Kinesthesia by amy (spookey247)

Kinesthesia

by Amy

PART THREE

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5 12:14 AM

Mulder walked alone, watching as game by game, ride by ride, the colors of the midway winked out, leaving behind nothing but the skeletons of the big rides, black and stark against the clear night sky.

When he was a kid, he'd been fascinated by carnivals and circuses. This was probably the result of a steady diet of late-late movies, like his favorite, "The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies," a musical in which a carnival fortuneteller kept a menagerie of acid-scarred zombies to do her evil bidding. What was not to love?

Tortured by curiosity, he'd begged his mother to take him and Samantha to the county fair every fall, but she'd always refused. "Carnivals are crass," she'd said. Being seen at one was simply out of the question.

It was easy to see how that interest had contributed to his future choice of career - if Hollywood was to be believed, every carnival was an X-file waiting to happen.

Mulder passed the Thunder Bolt, where he'd just spent the better part of fourteen hours getting a crash-course in hydraulics and making sure all the kids with tickets were tall enough to ride. Girls and grandmothers alike had flirted with him; one bare-midriffed teen diva had even grabbed his ass and handed him her phone number, offering to meet him after closing time.

He grinned and reached for the wallet attached to his belt. Borrowed from evidence, it was a real trophy - gold Harley insignia stamped into worn black leather. Hey, I'm a wallet-on-a-chain guy now, he thought. If that wasn't crass, he didn't know what was. His mom would be so proud.

He took out the matchbook with girl's number and tossed it in a nearby trash can, congratulating himself on a smooth transition into his new undercover role. Now that he was doing the jail-bait thing, an address in a trailer park couldn't be far behind.

It felt good to sink his teeth into a real investigation after so many months of brainless grunt work. His only regret was that the-powers-that-be had sent Scully in on this assignment alone. He'd all but begged to be allowed to go in her place, but they'd felt that in a largely male environment, an unattached woman would be able to gather information more efficiently. They were probably right, but that hadn't given him much comfort.

This was the first time Scully had been on her own in the field since her ordeal in Antarctica. As usual, she'd insisted she was 'fine' and could handle whatever came her way, but it had been damned near impossible for him to let her out of his sight. He hadn't had a good night's sleep since he'd last seen her.

He wished he understood what was going on with her now. She'd seemed - well, he didn't think the word 'enthusiastic' would exactly apply, but she definitely seemed to be getting into her work. Dirty jeans, a cash apron wrapped around her waist, face sunburned underneath a film of dust. She'd taken that woman's money like an old hand, laughed about it afterwards. And for god's sake, her lips had been wrapped around that ear of corn like...

Mulder suddenly felt nauseous. His hands balled into fists. There was a darkened basketball game a few yards up the midway - Hoop Shoot, the sign said. He made his way toward it with a frustrated sigh.

Basketballs lined the counter like a row of melons. Picking one up, Mulder reminded himself that Scully was his partner and that the complications involved in deepening their relationship would more than likely mean the end of it.

Then he found himself thinking about Scully and the corn again. Imagined her lips nuzzling the steaming cob...

"Jesus," he muttered, shooting and missing. He should put his attention elsewhere. Work harder. Get a life. Maybe *date*.

His thoughts roaming along their habitual path, he remembered that night three months ago, when he'd gotten desperate enough to try to kiss her. Then he completed the ritual by dying a thousand deaths from the embarrassment of it all.

Whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted it or not, Scully *had* him. It was love. The slow-onset, haunt-your-every-waking-moment, stomach-ache kind of love, as mature as a Saturday night trip to the mall and about three times more nerve-wracking.

And now Scully was out on a date with Tim Frye.

"Goddammit." Mulder shook himself, aimed the ball at the basket, took a shot. It bounced off the backboard and landed in a trap at the bottom of the game.

"I was robbed!" He rammed the jealousy back down into his gut, picked up another ball, took aim. Frowning, he let the ball fly. It skirted the rim and rolled off to one side.

Unlike most carnies, their supposed number one suspect had all his teeth. Frye was broad- shouldered, charismatic in a Sam-Eliot-in-Mask sort of way. He'd called Scully things like 'honey' and 'darlin',' offered her an ear of roasted corn like it was a bouquet of roses. Scully seemed to enjoy the attention.

Right now, Tim Frye probably thought he was the luckiest carny alive. Mulder wondered what he and Scully were doing tonight. Tequila shots? Line dancing? Demolition derby? The ball sped toward its goal again, bounced hard, landed in the trap.

"Shit!"

"It's gaffed."

"Huh?" He turned.

"Rigged. They're too big for the rim." A girl stood to his left. She was tall, her face expressionless, a little pimply. She shoved a faded ball toward him. "Use this one, it's smaller."

"Thanks." Mulder took the ball and made it swish neatly through the basket. Somehow, it didn't make him feel any better.

The girl dropped a loaded tool belt and a bottle- shaped brown paper sack onto the counter. She was young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. Her arms were pale and bony, decorated with tattoos and woven bracelets. She hopped into the game booth and retrieved the smaller ball. "You're the new guy on the ride crew?"

"Yep. Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Nah." She handed the ball across the counter. "Your name's Duke, right?"

He shot. "Maybe."

She retrieved the ball again. "I'm Gwen. I was working across from you on and off all day - fixing the Whack-a-Mole joint over there."

Mulder looked. "Where?"

"Right there." She pointed with an oil-stained finger, handed him the ball.

Mulder swished the ball through the hoop. "When you say fix - do you mean 'fix' or, you know, *fix*?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." Curling up on the counter, she wrapped an arm around her knees and stared absently out at the darkened midway. Mulder wondered if she was waiting for someone. Or avoiding someone. "Today it was just the moles wouldn't come out of the holes."

Mulder reached for another basketball, trying to choose carefully. "Who can blame them?"

"Stupid moles. They need a good whackin'." She bit her lip. "You like your job so far?"

Mulder took another shot. The ball hit the backboard and bounced. "Don't know. It's noisy as hell. And I hate that song they keep playing. The singer sounds like someone's squeezing his nuts. It's making me crazy."

She gave an odd, tight-lipped smile. "Take my advice - don't fight it." She hoisted the paper bag. "I'm gonna go sit somewhere and drink this. You wanna help?"

"You *old* enough to drink that?"

She smiled. "In some states, maybe. Don't be a granny."

Would this be considered 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor' or 'acquiring a new informant'? he wondered. "How do you know I'm not, like, a rapist or something?"

Gwen hopped off the counter, jingling as she landed. The pockets of her baggy jeans were stuffed to bulging. "I just do, that's all."

Mulder tossed one of the newer basketballs toward the goal. It circled the rim twice, then fell to the floor. "Damn, it really is rigged."

"Yep." She frowned and shoved one hand in her pocket. "It's gaffed, all right. Just like everything else 'round here." Then she headed off into the shadows.

Intrigued, Mulder followed.

12:31 AM

Scully pulled her jacket closed. "Wherever we're going, I hope it's warm."

Frye looked over his shoulder. "It will be." He led the way toward the outskirts of the company trailer park and stopped at a long travel trailer parked a few yards from the fairground's outer fence. The trailer looked brand-new and fairly expensive. Rock music throbbed inside its walls.

Frye rapped on the screen door. After a few seconds, it opened.

"How's it going, man?"

Framed in the door was Robert Aaron Peake, the young man she'd met in the office when she'd applied for her job about a month before. Because of his less-than-stellar military background - he'd spent time at Fort Knox, been dishonorably discharged for desertion - the FBI considered him a possible suspect in the bombings. She knew Peake supervised the maintenance crew and she'd seen him in the office on a number of occasions. So far she hadn't had a chance to get to know him.

Stepping back, Peake waved them inside. He was dressed in gray sweats and a t-shirt. The stem of a plastic wine goblet was tucked between the fingers of one hand; an unlit cigarette dangled from the other.

"It's cold as shit," Frye said, as he and Scully stepped into a dimly lit kitchenette. "You got something to warm us up?"

Peake tucked the cigarette behind a silver-studded ear, ran his hand through his shaggy black hair. "Dude. Wait'll you taste what I scored last night."

Frye gestured toward Scully. "Rob, you know Brenda, right?"

Turning to Scully, Peake offered his hand. "Hi." His blue eyes were guarded, a little bloodshot. If he recognized her from the office, he chose not to show it.

"Hi," she murmured, meeting the handshake and noting thick, grease-stained fingers, a spider-web tattoo stretching from elbow to knuckles, a nasty scar just below his thumb.

"Want a drink?" he asked.

"I'll get it," Frye said, opening the refrigerator.

Rob waved toward the living room. "Come on in."

The living room was smoky and lit only by candles. Ponderous music wafted through the room. It was more comfortable than what she had come to expect in a camper - the armchairs and sofa looked plush and the carpet under her feet was damned near luxurious.

Scully noticed April, Shelby Peake's girlfriend or whatever she was, lounging on a big cushion in the middle of the floor, attended by a man Scully recognized as the "talker" (never "barker," she'd been told) from the Haunted House. Another young man - Lee, from the skee-ball joint - sat on the sofa, passing a shiny glass water-pipe to a woman sitting at the other end. He was wiping his eyes, apparently weak from laughter.

"Go on," he said. "Show us."

The woman on the sofa rose to her knees, put her glasses down beside her, and wound her fingers around the black cylinder of the water pipe.

"Watch and learn," she said. Bending over, she rested the base of the pipe on the futon, wrapped her lips around the glass and went down on it like a professional, sliding her lips slowly toward the bowl. There was an appreciative laugh from the others in the room. With a provocative wiggle of her hips, the woman lit the bowl, sucked all the smoke out of the chamber, and allowed her lips to slide back to the top. The man who was sitting with April whistled.

Peake crossed his arms, watching. "Wait," he said softly, "that's not the best part."

Hearing his words, the woman turned to face him. It was then that Scully realized who she was. Flushed from holding the smoke in her lungs, and looking like she was about to burst out laughing, Mandy Zin, the show's operations manager, made her red lips into an 'O' and blew a perfect smoke ring about three inches in diameter.

"Yeah!" Lee collapsed over its arm, shaking with laughter.

"Damn, girl!" The man from the Haunted House gave another loud whistle. "When you gonna come party with *me*?"

"Maybe never." Mandy wagged her eyebrows at Peake and put her glasses back on.

Frye appeared at Scully's side. "Shit, not that old trick again." He handed her a plastic cup. She took a cautious sip. Vodka and orange juice.

"Timothy Lee Frye is a jealous dog." Mandy wriggled over to the spot where Peake was settling onto the sofa. She snuggled up to him, putting her bare feet in his lap.

Frye ignored her. "You guys know Brenda?"

"Brenda!" Mandy waved. "How's it going?"

Normally Mandy favored khaki skirts and loafers, her short hair and dark-rimmed glasses giving her a somewhat masculine air. Scully had found her to be a ruthless and much-feared businesswoman with a personal goon squad at her beck and call. If setup was slow, if cash or inventory were missing, there was very little discussion. Heads simply began to roll. Now here she was, curled up next to a man some ten years her junior, wearing a skimpy nylon dress and shamelessly rubbing her bare feet against his crotch. The contrast was shocking.

Frye gave Scully a nudge. "Pull up a chair, honey. Tonight we're just gonna kick back and *relax*."

1:17 AM

They'd settled on a picnic table under a security light near the bunkhouse.

"Yeeeeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" Male voices echoed inside the big container, first one, then another, calling and answering like packs of wild dogs on opposing hillsides.

Gwen didn't seem to notice the noise. "...so she's like," - she paused to take another swig of vodka, then raised her voice into a thin whine, imitating her mother - "'Gwennnnny, I just wanna help you bay- beeee.'" She dropped back into her natural register and grimaced. "But what the fuck? They act like I ain't got the sense God gave a cat. Nevermind I been working full-time since I was fourteen. Know how to tear down every ride in this fucking show. Set'em back up again, too."

"Really?"

"Shit, grow up around this crap like me, you'll see. Gets in your blood. Anyway, Mama never gave a shit what I did 'til her and Chuck got saved, then it was all 'Get saved, Gwenny, Jesus loves you, Gwenny.' But, Duke - them two get to fucking and you oughta hear how they talk about Jesus then."

She offered Mulder the bottle. The vodka burned his throat. "Why don't you just move out, then?"

Gwen sighed. "I don't make enough to get my own place and I sure as hell ain't moving in there." She jerked her thumb toward the bunkhouse. "I used to stay with my dad until - well, what the fuck. He'd probably let me come back, but his place is really small and me 'n him got our own things to fight about. And..."

Her voice trailed off. She looked down, stroked one of the woven bracelets on her wrist.

"And what?"

She turned the bracelet thoughtfully as she spoke. "Well, there's a guy, see, and what I really like is being at his place. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes I think it'd be cool to be shacked up like that. Like a regular sucker, cooking and stuff."

An odd look came over her face. Shifting, she tucked her arm against her belly and leaned over it, hiding the bracelets from view.

"Yeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaa!"

Mulder turned on the bench, craning his neck to see who was doing the shouting. "How does anybody get any sleep around here?"

She grinned, lifted the vodka skyward. "Cheers."

"I get it." Mulder belched, tasted booze. She was right. A few more shots and he'd have no trouble sleeping.

"Anyhow, at least you got a roof over your head. That shows character, Duke. Really. Lotta the jocks spend their money on dope and just sleep on the rides."

She set the bottle down and gave him a look that was probably meant to be deep and meaningful. "You n' me's friends, right, Duke?"

"Yeah," he said. The night was cold, but Mulder was warm. In fact, the tops of his ears were burning. "Of course we are."

She shoved the vodka his way. "Good. You don't mind if I ask you a question, then."

Mulder picked the bottle up and examined it. Jesus, it was half-empty, and he'd only had four or five swallows. "Shoot."

Gwen tucked her arm more tightly against her abdomen, rubbing her shoulder. "You're cute. You got a girlfriend?"

"Um, sort of."

"Sort of? Dude. Don't shit me. I know how it is."

"You do?"

"Totally. I can tell from the look on your face."

"You can?"

"Yeah. Don't give up, though."

Mulder decided to play along. "I think she loves me, sometimes, but shit, she's - "

Gwen wagged her head from side to side. "Uh-uh, Duke. That's where you're goin' wrong. Don't make it about love. See, love's a freak-show thing, like a two-headed snake or eleven fingers and toes." She chuckled softly. "Forget love. There's things more important than that."

"Like what?"

"Like being what you are, even if what you are is scared shitless. Like standing up for what's real, calling a grift when you see it. Honor, Duke. Remember that."

Mulder shrugged. On some weird level, he knew exactly what Gwen was talking about. He wasn't sure why, or what that said about him, but...

Maybe it was just the booze.

Suddenly a tear drizzled out of the corner of Gwen's eye. "Be a warrior," she whispered. "Don't take 'no.'"

End 03/12