Fic: Caricature Of Intimacy (Mac, Mac/Cassidy) R

Sat, 01 Jul 2006 19:26:16 GMT

Title: Caricature Of Intimacy
Author: b_grafic
Pairing/Characters: Mostly Mac, Mac/Cassidy mention
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through 2x22, Not Pictured.
Word Count: 1,504
Summary: Mac's good at being by herself. She deals.
Disclaimer: I don't own them but I'd be willing to take out an indefinite lease.
Thanks: Thanks a bunch to my always-beta in any fandom so_one_day. UR kewl.
Final notes: This is my first foray in VMfic. I always thought it would be LoVe-based, but alas--the Mac love overpowered. Enjoy. I may or may not write a Mac/Dick-centric sequel to this.

X-posted to veronicamarsfic and mac_cassidy.

Mac’s always had acquaintances. Growing up, she would eat lunch with the art kids and talk to anyone who had a tech problem, but she never did the whole “friendly” thing. She had been invited to a few birthday parties in elementary school but she didn’t go–she’d never been to a sleepover.

It’s not that she wasn’t happy with her life–in fact she was fine with it. She was content to trudge to the Neptune school system and one day leave to explore the world, find people that were worth her time, and do super-cool sleuthy tech work for some independent agency. Or maybe just opt for graphic design somewhere. Whichever panned out.

Until the day Veronica Mars found her cursing her junk-truck in the parking lot.

She’d always grouped Veronica as an 09er. In the past year or so things had gone a little off-kilter for her but she stayed in the gossip. Rather than Duncan Kane’s impeccable girlfriend, she was the school slut. A piece of trash. Mac didn’t know how much of that was truth, but she did watch her in the hallways. She noticed when she came to school with her precious hair chopped off. She noticed when Veronica sat alone at lunch.

Veronica became the Bond to her Q, Veronica told her she was switched at birth with Madison Sinclair. Veronica sent her silly text messages at midnight when she was staked out in front of the Camelot for whatever reason. Veronica was her friend.

From there, Mac started to change. The wool that had been slightly pulled over her eyes her entire life had been lifted. She knew herself, and sure–sometimes she wanted to go to Madison’s house her house and see her biological family, but she didn’t. She was coming to terms. She began to leave behind her dad’s old flannel work shirts in favor of some more thrift store-chic attire. She began to take a few fashion queues from Veronica–her friend. She would go through her closet when they would be working a case together.

The day that Beaver Casablancas came to her for help with a “school project” she was skeptical. But he was cute. And she was pretty sure he paid in cash. So, she got to work. A few late-night phone calls to fact check, or style check, sparked an attraction inside her that freaked her the fuck out. After she delivered the product to him at Java the Hut, she called Veronica.

And then hung up. She wasn’t quite sure how to do this whole friend thing yet.

Her pseudo-relationship with Beaver progressed fairly quickly but without fanfare. She was a 17 year old girl and he was a 16 year old boy. She expected lots of making out–maybe more. And the satirical verbage that was the Beav. They never really got to know each other though. It was mostly pizza dates, boardwalk dates, or at-home dates with movies and Mac’s head in Beaver’s lap while he twirled her colored hair around his fingers commenting on his favorite colors. His favorite colors would usually show up just days later.

The Beaver break-up was a shock. She didn’t feel the need to cry or cut up pictures of him (she didn’t have any pictures of him) but she was genuinely upset with the loss of his soft hands, and his soft hair, and his soft lips, and his soft voice.

The Beaver make-up was even better. A hotel room at the Neptune Grand for grad night. Score.

Or not. They’d undressed quickly and jumped under the covers, his fingers massaged her back, and her hips, he tickled her ribs, and when she took him in her hand he went rigid, sitting up and putting his face in his hands. She sat up behind him and scratched his back lightly with her fingernails, kissing his shoulder.

“Cassidy, if you don’t–”

“Stop.”

She did. He pushed her shoulder roughly and climbed between her spread thighs, kissing her roughly and biting her tongue–if she was supposed to be scared she didn’t know it. She arched in to him and the moment she did he rolled off of her.

“I can’t.” It was so quiet she thought she’d imagined it. She talked him down. Smiled a lot. Kissed his cheek, and went to shower.

The second Beaver break-up was much, much worse. She did cry. If there were pictures–she would have likely cut them up.

The day of Cassidy’s funeral she was sitting in the middle of her bed with her laptop on a pillow in front of her, deleting each and every little thing she’d saved for school over the years. After that night at the Grand she had been very reserved. No tears, no outbursts, no crazy girl rocking back and forth in the corner, just old Mac. Lots of reading. Lots of computering. Not a lot of outside contact. Veronica called numerous times daily, and Mac answered at least once. It was hard for her–after what she’d learned about that night on the roof. She felt somehow responsible for what he had done to her–to her father. And a dark cynical little piece of her soul was jealous that she actually had him in a way Mac herself had not–that was the worst feeling. She’d ultimately opted not to go the service. That is, until she came across PLTletterhead.indd.

She jumped up and discarded her pyjama pants for a pair of jeans, pulling her hair in to a ponytail and tugging at her black tank top before she grabbed her bag and ran out the door. When she got to the cemetery there were a few news vans parked outside the gates. She drove very slowly down the pathways until she saw a group at the far end. She parked far enough away that she wouldn’t be noticed, and walked up next to a tree. There were many more chairs set up then there were people sitting in them. She could vaguely hear a man talking, and her eyes scanned the crowd for a familiar face. She saw a bleach blonde mop-top in the front row that had to be Dick, and maybe Logan sitting beside him, but then she saw the slate gray shiny box with a flower arrangement resting on top.

Her ribcage suddenly became much too restrictive for her lungs and she choked out a sob, hitting her head against the rough tree bark when she felt to her knees. Sharp pieces of earth pierced her hand as she reached to balance herself and noticed the drops falling from her face. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth but she couldn’t get control of herself. She couldn’t breathe, and when she did get a breath it was let out in a ragged cough. She didn’t care if people noticed her now. There was nothing she could do to hide it–she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

He was gone. She would never ever see his face again, or smell his clean smell. She’d never see his number on her missed calls list. And he had done a lot of bad stuff, but god damnit she was going to miss him.

She felt a hand on the back of her head and on her arm, holding her, but her eyes were squeezed tight and her tears were blurring her vision.

“M-Mac..” Logan.

She didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him, she just choked on another sob and rocked forward to curl in to herself. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, how long his hand stayed solidly at the base of her neck, but when she looked up, wiped her face with the backs of her hands, she noticed people walking away, walking as far as possible away from her, and she ventured a glance at Logan–but he wasn’t looking at her. She saw Dick standing a few feet away, his mouth slightly opened, his eyes blank and wide. Tears were still streaming down her face, but she could breathe now. She probably looked horrific. And when she noticed the camera crew jogging toward her, she kind of cared about her appearance all of a sudden.

“That’s Cindy Mackenzie. That’s the girlfriend.” She heard the anchorwoman mumbling as she straightened her skirt. She wondered how much of her story actually got out. The girlfriend. The girlfriend who’s cell phone led to the almost-demise of her only friend, her only friend’s boyfriend, and her only friend’s dad. The girlfriend who was found wet, wrapped in a shower curtain, and in much this same condition. She was ripped from her thoughts by a loud squabble, and looked up in time to see Dick punch the cameraman who lost his balance and dropped the equipment to the ground.

“Fucking freaks.” He growled.

She stood quickly and ran back to her car leaving the crowd under the tree. She called Veronica.

And from the depths of Hell...

Fri, 30 Jun 2006 17:51:21 GMT

...comes my as yet VM-themed graphics/fiction journal.

En-joy.

<3