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Title: Places: Carnival Author: J. C. Sun
Category: VAO Disclaimer: Mulder belongs to Krycek. Krycek belongs to himself. Chris Carter, 1013 and other abstract, fictional entities lurk around the edges, hoping for a bit of the action. Good luck. Thanks to Nonie for editing. This story is part of the Places series. This story can be read as standalone, but the stories are much easier to understand and have far more resonancy if the previous stories are read.
The Places series currently stands as: . Popcorn, cotton candy whirling against the spinner, scream of the Cyclone and maybe the roar of the Himalaya--where was the merry go round? A carnival wasn't a carnival without a merry-go-round and the closest approximation to that tinkling, dancing nostalgia was the old-fashioned potato sack race, now elevated four stories above the ground, people screeching down the smooth plastic tracks. The thought of jumping the tiny little bump that was the railing made him shudder--he could see the person sliding a little crooked, slanting across the track and , running into that railing, flipping head over feet, potato sack flying, hanging in the air for a tremulous moment above the fair-grounds, suspended amidst the Ferris wheel spokes and then falling straight down in a blur of surroundings. An awkward body painted all wrong on the hard-packed earth and he'd have to call the ambulance and he'd miss the mee-- Stop it. Gritting his teeth and ball his fists in cold self-contempt. Deep breath--he's here somewhere on the fairgrounds. You just have to find him. Close eyes, open eyes, and the greasy lights throb against his skull in the writhing beginning of a migraine. With the MSG from dinner, it's going to be a rip-roarer, three alarmer to leave him curled up underneath his bed by night's end. Unless he finds his cure, his cure-- that flyer for the carnival on his dresser. Location, directions, a specific night circled in red ink, then the spiky scrawl next to it. You can have me if you catch me. Mulder bit his lip, feeling the touch of actual food grease, Chinese food. Scully had made him eat before he left--those light blank eyes boring into him, and her mouth saying quietly, "What're you going back for?" His guts had writhed--guilt? fear? anticipation? Did she know? She couldn't possibly know, could she? "I think there's something we missed today." Those impersonal eyes narrowing, her fingers had curled on the edge of the motel comforter. They looked thin and bony, hardly alive--hell, she didn't look alive at all, ensconced in that black suit and hair tucked backwards, perfectly smooth. "You'd better eat before you go back, Mulder." "There'll be food--it's a carnival, remember?" Him shuffling feet against the threadbare carpet, staring at the yellow-and-orange threads until they melded into blurs of viscous color. "You won't eat." Pause, tilt of head, which his unfocused eyes saw as a little bar of white backed by tan wallpaper. "You'll crawl back at three-o-clock miserable, hungry, dirty, with the migraine from hell and you'll be cranky tomorrow." He'd heard his voice from another body--sounded all urgent, forceful, even a little terrified. Watched the tall man fidget. "I need to go, Scully." Emphasis on the need, and she had tilted her head again, mourning bird with a crest of shiny blood-red and hollow face, that hollow face. "Eat dinner before you go." Scully had thrust a half-full plastic container of hot-and-sour soup at him. "But it's your dinner." Protest, then the treacherous stomach had growled, betraying for the smell of oil and meat and fried rice. "I can get more." She made him sit down, settled the containers on his lap. "You won't eat at the carnival, and you're not leaving until you finish all of it. I know you're hungry enough." Pause, this soft little voice coupled by her little hand at his jaw, his cheek. She had such soft hands, tiny, smooth, like little birds. Like little hawks, slashing, coaxing. "You've got to eat more, Mulder--you can't keep this up without eating. You can't." Did she really know? Did she suspect? Could she? Mulder jolts back to the carnival with a shudder, then realizes he's still standing there, frozen, watching the Ferris wheel. He swears furiously, tosses his head, makes himself walk forward. Krycek was here, somewhere-- The Fun House. Mansion of Mirrors. -do you want to see yourself tonight?- on a pink banner. Painted ghouls writhing up the side, an entrance wreathed in shadows, invincible against the floodlights. No line. Only a man in soft oily leather stepping in, going up the steps. Flash of face against floodlight, polished boots, polished eyes-- Mulder throws himself forward in a sort of quick trot, moving quickly across the carnival grounds. Right on the verge of the entrance, he steps in and it's a cane barring his path--look down to pruned face, eyes hollow shadows behind fishbowl glasses. Gleam of a metal tooth, hunched figure watching him from underneath a shawl, a wrap. Tinkle of earrings, wisps of hair lined against the lights--almost laughably archetypal. Almost. "Three tokens please." Mulder growls in frustration, then throws all the change in his pockets at her. She laughs softly, crackling, and removes the cane; he charges into the dark, blind, stumbling. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust so that he could see--Mansion of Mirrors was right. A hundred million reflections, mirrors shaped not only in the traditional ellipse and rectangle but as triangles jutting out from the walls. Spikes, wavy ones, angular mirror, a mirror folded into the silhouette of a crucified man, complete with bits for the nails through the wrists. Mulder amuses himself for a moment by trying to fit himself into the mold, then decides he's too tall. And amused grin, turn the corner into a hall partitioned by head-high mirrors, curved and distorted and glance down into them-- Mulder yelps and half-draws his gun. Flesh, muscle of a back, fingers desperately gripping the edge of the mirror and a head thrown back. Soft wet noises, the crinkle of a man's pants around his ankles and another person crouched on the floor, sucking, head bobbing back and forth, head tilted back. Mulder blushes and turns away, ashamed of the voyeurism. Then, gold eyes flick over the cock and catch him. Dark, feline gold eyes, tilted, rimmed with kohl and set in a calmly androgynous face with a soft, delicate mouth wrapped around a cock. The eyes wink. Mulder chokes, reeling backwards as the eyes slip all the way down, covering the cock. A small desperate noise arching up into the air. The eyes smile, a narrowing of dark eyes over gold, and the eyes turn away, slipping back into the darkness. And a hand yanks him by the shoulder; reflexively, Mulder slams an elbow into the area of the gut. The flesh gives way, falls down to the floor with a thud. Mulder follows, thrusting arms stiffly before him, letting the other person cushion the fall. Then, the rasp of skin and cloth over sawdust covered wood, grunts, rolling over and over and finally a thudding stop as Mulder pins the figure to the flooring and snicks the safety back on his gun. And polished eyes glitter back up at him. Mulder slips his gun back into the holster, but he keeps his knees straddling Krycek's chest. "Well, well. Look what we caught." "Jesus, Mulder." Krycek's panting, chest heaving in the grey light; the noise is loud and rasping. "Fucking you is a health hazard. Every time I try to do it, you damn near blow my head off." Mulder grins, lazy, pleased that he's come out on top for once. Doesn't say anything, just traces circles on Krycek's chest, slips a hand inside the leather jacket to play with a nipple through the cloth. Mulder yawns, eyes half-drooped, but when Krycek tries to shift him off, his legs close. Gradually, though, Mulder does move his weight downwards, sidling, hands flicking around Krycek's jeans to release a half-hard on. Dark lashes fall around Mulder's cheeks and he takes the head into his mouth, tongue lightly swirling, painting long, complex spirals. Takes a little in, then Mulder rocks back to prop Krycek up against the wall, then unbuttons Krycek's pants properly, pushes the denim down to around the boots. Krycek looks down for a minute, eyes faintly bewildered, and Mulder has the pleasant feeling that's he's actually grinning. Sharp. Unpleasant. Rat-like. Krycek's ass is clenched, hard, muscles tensed, skin over taut ball of flesh. When Mulder flicks a tongue up the side of a thigh, he watches the muscles ripple, the skin over the bone when Krycek cries against Mulder and grinds against air. Mulder slides his tongue up to the crease, then back down, tracing the juncture of leg and groin. Hear Krycek make a strangled noise, part moan, part whimper, part demand, mostly Krycek. Krycek's legs shift, spreading apart, and Mulder slips his mouth down the balls. Heavy, warm, still a little loose. A lick for each, then rock back again, just in time to see Krycek's head fling up, sweaty neck catching as a thin strip of silver light, shifting as Krycek gives a short, sharp moan and his hips convulse wildly, twisting; the face is wrenched hard against something. Mulder smiles. And slams his mouth down on Krycek's cock. Krycek sobs upward, writhing. There's something indescribable about sucking a man's dick: the heft of it, the heat, the smells coming from the hair brushing your nose, the sweat, the taste of pre-come mixing with your saliva, the feel of a spit-dampened cock underneath your tongue, the contour of the slightly widened head. Mulder closes his eyes and rocks Krycek quivers, shaking, and Mulder smiles around the cock, and pulls away, starts fiddling with Krycek's pants. A hand on Mulder's shoulder. Mulder looks up. Krycek smiles, nastily. A hand slides down Mulder's shoulder. The other hand punches Mulder, not hard, just enough to make Mulder's head whirl, knock the wind out of him, and send him sprawling across the floor. Mulder's legs fail and he shivers, desperately trying to force them up until a hand at his collar yanks him onto his knees, kicks them apart with a contemptuous flick of the boots. Mulder's head swings low, torso slung between upright shoulders, lips stroking the splinter-rough floor. A hand slips down the split of Mulder's ass, and the head swings up, moaning softly to a: "Bastard. You said I could ha. . ." The words trail off as Krycek runs a hand, across the strained cloth at the crotch. Mulder gulps and tries again. "You said I could have you if I caug. . ." The words die off when Krycek runs a stroke up Mulder's cock through the cloth. "You didn't quite catch me." Hands around undo leather belt, yank down pants. Pause, what Mulder suspected was stifled laughter. "Boxers. How prudish. How very Scully-ish." He gets a little gasp when he trails his fingers across Mulder's bare flesh. Pause. Mulder tries: "Bu--" "Besides, you've already had a bit of fun tonight." Pause Krycek slathers some lube onto his fingers, and that finger goes in, then two, laying the faintest layer of chilled slickness, then Mulder curling when the fingers stab downwards. Another pause, the snick of dropping fly. "Holy fucking shit." The words wrench out of Mulder and his hands claw into the hardwood floor. "Bastard." Mulder moans, rocking backwards, scrunching his eyes. Bastard, used only the barest amount of lube. Tiny little bit, just enough to be able to move, just a little, thin little grating layer, enough to move and not enough not to tear away flesh but enough to burn, to ache, enou-- Mulder tosses up his head and opens his mouth to howl in rage and pain, but he finds Krycek's hand there first, a stretch of salty, crevassed palm against his mouth. Snarling, Mulder hurls himself against that flesh and bites down, pinching a fold between teeth, hard enough that Krycek rakes his nails across Mulder's ass. But the hand stays, although Mulder can taste something faintly coppery. "Why do you always have to be such a fucking dickhead?" Krycek's voice comes out hard, gritty, fingers digging into Mulder, who arches up, head thrown back and violently protesting this added pain. "So fucking loud, too." A furious squeeze at Mulder's mouth, twisting his lips. Twist of the head and it's still there, mouth propped open, only muffled whimpers coming through, and shaking with rage, Mulder squeezes down hard, has the satisfaction of Krycek convulsing, a sharp, hoarse sob. Mulder's grins around the gag, and curves his back--jubilation is short though, for Krycek manages one more murderous thrust that makes Mulder bang his head against the mirror and the world spurt out onto the floor with every cant of his hips, writhing, twisting, sobbing as Krycek pulls back out and zips up in perfect composure. Mulder shivers once, then stumbles up to his feet and pulls his pants up to his waist. Leans against the mirror, knees shaking. "Fuck you." Snort as Krycek draws "I thought I'd made it abundantly clear. Not this time." Mulder leans braces his cheek against the cool, cool mirror surface, and tries to still the shaking in his elbows, the laugh in his chest. "Bastard." Closes his eyes and concentrates on getting the energy, the strength of mind to get his pants up around his waist. "Mulder, you're pathetic." Krycek sighs, throws the cigarette away, then mashes the package back into his pocket and slides down to his knees, puts a soft, gentle hand on Mulder's quaking shoulder. "Let's get you up." A little muffled noise, but Mulder lets Krycek pull his pants back up for him, refasten the belt, yank him back onto his feet. Mulder staggers onto his feet, aching miserably, but still lets Krycek prop a supportive arm around him. Krycek gives a little smile in the dark when Mulder's head droops to his shoulder, and lips whisper something against the leather jacket. Mulder nearly trips on the stairs out and only Krycek's firm hand around his hips keeps him from saving the Consortium the trouble of killing him. Mulder glares at him, then yanks away from the hand to descend the steps alone with this slow, careful, shaking precision. "Did you have a good time, gentlemen?" The voice is cracked, wheezy, and Mulder starts--it's the old woman from the entrance, crouched on a little stool, looking more like a toad than ever. Bleary glass-blue eyes peer up at him, and he shivers convulsively. Krycek doesn't--he laughs, flicks her a shower of silver coins. "An excellent time, little mother." Pause as the woman tucks them into a hidden pocket. "Ah, come back soon then, sirs." More laughter from Krycek as Mulder concentrates on hanging onto the railing with all of his strength. Krycek smiles. "We will, mother." And the night is clear and cold out beyond the carnival, and the wind whips through the long grass on the hill. Down below, the Himalayas roars through the track; the Ferris wheel paints greasy tangent-circles, and if he closes his eyes, Mulder can almost hear the tinkle of that merry-go-round, blazing out from the center. "I can't do this anymore." Krycek's voice is careful, quiet, nearly lost in the sound of the wind and the carnival. Pause as Mulder shuffles his feat in the grass. "Do what?" "You know what." Krycek looks up into an indigo sky that's speckled with pinpoint stars. Mulder can't make the noises come out; his hands clutch convulsively together. "I. . ." "You've got to tell her, Mulder. She has a right to know." Krycek shoves his hands into his pockets. "I won't do this again, not until you tell her." Stammering. "I. . .Krycek, I. . .You know bloody well I--" The sounds are said to the wind and the grass and the carnival lights, and Mulder takes in the empty black space next to him, then rocks back onto his heels and listens to the wisp of carousel music.
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