan’s stopped coming around because he’s back with Veronica now and she can’t bear the sight of you. You always were more loyal to him than he was to you. You think maybe that’s how Cassidy felt about you as you head toward the door.
You pull open the heavy door and stand shocked for several moments. “Ghostworld?” What the hell is she doing on your front porch? And why is she holding Ryan’s surfboard?
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but stay away from my brother Dick.” She shoves the surfboard into your hands and stares at you. Her weird hair is streaked with red and her stupid eyes are full of accusation. She looks all angry-rocker-chick and you feel a pang of something you'd rather not try to identify. Something different from the pangs you get when you think about Cassidy. “No more surfing lessons. Got it?”