A/N: I began writing Dawson's Creek fan fiction 10 years ago this week, and although I haven't written any new material in quite a while, I thought I'd celebrate the anniversary by posting my favorite piece, which I never really widely released. It's reasonably short, only 4 parts, and I'm editing it to fix up some major flaws (ahem, the smut, because I originally wrote it when I was like 16.) It's based on the movie Clerks, and canon divergence from season 1, as many of my fics are.

Act I: Exposition
Scene One: Saturday - 7:56 AM

The ring of the telephone was pestering, engulfing every inch of the house at numerous angles. One called from the end table next to the sofa in the living room, another digital tone sang from the kitchen, a third was an old fashioned ring from his parents bedroom, and the forth was a dull drone that roared from beneath a discarded pillow located somewhere in his own room. He let out a deep groan, his head still trapped beneath a tangle of covers as he waited for somebody to answer the beckoning call. On the fourth ring he gave up all hope and began to struggle towards the surface, where unwelcome sunlight had begun to invade his room two hours earlier.

It was now the sixth ring, and he wondered what had happened to the answering machine. Only to remember that Pacey had disengaged it three days prior because he was sick of listening to Dawson's nasally voice every time he called, and that Dawson's cheerful vibrato was sickening. Dawson had run an exasperated hand through his hair, his nostrils flaring out slightly as he whined, "I do not have a nasally -"

But Pacey had cut him off before his sentence was finished like a conductor silencing a grand orchestra. He drew a quieting finger to his lips and said, "Do you hear it?"

That was Pacey though. There was no denying that.

They had met when they were four years old at Molly's Market when Pacey had strayed away from his mother's side to briefly inspect the many profferings from the candy aisle only to turn around a moment later to find himself completely alone. One would think that the motto, "Leave No Man Behind," would be printed on the family crest of the police sheriff-slash-Vietnam veteran's home, but his mother had obviously missed the memo, and was halfway down the frozen food section without a clue of her son's absence.

Dawson was in the process of placing the box of raisins that his mother had mistakenly picked up in favor of a more edible product, when he spotted the brunette, chewing idly on his lower lip with his chin propped high to mask his growing fear.

"Hey," Dawson had said.

"Hey," Pacey replied.

And then, as is the case with most young children, they became friends, and had remained so ever since. They were nothing alike, held little in common, and brought out neither the best nor the worst in one another. They were simply two guys who hung out because no one better had come along. But they stood by one another, and now, more than ten years later, they stood in that same place.

Still struggling towards the phone, Dawson fell to the floor with a thud, his feet bound together by a conniving sheet with a death grip on his ankles. He let out a huff and his blond bangs flew in response before falling back in their same jumbled mop atop his head. On the tail end of the eighth ring he dove for the receiver, successfully obtaining the source of his disruption with a satisfied sigh.

"Hello?" he asked leaning back against the foot of his bed. "Mister Olson. Hi," he said, recognizing the sound of his employer's voice. "Excuse me? No no, I shouldn't be on the schedule for this morning, I worked yesterday." Dawson set his jaw, his brow sinking progressively lower as he listened. "Doesn't Pacey work today? Well then why do I have to be there? What do you mean he cant work by himself? That only happened once and he felt really bad about that." He sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just, I was supposed to be filming for my movie today and the deadline for entries at the festival is coming up. One o'clock? I can? No, I guess – I guess that's all right. Yeah I'll be there. All right then. Bye."

Dawson dropped his head back, allowing it to fall against the mattress as he tossed the phone, helplessly, to the side.

Saturday shifts at Screen Play Videos were feared and had gained an almost legendary status amongst the employees for their awfulness. It was the busiest day aside from Friday nights; most customers were mothers looking for an attention grabber to tame their children for the weekend. The other half, high school students their age, were in search of a good make out movie for an upcoming date night or a quick cheat sheet for their book report due Monday. They were all notoriously obnoxious and notoriously frequent, and no person in their right mind would ever want to serve them.

Climbing to his feet, Dawson pulled open his dresser drawer and pulled out a rumpled plaid shirt along with a pair of jeans, slipping them on before he trotted down the stairs.

"I'm going to work," he called into the kitchen.

Dawson's mother poked her head out the door, her eyebrows raised in worry. "Didn't you work yesterday?"

She had become exceedingly needy ever since his father had left her. Apparently extra marital affairs were frowned upon by most spouses, but Gail Leery was still convinced that her discretion had nothing to do with it, and he had abandoned her. Therefore, she clung to her son's heel, following his schedule to the second out of fear that he would leave her too.

"I remember you being away all of yesterday beaming that at least you were free for the weekend."

"Well apparently being responsible leads you nowhere in life but to endless hours of misery," he explained.

She offered him a sad smile. "Have fun sweetheart."

Scene Two: Pacey J Witter

Screen Play Videos was located in the center of town, right across from a posh bistro and some school for ballroom dancing. It was owned by Mister Garrett Olson, a man who was terribly intimidated by women, and therefore controlled by his wife and spoiled daughter, Nellie. The video store was rather small. Packed with far too many shelves for the building's capacity and cluttered with empty popcorn boxes for a proper atmosphere. The selection at Screen Play was rather limited because it mainly held the most obscure of titles and only recently added Star Wars to its inventory. Yet somehow, business was always booming.

There was another video store just outside of town. A commercial joint that carried every title from Aa! Megamisama! to ZZ Tops: Greatest Video Hits that was rarely frequented by Capesideans due to their loyalty to small town businesses (barring the American Eagle and J. Crew outlet of course), so Screen Play remained the center of the VHS movie rental universe.

Pacey Witter scuffed his sneakers along the sidewalk as he dragged himself towards the infamous Screen Play Video Store. He tossed the keys listlessly from hand to hand, whistling a faint tune, which died into a hum when he drew closer to the main entrance. Something was off. Jiggling the handle to the store he was surprised, and then slightly mortified to realize that it was already open. In fact, the sign in the window was flipped over to state such.

He frowned and pressed his finger to his temple thoughtfully. He could have sworn that he was the only man on the schedule for this particular Saturday, and the thought of having to deal with the necessary paperwork involved in filing a robbery made his stomach clench with annoyance.

Upon entering the store however, he smiled in relief.

"Hey man what are doing here?" Pacey asked spotting Dawson sitting with his chin in his hand behind the cash register.

"Supposedly you can't be left here alone," Dawson explained with a sigh. "Mr. Olson made it a new rule: Pacey Witter does not work a shift alone." He repeated the instructions as he heard them over the phone.

"It's not my fault!" Pacey said, lifting an innocent hand to his chest. "The six year old seemed perfectly content with renting Barney's Bonner. His mother? Not so much."

"I think it had something to do with how you handled the situation."

"What?" he said, his lips pursing before spreading into a grin. "I simply charged her the extra fifty cents and told her to rewind the next time she returned a video if she was going to watch it all the way through."

As the son of the town's Sheriff, Pacey was rarely corrected for an infraction personally. There was a disciplinary chain that would lead to the proper authority, who would then distribute the proper punishment via their own punishment chain.

In this case, Misses Roberts, the mother in question, had confided in the local grocer, Miss Molly, of the events that had afflicted her son earlier that week. Molly consequently spoke with Doctor Rand, Pacey's marine biology teacher and a man with whom Molly happened to be having an affair with. Doctor Rand then discussed the events, sans Molly's participation, with his wife Tabitha who owned the ceramics shop next to Screen Play. Tabitha conversed with her cousin Aaron, a fisherman at the Marina, who was dating the hostess at the Bistro across the street who, was casual friends with Nellie, Mister Olson's daughter.

By the time news had reached Mister Olson 3 days later, Pacey had sold the young boy an amateur pornography video starring Doctor Rand, Miss Molly, and his wife, that Pacey had filmed at the hostess station in the Bistro. Under normal circumstances, Mister Olson would have fired Pacey on the spot. But seeing as he was the sheriff's son, and Mister Olson's establishment was dreadfully understaffed, Pacey's position within the Screen Play family was safely intact without the slightest of scolding.

What the townspeople had neglected to learn was that Pacey and his father had a nonexistent relationship outside of the DNA that they shared. His father cared little about his youngest son, and if the community had punished Pacey in any way, he would hardly hold a grudge – he'd most likely celebrate it. Pacey was the black sheep of the family for no reason in particular. He was the youngest of five, and by the time he had come into the world, his parents were so worn out by their eight-year-old socially inept son, two screaming daughters, and a third daughter that was rarely seen or heard from, that Pacey was immediately resented.

His name was the first piece of evidence of their indifference. John and Mary Witter had discussed Paul and Tracey as possible contenders. By the time he was born, they no longer held interest in who won the argument and put the two names together, giving them Pacey. Doug had already received his father's name for a middle name and they saw no reason in repeating it, so Paceey's middle name became only a letter, J. It required no period in spelling, just Pacey J Witter.

Thus, the mystery behind what the initial stood for always led to a dead end simply because it didn't exist.

Scene Three: New York, New York

Jen Lindley was something else. She hailed from a different state entirely and was the only student at Capeside High School who hadn't lived in the small waterside town since birth. Besides the exchange student from Prague, anyway, who only knew the English words "butter" and "light bulb."

Jennifer Lindley was a mystery through and through, from her New York City past to her inexplicable attraction to Dawson Leery.

Jen and Dawson simply did not mix. She was sassy and held a beauty that strikingly resembled the mythological Aphrodite, while he was clumsy and gawky with a freakishly sized forehead. But they were dating, and had been for nearly 2 months now. There were stories that Dawson would sneak into her room late at night, living only a lawn away, to fill her head with subliminal messages that in the morning, would convince her she was in love with him. Other, more simple theories, assumed that Dawson held some impossible secret from Jen's past over her head and was blackmailing her to be with him.

The truth however, was far more frightening. Jen liked Dawson. Genuinely. Jen liked Dawson because he wasn't anything like the men she had known in New York. He was a kid, while her past companions were men. He was innocent, while the others were anything but. And he looked at her like she were beautiful, and not a nice pair of legs he could ease himself between.

She walked into Screen Play, her corn silk blonde hair sweeping across her shoulders with every stride, and quickly spotted Pacey in his office chair watching a movie in his customary position: feet propped on desk, hands behind head, firmly reclined

"What on Earth are you watching?" Jen asked, her eyes narrowing as she inspected the video playing on the 20 year old television set that couldn't go past channel 64.

"One Crazy Summer," Pacey replied in a monotone drone, completely ensconced by his movie.

"She's singing. Why is Demi Moore singing?" she said, pointing an accusing finger at the screen as if it weren't obvious to other viewers .

"Um?" he scratched his pointer finger against his temple. "I'm not quite sure why. All I know is that she is." He sat back further in his chair and the gears screeched in response. "I think it has to do with a house or something. That or the summer being crazy. I don't know, the plot was lost on me hours ago."

"Why is John Cusack in it?" she pondered resting her elbows on the counter.

"Pre-Say Anything," he said simply.

"Ah," Jen smiled. "It's all making sense now." She drummed her hands against the desk. "So is Dawson in?"

"Yeah, he's out back doing inventory," Pacey said, nodding towards the allusive red curtain. "Hey Dawson," he shouted towards the back. "Your lady friend is here."

Dawson popped his head out from behind the curtain, his lips curling into a smile when he spotted her. "Hey," he said.

Jen offered a small wave. "Hey."

"I think I'm going to buy a boat," Pacey interrupted randomly, still focusing on his film.

"Based on this movie?" Jen asked with amusement.

"Not only does John Cusack get laid," he gestured towards the television. "But, his motley crew gets to sing a choreographed rendition to 'Dancing in the Streets.' If that isn't an invitation for a new life's passion, I don't know what is."

"You mean to say you'd spend thousands of dollars to have sex again?" Dawson questioned, his heavy brows furrowed in amused contemplation.

"If I really wanted to have sex again, I'd use those thousands of dollars to buy a prostitute," Pacey said dumbly. "Not a boat. Besides, if movies have taught me anything, it's that prostitutes are always beautiful and have nothing but their heart of gold."

"Yeah," Jen added. "And always look like Julia Roberts or Melanie Griffith."

"Well the Melanie Griffith one isn't much of a stretch. Especially post lip enhancement," Pacey said, tapping on his lips for emphasis.

"Very true," Jen said, nodding in agreement.

"But Julia Roberts? You'd never see a girl like that working a corner. No, she's something special." Pacey sighed and flipped off the movie.

"You're not going to finish that?" Dawson asked curiously.

"Why bother when I've got my own movie going on right here," he said, tapping on his temple with a playful wink.

"God," Dawson groaned. "All this sex talk is really getting disturbing."

"Are you not comfortable talking about it?" Jen asked.

"I just don't understand why it has to encompass everything," he exclaimed, flapping his arms out helplessly.

"Spoken like a true virgin," Pacey said with a knowing grin.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dawson's eyes narrowed challengingly.

"Exactly what it sounds like. People are notorious for shying away from subjects they don't understand."

"That doesn't make sense," Dawson argued. "Jen's okay talking about it."

"Who said Jen is a virgin?" Pacey countered.

"Hey!" Jen interjected, her hands planting on her hips and her eyes narrowing to slits. "I never asked to be dragged into your little social experiment."

"Well what is it Jen?" Dawson said, his glare pointed as his nostrils flaring.

"How is it important?"

"You know my past. It's only fair that I know yours!"

Dawson suffered from crippling insecurities that stemmed from when he was in elementary school, and slightly heavier than the average kid on the jungle gym. He was short, round, and had a messy golden lion's mane for hair. Therefore, he was called Oompah Loompah, a name that was coined by his best friend no less, and quickly caught on with his schoolmates. Although he had grown out of this dark phase, he was still severely haunted by the endless chants.

Oompah!

"Well I'm not, but that doesn't change anything," she said her voice rising slightly.

"What?" Dawson shouted incredulously. "That changes a lot! That puts you on an entirely new plateau that I can't possibly compare to!"

"It's sex, Dawson," Pacey said with a roll of the eyes. "It's not like she's a reformed communist or something."

"The intimidation factor of being with you was already great enough," he explained. "Now I feel infinitely smaller."

"Why? Do you think that this changes the way I look at you?" Jen questioned. "I mean I knew you were a virgin and that I wasn't before Dawson, this isn't a sudden change of events for me."

"How many?"

"What?" Her eyes widened in shock.

"How many guys have you been with?"

She let out an exasperated huff. "I cant believe you're asking me this."

Loompah!

"Our relationship should be based on trust and honesty," Dawson said.

"This isn't important though!"

He rolled his eyes contemptuously. "Then you shouldn't have a problem telling me."

Jen's hazel eyes were now burning with a pointed glare. She folded her arms across her chest and tipped up her chin in challenge. "Fine. Seven."

Pacey's jaw unhinged and he dropped his gaze to the floor to hide his astonishment, only able to mutter the word, "Wow," under his breath.

Oompah!

"Seven? Are you serious?"

"Yes."

The truth was, Jen honestly didn't know. She had been so chemically altered at the time of most of her sexual encounters she'd hardly kept count, and while she knew that seven couldn't possibly be an accurate estimate, it could have, perhaps, been a fraction of the true number. At age twelve she had begun sneaking into clubs and the easiest way in was through servicing the doorman. Then the easiest way to get a drink was through servicing the bartender, and then the easiest way to get home was through servicing the cabdriver. All of these various levels in obtaining maximum debauchery were extremely tiring and difficult to keep a tally on.

"Come on, say something," Jen said nervously.

Dawson stood there silently with his jaw set. "I'm not sure how to react to this. That not only has my girlfriend slept with someone, singular, before, but seven? Seven someones. Seven more."

"It's not a big deal," she argued. "I was young and stupid and the city had a lot to offer. It's just sex."

"We're fifteen years old!" He yelled back.

"Don't judge me, Dawson!" She practically sneered. "What happened in my past has no affect on who I am now, or what we have!"

"Are you kidding?"

She shook her head, her eyes darkening. "You know what, I'm going to go," she said firmly. "And I'll come back to talk when you're willing to have a sane conversation."

Loompah!

"Fine, go!" he shouted.

She pushed off the counter top roughly, before stalking to the door, letting it slam shut loudly behind her.

"Start spreading the news," Pacey began to murmur under his breath. "Shes leaving today, gonna get away from that asshat, New York, New York."

Dawson glared at his friend and hurried back behind the red curtained out cove. There were many things that Dawson Leery did not understand, but at this moment two factors stood out distinctly: Women and sensitivity.

And it was doubtful that he'd learn about either anytime soon.

Scene Four: The Jar

The front desk at Screen Play video was filled with numerous little goodies. There were plenty of knick knacks including staples for their non-existent stapler, rubber bands to tie together multi-tape sets, and scotch tape to fix the uncountable ripped VHS cassette boxes. They also always kept a box of magic markers in the nook behind the counter for the various signs that hung around the room.

There was a sign by the door featuring March's upcoming releases, made in Dawson's distinguishably neat handwriting. Another sign next to the comedy videos with enlightening commentary such as 'Ha Ha' written beneath it dripping with Pacey's notable charm. And a third sign reading, "Warning: Chick Flick's Ahead, Keep Away," which nobody was willing to take credit for.

Pacey, currently, was choosing between the wide selection of dried out markers, completely aware of which ones were good to use, but unsure of the appropriate color for his latest drawing. Finally, he picked the thick blue one, which made the entire store stink for a good thirty minutes, and pressed it against the strip of poster board scrawling 'Pacey's Pix' across it in a pointed font.

"Are you sure that your opinion is that influential?" Dawson asked with a smirk as he passed by him.

"It worked with the jar," he countered simply, snapping the cap back on the marker and tossing it into the box.

The jar had started off as a give or take dish for people who needed a nickel to compose perfect change or wanted to get rid of a few useless pennies that weighed down their pockets. It had changed its identity one afternoon when an old woman had asked what charity they were collecting money for. Dawson was in the process of explaining its purpose when Pacey broke in with an earnest grin.

"Capeside Animal Shelter," he had said quickly. "We hope to give every loose dog out there a home."

"Oh that's sweet," the woman said warmly, dropping a twenty-dollar bill into the jar that was only occupied by sparse change.

The first jar funded Dawson's movie. The second jar was dedicated to narcissistic neophytes, and went towards Pacey's new sports bike. The current jar continued to play off of society's inability to pick up a thesaurus and was for the Preservation of Corpulent Edifices, also known, although only through literal translation as: Preservation of Fat Erections, and had already gained $60 for the new television set they hoped would replace the 20-year-old box on the counter. The jar was wrong and they knew it, but they were 15 and they didn't care.

"The jar was clever," Dawson nodded in agreement. "But I doubt your sign will alter sales."

"You underestimate the power of persuasion," Pacey said striding to a shelf to tape his newly composed sign. "People see that one person – just one," he held up a finger for emphasis, "holds something of a measurable unit of quality, and they automatically believe that it's something above par, without ever knowing the competence of the opinion they've taken advice from. It's simple psychology."

"Explain to me again how you're failing half of your classes," Dawson said, arching a curious brow.

"I only use my powers for evil," Pacey said with a wink. "The good guy routine is painfully boring."

Dawson sat down in the seat Pacey had vacated. "You mind shedding some of that insight in my direction?"

"What do you have in mind?"

Dawson furrowed his brow and licked his lips, a heavy sigh relaxing his shoulders. "I'm not sure that Jen and I are working."

"Judging by the argument you had earlier, I'd have to agree," Pacey, well, agreed.

"I'm thinking about ending it," he said bluntly.

"What, why? She's a catch, Dawson. In fact, with her latest revelation of history, she's every teenaged boy's dream!"

"I don't want that, Pacey," he said, resigned. "I want somebody as clumsy and awkward as I am. Who I'm not at all intimidated by, and who I know their past like the back of my hand." He frowned. "I want Joey."

Pacey shook his head. "You don't want Joey."

"Why not? We dated for two years. We were great together!"

Pacey scoffed. "You two were terrible together. You broke up every other week because you were too literal and she was too impatient. You're far too unalike. A match made in hell, because, really, you're hell mates."

"We kept each other in check, and she was my first girlfriend. We had no expectations, because there was no past, like that Beatles song," he fought desperately.

"That was a song about first love Dawson," Pacey said, shaking his head adamantly. "You two were far from first love. You dated in eighth grade! There is no love in the eighth grade. You don't even love your parents in the eighth grade."

"Yeah, that's a concept they teach you in college I hear. But I'm serious. I miss Joey. I think I'm going to win her back."

The gears were already cranking in Dawson's head, so much so that he barely noticed the uneasiness of his friend at his newest plot. After all, why would Pacey be uneasy about anything regarding Dawson's romantic life? Pacey was always encouraging him to follow down whichever path would get him laid first. Pacey may have thought that was for his best interest, but Dawson could see clearly now. Jen seemed like the obvious answer, but Joey was who he truly wanted.

"That's great and all," Pacey said, distracting Dawson from his thoughts with a forced smile. "But don't you think you should probably run that past your two bachelorettes first?"

Dawson hadn't considered this portion of the plot, and he sighed heavily. "That may be a little tough."