Authors Notes: Let me just say this now, so there's no confusion; I hate
Dawson. So if you start to wonder about the way I'm portraying him... stop
wondering. Also, here in Australia there's been a rumour making the rounds
for years that the show is called Dawson's Creek because Dawson dies and
his ashes are sprinkled in the creek. That explains the title. Oh, and NO,
I don't think Joey's beautiful at all. I'm just trying to get inside the
head of my subject, people.
Disclaimer: duh.
Spoilers: Is it season five now? You should have seen the first five or so episodes of that season, or at least have heard a short summary.
***
Dawson, wanting a rest from his new college life, and full of an assortment of various complaints like usual, decided to return to his childhood home for a visit with his mother. So as soon as the opportunity presented itself, he hopped on a train (having bought a ticket at the usual place) bound for Capeside. Glad to be on his way, and really quite excited about all of the whinging he would soon be able to do, Dawson fell asleep with his very large forehead resting against the train's window.
A loud shout of "Next stop, Capeside!" jerked him from his sleep. Wondering for a moment why exactly his chin and shirt was slimy, Dawson was relieved to realise that it was only his own saliva.
'I must stop falling asleep with my mouth open', he thought, before rousing himself awake more fully. 'Now to gather my things.'
Luckily Dawson had only brought one small, attractive briefcase filled with socks, so a very short time later he was ready to depart the train. Good thing too, because it began to slow down, having almost reached Dawson's destination.
As the train came to a hesitant stop Dawson began to categorise the complaints that would be flowing from his mouth and his soul the moment that he reached his mother's general vicinity. There seemed to be a lot of them, even for someone like Dawson. But that tends to happen when you've just spent the weekend with the person whom you still consider to be your soul mate, your one true love, and the person whom you believe that you should be spending the rest of your life with. Joey's visit had been brutal, and she had looked as beautiful as ever. The resulting effect of this was that both Saturday and Sunday had ended with Dawson relieving the great amount of tension that had built up during the night as discretely as possible (Joey was on a mattress on the floor, hopefully asleep, in the same room).
But now Dawson would be able to unload all of his problems onto his mother. Of course, he wouldn't be telling her exactly what was going on, but it would still be a great relief. With that thought in mind Dawson stood, grasping his attractive briefcase in his hand, and followed the correct route to the exit (which also happened to be the entry) of the train. Searching the large throng of people on the platform for any sign of his mother Dawson slowly made his way through the crowd. Unable to see her, he sat down on a bench to wait.
One hour later he was still waiting. Suddenly a tiny, niggling thought entered Dawson's (very small, probably damaged) brain.
'Maybe she forgot about me...'
But no, Dawson pushed the idea from his mind as quickly as he could. No one could, or would, forget about the talented Spielberg-worshipper that he is, least of all his own mother. And so it was another two hours before Dawson decided that maybe she had been held up somewhere (maybe the restaurant?), and he should perhaps take a cab to his house. It shouldn't be too difficult; he had seen plenty of people do it who are much less talented than him in the field of film making.
Dawson made the cab trip home with a minimum of fuss. When he arrived Dawson paid the cabby and thanked him, as a stream of sluggish, well ordered memories lapped at his mind's shores, then subsided. But it was a stream none-the-less. Lifting his briefcase, which is both attractive and full of socks, Dawson started for the door. He paused for a short moment before he arrived, then pulled his well-worn key from his pocket and unlocked the familiar door.
Immediately Dawson noticed his mother sitting on the living room sofa in one of the outfits she used to wear on the news, her hair taller than it had been in years.
"Mom!" Dawson cried, dropping his briefcase and running to her. He trapped her in a suffocating hug. "I'm so glad you're here!"
"Of course I'm here", Dawson's Mom said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice (her name's Gail, right? That's what she'll be called from now on, because it's shorter than calling her Dawson's Mom all the time). "Where else would I be?"
"I thought you might have been held up at the Fish Palace, or whatever it's called", Dawson explained. "You were meant to pick me up from the train station three hours ago!"
'He doesn't even remember the name of the restaurant that his father and I worked so hard for', Gail thought bitterly.
"Oh, it must have slipped my mind", she said out loud.
"That's a bit strange", said Dawson, unable to comprehend the fact that someone in the known universe was able to forget about him for one minute, let alone three hours. "But oh well. I have so much to complain about... uh, I mean tell you, Mom!"
"Really?" asked Gail.
Dawson nodded excitedly.
"What if I don't want to hear it?" said Gail, sounding really quite menacing. "What if I'm so sick of all your complaints and utter shit that the thought of hearing any more of them makes me want to blow your fucking brains out?"
Dawson shrank away at this. He'd never heard his mother use that kind of language before.
"You're father is dead!" she screamed, sounding like a very desperate woman. "Your baby sister is asleep upstairs, your baby sister who will never know her own father! But do you ask how she is? Do you ask how I am? Of course not! I've just lost the man I love. The only man I ever loved. My life sux!"
Dawson began to breathe loudly as Gail wound down her outburst.
"So, my dear, do you still have complaints for me to listen to?"
"Um, yes..." Dawson whispered.
Shrieking with rage, Gail reached between the sofa cushions and pulled out a small handgun. She pointed it at Dawson's greasy hair-covered head. His last thoughts were of how disappointed he was in himself over never getting to eat a great abundance of cheese like he'd always promised himself he would. Dawson's body dropped to the floor, blood gushing from two holes in his head (bullet goes in, bullet goes out).
No court in the world would have convicted Dawson's murderer. It was self- defence! She was overcome with grief! He was just too fucking annoying! Gail just had to up her Prozac intake and live with the guilt. Chances are, it won't be too difficult. A few people came to the funeral, but it was only out of obligation. When the body was cremated no one could have estimated how many people were cheering on the inside. It was just too many.
As Dawson's ashes were scattered in the Creek that had featured so prominently in the television series named after him, millions (okay, maybe hundreds) of people watching their TV screens blinked once, then again. Slowly grins crossed each and every person's face. All of those fucking rumours had been true.
Disclaimer: duh.
Spoilers: Is it season five now? You should have seen the first five or so episodes of that season, or at least have heard a short summary.
***
Dawson, wanting a rest from his new college life, and full of an assortment of various complaints like usual, decided to return to his childhood home for a visit with his mother. So as soon as the opportunity presented itself, he hopped on a train (having bought a ticket at the usual place) bound for Capeside. Glad to be on his way, and really quite excited about all of the whinging he would soon be able to do, Dawson fell asleep with his very large forehead resting against the train's window.
A loud shout of "Next stop, Capeside!" jerked him from his sleep. Wondering for a moment why exactly his chin and shirt was slimy, Dawson was relieved to realise that it was only his own saliva.
'I must stop falling asleep with my mouth open', he thought, before rousing himself awake more fully. 'Now to gather my things.'
Luckily Dawson had only brought one small, attractive briefcase filled with socks, so a very short time later he was ready to depart the train. Good thing too, because it began to slow down, having almost reached Dawson's destination.
As the train came to a hesitant stop Dawson began to categorise the complaints that would be flowing from his mouth and his soul the moment that he reached his mother's general vicinity. There seemed to be a lot of them, even for someone like Dawson. But that tends to happen when you've just spent the weekend with the person whom you still consider to be your soul mate, your one true love, and the person whom you believe that you should be spending the rest of your life with. Joey's visit had been brutal, and she had looked as beautiful as ever. The resulting effect of this was that both Saturday and Sunday had ended with Dawson relieving the great amount of tension that had built up during the night as discretely as possible (Joey was on a mattress on the floor, hopefully asleep, in the same room).
But now Dawson would be able to unload all of his problems onto his mother. Of course, he wouldn't be telling her exactly what was going on, but it would still be a great relief. With that thought in mind Dawson stood, grasping his attractive briefcase in his hand, and followed the correct route to the exit (which also happened to be the entry) of the train. Searching the large throng of people on the platform for any sign of his mother Dawson slowly made his way through the crowd. Unable to see her, he sat down on a bench to wait.
One hour later he was still waiting. Suddenly a tiny, niggling thought entered Dawson's (very small, probably damaged) brain.
'Maybe she forgot about me...'
But no, Dawson pushed the idea from his mind as quickly as he could. No one could, or would, forget about the talented Spielberg-worshipper that he is, least of all his own mother. And so it was another two hours before Dawson decided that maybe she had been held up somewhere (maybe the restaurant?), and he should perhaps take a cab to his house. It shouldn't be too difficult; he had seen plenty of people do it who are much less talented than him in the field of film making.
Dawson made the cab trip home with a minimum of fuss. When he arrived Dawson paid the cabby and thanked him, as a stream of sluggish, well ordered memories lapped at his mind's shores, then subsided. But it was a stream none-the-less. Lifting his briefcase, which is both attractive and full of socks, Dawson started for the door. He paused for a short moment before he arrived, then pulled his well-worn key from his pocket and unlocked the familiar door.
Immediately Dawson noticed his mother sitting on the living room sofa in one of the outfits she used to wear on the news, her hair taller than it had been in years.
"Mom!" Dawson cried, dropping his briefcase and running to her. He trapped her in a suffocating hug. "I'm so glad you're here!"
"Of course I'm here", Dawson's Mom said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice (her name's Gail, right? That's what she'll be called from now on, because it's shorter than calling her Dawson's Mom all the time). "Where else would I be?"
"I thought you might have been held up at the Fish Palace, or whatever it's called", Dawson explained. "You were meant to pick me up from the train station three hours ago!"
'He doesn't even remember the name of the restaurant that his father and I worked so hard for', Gail thought bitterly.
"Oh, it must have slipped my mind", she said out loud.
"That's a bit strange", said Dawson, unable to comprehend the fact that someone in the known universe was able to forget about him for one minute, let alone three hours. "But oh well. I have so much to complain about... uh, I mean tell you, Mom!"
"Really?" asked Gail.
Dawson nodded excitedly.
"What if I don't want to hear it?" said Gail, sounding really quite menacing. "What if I'm so sick of all your complaints and utter shit that the thought of hearing any more of them makes me want to blow your fucking brains out?"
Dawson shrank away at this. He'd never heard his mother use that kind of language before.
"You're father is dead!" she screamed, sounding like a very desperate woman. "Your baby sister is asleep upstairs, your baby sister who will never know her own father! But do you ask how she is? Do you ask how I am? Of course not! I've just lost the man I love. The only man I ever loved. My life sux!"
Dawson began to breathe loudly as Gail wound down her outburst.
"So, my dear, do you still have complaints for me to listen to?"
"Um, yes..." Dawson whispered.
Shrieking with rage, Gail reached between the sofa cushions and pulled out a small handgun. She pointed it at Dawson's greasy hair-covered head. His last thoughts were of how disappointed he was in himself over never getting to eat a great abundance of cheese like he'd always promised himself he would. Dawson's body dropped to the floor, blood gushing from two holes in his head (bullet goes in, bullet goes out).
No court in the world would have convicted Dawson's murderer. It was self- defence! She was overcome with grief! He was just too fucking annoying! Gail just had to up her Prozac intake and live with the guilt. Chances are, it won't be too difficult. A few people came to the funeral, but it was only out of obligation. When the body was cremated no one could have estimated how many people were cheering on the inside. It was just too many.
As Dawson's ashes were scattered in the Creek that had featured so prominently in the television series named after him, millions (okay, maybe hundreds) of people watching their TV screens blinked once, then again. Slowly grins crossed each and every person's face. All of those fucking rumours had been true.