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stripytightsTitle: Hold On Tight (Something Wicked This Way Comes)
Fandom: SPN RPF
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Rating: PG-13
Length: 14K
Notes: For J2_everafter. Thanks to the mods, and sorry for my late posting! With huge thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
3pomegranate who extended a very welcome helping hand. Any and all mistakes that remain are 100% my own.
This is a very different style to my usual, so although I always appreciate concrit, it's even more appreciated on this particular one!
Summary: When Jared comes back home near Halloween, the Circus arrives- and makes Jensen an offer he can't refuse, while Jared must work to save him.
Part One found here
The town isn't ordinary, he knows that somewhere deep down. The summers are hotter, the winters are colder, the springs are sharper and the autumns burrow somewhere inside you and fill you with a melancholy that can be hard to shake off. He can't explain it to his friends, can't even articulate it to himself sometimes, just knows there's something different. It washes people up on its shores, and they don't ever seem to leave, holding fast to the town like this is some tiny pocket of refuge, even with all its faults and all its flaws. Even Jensen, stalking alone through the night brings most of it on himself, Jared thinks with absolute fairness. He thrives on difference, had set his eyes to leaving almost as soon as he understood what it meant, and that is something that can never blend in to the comfortable twilight of the town's existence.
“Come on," Jensen says, and there's a live wire spark to him, glinting from his eyes and his face, striking off the soles of his shoes, and Jared follows him like he’s always done, drives them to the field where the Circus has set up like usual. He doesn't know what he was expecting in the light of day- perhaps that Mr Dark would accost them immediately, drag them bodily into the Mirror House- but what he expects is not what he gets. Under the sun, in the cold afternoon air, the final Circus of the year is old and battered, torn and ragged, nothing like the gleaming polished machine of the night before. It's not the same in any particular; the great top sags, and the same old rides glisten and beckon as they have always done; whirling teacups, pirate ships, the Scream, the Vortex, the mirror maze is the same lean-to shack it always has been, faded and storm-weathered, and the people who man the rides and staff the booths look exactly as they should- as tired and worn as their circus. There's no man in a cape sweeping around. There are no cast-iron lanterns with white lights; it's exactly the same circus that comes around every year. On the whirling teacups there's the same stain from the time Karly Reynolds threw up a cherry soda, spilling down the side like whatever colouring in it had been too difficult to clean off, sunk into the chipped peeling wood. Jensen turns to Jared and his eyes are fully open now, confused for a second until that melts away and he nods before him.
"Come on," he says, and it's like having the old Jensen back again, when his cold hand slips into Jared's and he tugs him towards the rides.
The afternoon that follows pulls Jared back in time. He's done this a thousand times before, beside, adjacent with Jensen, every ride he goes on, every stupid game he plays, every ridiculous exhibit that he looks at. He's slipping back in time, and unbidden the thought rises in his head, that if Mr Dark had known what to offer him, Jared might not have gotten off so easy the night before. What Jared wants isn't emblazoned on the surface, he can't find neat, suave words to articulate it, can't drag it up to the light and make it curl in on itself. It beats just below his skin and pounds through his blood, as much a part of him as his hair, his eyes, his tendency to make terrible jokes. You can't isolate it, can't put it in a centrifuge and draw it out, make him an antidote. There's nothing there for Mr Dark to grasp, it'll just run through his fingers. Not like Jensen who shines as hard as he tries not to, whose face which is so secret to most, is so easy to read to those who know what to look for.
It's easy to reach inside Jensen and draw out his secret thoughts and wants because they float so close to the surface. Mr Dark can offer him power, Jared thinks distractedly as he watches Jensen play a game against the ridiculous strength tester, smacking it down as hard as he can. Power without the need to wait, an escape route already built for him, a slippery slide that he should fear but refuses to. And when Jensen scores 850 Jared lets out an excited cheer, hears the bell ring out, watches Jensen turn to him with a blinding smile that almost chases the shadows from the night before in his eyes away. Jensen drops the hammer on the side and collects his prize with a grin. "Not giving it a shot?" he asks, and there's the faintest hint of a tease there and Jared grins back.
"Sure I will," he says, makes a big show of pushing up his sleeves and swinging the hammer in preparation. He likes the look of mild disbelief that Jensen shoots him, contemplates a little more posing before he gives it a go. He hits it as hard as he can- feels the sturdy strength of the hammer in his arm- they've never gone easy between them, and the bell rings out a little higher, scores him a 900 and he smirks at Jensen as he collects his very slightly bigger prize. "Natural talent," he says, and gives a grin that could probably be described as shit-eating at the very kindest. Jensen elbows him in the side for that, heads straight for a challenge he knows he can win. The rifle range is as dilapidated as the rest of the fair, and the wood of the booth is warped and broken. The figures still stand up straight though, and the guns are polished, their stocks shining bright as Jensen hands over his dollars and hoists the gun with confident ease in Jared's direction.
"You first," Jensen says and there's a challenge right there in the tone that Jared tries not to think too hard about. He sets the gun to his shoulder and fires the little peppered shots as accurately as he can, doesn't hit a single figure and groans,- slumping with mock failure.
"How will I ever live with myself?" he says with exaggerated grief, as Jensen picks up a loaded one and narrows his eyes in concentration, knocks each target down with perfect accuracy, honed from shying stones at crows (and a stint on the shooting team at college, though Jared notices he doesn't tell that to the booth owner who looks on with a grudgingly impressed expression.) When Jensen hoists the ridiculous stuffed moose in his direction with a muttered comment about how God had clearly intended it for Jared, Jared can barely stop a disbelieving smile from tugging at his lips. He has a shelf at home filled with this stuff,- stuffed animals, ugly vases, broken clockwork toys of some sort or the other,- and Jensen has an equivalent one, and it's been a thoroughly set-out convention between them that each circus has a winner. Jensen handing over a prize is not just a once-in-a-blue-moon experience, it's genuinely never happened before.
He's holding the stuffed moose for a second with a look on his face that he's pretty sure is really stupid, when suddenly a thought strikes him with dread. "This isn't some goodbye gift, is it?" he asks. "Because I'm going to be really pissed if that's all I get." he tries to turn it into a joke like he always does, but he can't help the unease that creeps in.
Jensen gives him an odd sideways look that Jared can't quite interpret. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, but the words fall flat because Jensen's never been able to lie for shit, much though he'd like to think he can.
The wind is colder now as it whips around Jared's face. He's suddenly chilled to the bone and the sun is going down early, it feels like. The sky is completely grey now- darkening fast- and the younger children are being taken home by their parents before the rougher evening crowd arrives. As the field empties out around them, Jared shivers reflexively, thrusting the hand that isn't holding his moose deeper into the pocket of his coat and encountering once again the heavy parchment of the business card he'd been given. "You shouldn't do this," he says, but Jensen's already moving towards the Ferris Wheel and doesn't hear him over the sharp whistle of the wind and the sudden burst of carousel music.
Jared trails behind him, looks at the smooth skin between Jensen's hair and the collar of his coat, pale and vulnerable, and is filled with sudden fruitless anger. Always running ahead, he thinks, and he wants to hold tight and never let go, force Jensen to see reason. By the time they've passed over their tokens, the ride is almost ready to start; they scramble into the same cage, same bench, pressed warm against each other against the increasing cold of the darkening air. The air smells of oil and grease, the sharp tang of metal almost comforting in its alienness, and when Jared looks at the tilt of Jensen's head as he looks out over the fairground he's glad of it. His hand twitches in his pocket and he thrusts it stubbornly deeper. Of everything that's been wrong since he's got home, this urge to hold Jensen's hand is the least of it, and he can't bring himself to be embarrassed. As the ride speeds up, he throws caution to the winds, though. It might be breaking the rules of their game to upend it so entirely; not to seek to win in any way, but he doesn't care. Jensen broke the rules first, bent them to his whims when he made Jared fall in love.
When he slides a cool hand across the nape of Jensen's neck in a way that might be joking at any other moment- a way to warm his hands- Jensen turns to look at him properly. They're at the highest point of the ride now, staring out across a landscape that can barely be seen, and the ride has paused. Jared holds his breath for so long he thinks he might pass out, and almost musters the courage to lean forward and change everything between them forever. Then the moment is lost; the ride swoops down and forward so fast that the breath he's just let out is lost as well; the g-force throws him against Jensen hard enough to surprise a startled grunt from him. He doesn't remember this ride ever being so strong before, but has no time to reflect on it; his fingers bend in the wire rims of the cage as he holds on tight for dear life.
When the door opens and they tumble out, Jensen is laughing, teeth gleaming in the faint lights of the booth and Jared still wants to kiss him, tie him close even if just for seconds, offer him something else, but it fades away when in the distance he sees Mr Dark standing there and watching them both, his face a blank white oval devoid of expression. Jared stares back, but when Jensen turns Mr Dark is gone, melting into the air like he was never there, and Jared is filled with a surge of determination. This game isn't over yet, he thinks, and this time it's him striding forward, Jensen stranded for a second in the crowd before he catches up, heading straight for the decrepit mirror-maze. Know your enemy, he thinks. This might not be the same, Circus but there has to be commonalities, have to be places where they co-exist, and he suspects that the best place to find them may well be the maze. It is not the test, but it may help prepare.
Jensen's questions clearly die on his lips as he takes in where they're heading, sucks in a breath deep and sharp like he's not ready yet, and Jared can't help thinking: good. This is only a taste, after all, of what Jensen longs for. Out of the corner of his eye he spots the merry-go-round, battered and creaky, a few kids clinging grimly to the painted horses while bored parents sip at stale drinks. But when he blinks twice, fast, it's just a wavering shimmering beacon and before his eyes the children age, innocent eyes in ancient bodies, wisdom bought at too high a price. He falters for a second, wonders for the first time if he is crazy, if this is some kind of infection that Jensen has as well, until the faint smell of cotton candy strikes again and reinvigorates his belief. This is happening, he thinks, and plunges into the mirror maze pursued by the raucous calls of kids shouting too loudly, voices too high and happy to fit the scene.
If he'd thought outside was dark and cold, in here, surrounded by mirrors lit by dimly flickering lights inset into the corners, is worse. Bone deep chill strikes off the smooth surfaces and at the edge of his vision he sees himself multiplied a thousand times. Jensen is beside him, warm and solid, steady and unchanging, for the first time since Jared had returned. They're silent now, the only sound the sigh of the air as they inhale too deeply. Jared dares to look at the first mirror, sees himself ridiculously short and squat, wider than he is tall like he's been squashed down, drawn out, a sad puffy figure with mournful eyes that gaze back at him and blink slowly. Beside him in the mirror, squashed up close, Jensen looms impossibly tall and thin, peering back with impersonal detached curiosity, strung out and spare, barely a man. And, when he turns away from the sight, his coat flares out a little bit like a black cape swirling around him.
Jared lingers seconds longer, meets his own gaze, his eyes the only thing that are the same, sees the whispered implied threat built into the walls. A voice that Jensen can't hear sighs out from the corners of the room, sinks tendrils into his brain, don't get in the way of what was meant to be, and Jared feels his skin crease into wrinkles at the edge of his eyes as he frowns, thinks silently back fuck off. He doesn't know how much of an effect that will have; he turns and follows Jensen into the next room, looks without seeing into mirror after mirror that distorts and breaks, fractures and shatters him time and time again, mending him only for the space between glances. He can't remember why he thought this was a good idea, pitting himself against this early foe: midnight is the moment, midnight is the place, he thinks wildly; this is the mere shadow of what will come. He can’t be sure what fled through his mind, but whatever he had intended, it wasn’t this. He’s pulled along, helpless in Jensen’s wake, from frame to frame, dizzying flashes bewildering his eyes.
From one mirror his face leers out, ten years older, smartly dressed, standing in a courtroom with a man he knows is guilty of the worst of sins; when he blinks, the man shakes his hand and leaves, and Jared smiles. In the next one, Jensen kisses him, bites at his lips, pushes him down to his knees, and something in Jared goes hot and cold at the same time, forces the blood to his face at the sight even though he knows Jensen can’t see it. He doesn’t look at the next ones, doesn’t ask what Jensen sees, fears the answer too much.
Had he thought this would give him ammunition, help him convince Jensen that this was madness? This was Mr Dark's ground, it belonged to him, not to Jared; he could show them what he wanted- only glimpses, naturally, since this clearly wasn't his area of full power, but still enough to repulse Jared (at the same time as it tugged at something deep in the pit of his belly) and to attract Jensen even more. When they stumble out the other side, Jared feels even more hopeless, lost and confused, so far from Jensen though they stand so close. But he knows in himself that he can't give up, can't just let this happen. That's never been in his nature; he may stare at the earth, but that's anchored him in a way that Jensen, looking far forward into sky, always striving towards the future, has never had - and Jared tells himself that it's a strength.
They make their way back to the car, no more diversions, and Jared drives them back home, silence hanging heavy and thick between them in a way that makes him want to protest, to destroy the quiet with his words, with music. He tries turning on the radio, but it's set to the local soft-rock station and the first song that curls its way out of the speakers is 'Sympathy for the Devil.' Apart from anything else, the Rolling Stones have never been up Jared's street, so he flicks it off and stares straight through the windshield at the velvet darkness of the gathering nightfall, the harsh flashes of the tail-lights of other cars. He looks at Jensen twice and meets only his turned cheek as he gazes out the window at nothing at all. Tonight is the night, he knows it; he knows that it's not yet time, though, so when he drops Jensen off, he doesn't say anything, doesn't clutch at him or ask him to make promises that he'll only break if he makes them at all. Lets him slide out of the car, leaving a stuffed moose behind him and an empty space. Something in Jared's chest throbs at that, wants to burst through the skin, and he has to sit there for long minutes, watching the light flicker on in Jensen's house, before finally he makes his way back to his own home.
His mother is reading, spectacles perched on her nose, incongruous with the rest of her, and it seems all of a piece with the evening that his parents too are aging, withering. He remembers the soft whirl, the hypnotic rise and fall of the merry-go-round, the children flickering from young to old; wonders if they would be tempted, whether it would be enough to make them fall, to have those heady years of youth back again. His mother seems settled here and now, but looking at her he remembers how lightly she flitted from place to place once upon a time, a grey bird on wing racing before the storm, and he twitches, wants to keep her here forever, however impossible that might be when he can’t even be sure of staying, himself.
His father emerges from the kitchen, a tray with three coffee cups on it- drinking coffee at night is a habit they've never broken- and they sit in silence, until Jared's mother pushes her glasses up a little bit and looks at him penetratingly. "Take salt tonight," she says, a non-sequitur if ever he's heard one, then shuts her mouth with a snap as though she thinks she's said too much already. It doesn't come up again, but still he tucks some in his pocket- he's not quite sure why, but his mother's advice has never steered him wrong before, then heads up to his room.
Jared sits there and lets the seconds tick away, followed by the minutes, in crashing tumbling waves against the clock. His hands are cold even in the warmth of the room; he tucks them close against his skin, an ice-burn against his arms, and waits for the long moments to pass. Every sense seems more alert, as though the later it got the more awake he became; strung tight as a bow, an arrow waiting for a place to go, his ears hearing everything around him. The soft low murmur of voices from his parents: no words to be heard, just the deep thrum of their tones echoing through the walls through some trick of ventilation. It comforts him obscurely, as it always had in the past, knowing they’re close, knowing that whatever happens, they'll be there. Even if I'm not, he thinks. It burns as cold as his hands, as he tries not to think on it; pondering what will happen tonight will drive him mad, if he isn't already for even contemplating this.
Finally his ears catch it: the soft scrape of foot against brick, Jensen slipping down the side of the building. When Jared looks out, all he can see is a black shadow shifting into the bushes; Jared breathes in deep as he heads on down, as well. Despite all the time he'd had to plan, he still isn't sure what he plans to do- whether he will stop Jensen from ever reaching the circus, hold him down if needs must, or whether he'll plead life's case against Mr Dark and trust to what he knew could be between them if they gave it a shot. As he speeds fleet-footed after Jensen, he lets all the thoughts slip away, caring only about keeping up with him here and now. They are slower now than they had been the first time they dashed the mad dash; Jared is thankful for the respite, though he suspected from the flickerings around them both that the distance is being shortened imperceptibly. Certainly, houses seem to shrink and fade impossibly fast. He sucks in a deep breath and speeds up just a little bit, until he is pounding three feet behind Jensen, who never stops to turn and look, as though he can't hear Jared behind him.
There is a shiver of sound around his ears and a light weight settles on his back, sweeps dust-wings around him, skinny arms going round his neck. "Faster," says an old grey thin voice, and a cracked giggle follows. "I'll tell you how it goes, boy," and a sharp heel digs into his back. "We're obliged to let you attend, this you know is right and true. We're not obliged to allow your voice to be heard; this, too, you must know," and grey powdery dust flows into his mouth, coats the inside, covers teeth and tongue, binds them tight. He sucks in a terrified breath. This isn't fair, he thinks, and she sniggers like she can hear his thoughts. "There is no fairness," she says. "This is your friend's choice to make." She slip-slides over the word friend as though to mock it, strip it of any retaining power, ridicule him for his naive presumption that he could stop this.
Determined now, he runs faster despite the deadening weight of the old woman on his back. If he can't speak, can't convince Jensen with his words, he'll have to stop them from ever arriving at the place where he'll make that choice. He's taller, faster, he knows this, and he sets his mind towards the task, strains every muscle. And, as they widen out on the road, he makes his move: almost leaps through the air and brings Jensen down, rolls them over and over, gravel scraping through too few layers, bright sharp pinpricks of pain, and opens his mouth to tell him no.
A pathetic deathless squeak emerges and he tries once again, but Jensen is already rolling away, staring at him as though he can't believe his eyes. "Jared," he says, and the tone is indefinable, but the surprise is there. He hadn't heard Jared run after him, had been lost so deep to his own thoughts, he hadn't thought to turn around even for a second. "You can't stop me," he says. He sounds determined, but underneath there is a fast running current of doubt. "I've read about them, what they can give," he says, and Jared thinks of library shelves coated with grey dust, a man stamping out Jensen's books, Machiavelli, Alexander the Great, the history of power, Eisenhower not Roosevelt, Churchill not Lloyd George. And there, bound in black, dark tales of travelling power, mysterious deals; he pictures Jensen, age twelve, on the nights he wasn't out running with Jared - head underneath the blankets as he devoured the possibilities. Then, at fifteen, putting away childish tales and taking up the moral within; eighteen, striking out for gold and leaving; twenty one, and taking back those dreams, going back to basics. "They can give me it all, Jared," and he shrugs hopelessly. "I can't pass this up, I can't," and Jared wants to shout at him, wants to shake him until his teeth rattle in his head, because what is the price. What will they take from Jensen in exchange? He catches the tremble in Jensen's mouth, knows that Jensen has thought about it and decided whatever he's giving up is worth it.
They struggle fruitlessly, hopelessly in the dirt for a few moments before Jensen wriggles free despite Jared's best efforts. "Tell me to stay," he says and his eyes are wretched, his hands fists by his sides, "tell me that this is wrong, that this isn't the best way, and I'll stay." He takes Jared's silence for acquiescence; Jared can't blame him, because he's kept his mouth shut in the past and let Jensen careen helplessly towards disaster, followed behind him without the sense of a dog in his head. Now, when he tries he can't unblock himself; can't spit out the desperate plea for Jensen to stop and think about this.
Can only watch Jensen jog away, head down, shoulders hunched. Then he stands, hands dangling uselessly beside him because what is the point? He swipes a weary hand across his face and hears his mother as clear as day as though she was beside him, his father's warm solid presence as well, and hears her favourite saying- the one she always used to trot out when Jared complained about school group projects or grumpy old ladies who hit out at him with umbrellas when he tried to help them with their bags. Sometimes the people who least want your help are the ones who most need it. A little of the malaise that had settled over him lifts, he is warmed, his mind feels a little clearer. When had a setback ever stopped him dead in his tracks? If he doesn’t have words, he'll have to find another way to convince Jensen.
He starts running again, noticing vaguely that sometime between the fight and his resolution that the old woman on his back had vanished. He feels lighter, stronger; his legs work just fine now, stronger than he'd thought - and he has a goal, a fixed objective in his mind. He can do this. Slow and steady will win the race after all. It is with little surprise that he rounds a corner that should never have been there and finds the circus spread out before him like an undead carnival. If he tilts his head just right, it doesn't look exactly like the first time he'd seen it- a carnival of fifty years ago decked in black and white - it has taken on different lines, a different shape. Now it gleams entirely afresh and anew, modern minimalism at its finest, and he understands deep within his bones that the carnival is shaping itself to Jensen's desires, enticing him in with sharp-edged promises. The merry-go-round is sharp sticks of white candy now, nebulous clouds instead of horses, and alone the Mirror Maze is only black, the same dark forbidding looming centre-piece it always is.
Even that has changed, though; as Jared gets closer, he can see the shape is imperceptibly changed, that the house now looks as though it could be the twin of Jensen’s own. The same ivy crawls up the side and the empty windows glisten bleakly. Despite himself, his footsteps slow as he approaches. They’re not in there, there’s no-one here at all, and he lets instinct guide him for the moment. The little bag of salt in his pocket meets his hand as he thrusts it in for reassurance; as he passes the now wavering shooting booth whose mirror he and Jensen had played at on an afternoon that seems so long ago, he leans across the counter and unhooks a rifle. It’s not designed to hurt, he knows that objectively, but it feels as though it belongs in his hands and he wonders briefly if it was the same one that he’d fired earlier. Even if it could hurt, he knows that he only has one chance with it, and that chance is slim. Still, it’s something to hold; something that glistens in his hands. He hesitates for long seconds, not sure where to go next. Before him there is the grey and black striped tent, canvas rustling in a non-existent gust of wind; behind him stands the mirror house. He shivers suddenly, sure that someone is watching him.
When he turns, though, nobody is there and he sets himself a little more firmly. Tent first, he decides, and sneaks round to the back of it, presses his ear up close. He can hear a muffled murmur of voices, but can’t distinguish words or tones - just that it seems to be an argument. Silently, carefully, he moves around until he finds a tiny gap in the material, just enough to put his eye to it and see what’s going on inside. There’s just darkness at first; then his vision adjusts and he can make out unmoving figures standing, staring at the slightly raised platform where Mr Dark stands and harangues them. His ears are still muffled, but he can see Mr Dark’s mouth move; can see the wide gesture of his arm as he pulls Jensen up on stage beside him. Jared blinks quickly, barely willing to miss a moment of what is going on, but once his eyes flicker open again, he finds himself staring into the dark unblinking abyss of Mr Dark’s eye- black, ringed with yellow that looks as though with the slightest provocation it could erupt into flames. The canvas parts in front of him, welcomes him in, and an ironic cheer goes up from the crowd. On the stage Jensen stands still and Jared wills him to meet his eyes.
“There’s nothing you can do now,” Mr Dark breathes into his ear. “People make their own choices in this life, Jared.” At the edge of his cuffs and collar there are tiny flickers of movement, like something crawls beneath his shirt that can’t be explained, something that’s excited. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, and one thin bony hand brushes back Jared’s hair. “When he goes into the night, he doesn’t have to be alone, you know.” And perhaps Jared had been overly optimistic in assuming there was nothing that could tempt him, nothing that Mr Dark could read from his eyes and his heart. Still, he shakes his head, stubborn to the bone.
“You can’t have him,” he thinks, and his only answer is a deep rich satisfied chuckle. Mr Dark leaves him standing there for the moment and walks back with due patience to Jensen.
“You all witness this,” he says with a smile. “A deal is a deal, after all. There is no cheating here. No hidden clauses. There is only an exchange.” He pauses and lands a firm hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “This young man wants to take on a very heavy burden; wants to do a lot of good with it as well,” and he waits for the crowd to murmur its agreement: a consummate performer, the ringmaster leading his flock on their merry way. “We’ll give him the opportunity to do that. All we ask is that when the time comes he’ll have to do one thing he is asked. As per his request, he is assured that it will harm nobody; that he will not be asked to use any power he has accrued for anything evil. Our word in this is binding.” He looks round sternly.
Jared is confused to his core. He’d assumed that the whole point of the deal that Mr Dark wanted to make was to have a puppet he could use in whatever position of power he could secure for Jensen. But one request didn’t seem enough. As though Mr Dark could hear his thoughts, he turned towards Jared and smiles, letting one eye close in a wink that could’ve been described as saucy if it hadn’t been terrifying on that almost skull-like face. His eyes flash green for a second; Jared almost chokes, wishing the binding was off his tongue so he could warn Jensen. He can’t understand why he doesn’t see Mr Dark’s intentions. Still nothing comes out of his throat. His fingers feel numb and heavy- he can’t even draw the rifle up to his chest.
Every member of the circus is filing out slowly now, forming a guard of honour to escort Mr Dark and Jensen to the mirror house, their eyes flat and shiny in the light of the moon. Jared feels the familiar clutch of the Dust Witch’s arm through his own. “Cheer up, dearie,” she says. “Change has to come.” It so bitterly echoes his thoughts of the last thirty-six hours that he has to laugh despite himself. He stills as it makes its way past his lips and rings out clear in the darkness. The dust hasn’t dissipated enough to let him talk, but it feels thinner and lighter in his mouth, like soft ropes binding instead of iron chains.
As he walks with the rest up to the house, his mind turns that over frantically, looking for every shred of advantage. Laughter helps, it’s clear. It doesn’t belong in the darkness or to this solemnity. There are no clowns in the ensemble that trails behind him, not even sad painted smiles. He thinks hard of funny things, of light, lets silent laughter hiss from him, heady giggles welling up in his throat. He feels the twitch of the old crone’s arm next to him in warning, but his mouth is loosening, his arms are lightening, he can feel the weight of the rifle once more in his hands, can remember the salt in his pocket. Best of all, he can feel optimism returning, replacing the fear and the worry. Things are never as bad as they look.
He doesn’t let the Mirror Maze dampen his new found hope; knows if he lets it go, he won’t get it back again. Holds on tight to every good thought he can think of: his mother and father, hands joined across the table. How Jensen looks when he’s happy - and if he hadn’t already known deep down how he feels about Jensen, then it might have come as a shock to him how many memories he has that consist just of Jensen; entire summers spent in his company, how deep his smile is burnt in, and he concentrates on it solely. This is power of its own kind, he’s sure of it. Power enough to loosen his tongue, free his arms and maybe give him a chance to stop all this from happening.
When they are deep into the bowels of the House, he averts his eyes as best as he could from the flickering scenes that march across the mirrors as though they are more portals than reflections. He notices with a shudder how whatever squirms under Mr Dark’s shirt seems more active than ever here, as though it is in the company of its own kind. With solemn procession, they thread their way through to the largest room of all, sheathed completely with mirrors, light emanating from no source at all. Jensen steps in, right up close to the glass, and Jared takes his chance. Let me say goodbye, he broadcasts as loudly as he can at Mr Dark, injecting it with every ounce of doom and gloom that he could muster - hiding his light under a bushel and hoping that it will work.
“Very well,” Mr Dark says. His face is inscrutable; a little younger now, perhaps, as though he is feeding from the collected hushed presence around him, as though he siphons it from Jensen in preparation for the exchange that will of necessity set Jensen on the path he will need to take in order to one day become Mr Dark. Jared steps forward, pretending that he is yet weighed down by dust and ashes and the death that should be marked upon him still. Jensen focuses on him for the first time, green eyes distant as though he is struggling to remember; struggling to swim back up out of the soupy morass that is dragging him down, convincing him that this is a good idea. Mr Dark might have spoken truth about not lying outright, but cheating was within the rules of the game - for who would take up his burden willingly?
Jared hesitates for a second, hoping that it will be enough, then coughs forth the last of the dust from his mouth, and leans forward to kiss Jensen for the first time and possibly the last. Breathes into him every shred of the happiness he’d collected on the way, the happiness for which Jensen had searched for so many years and imagined he’d never found. Presses the rifle into the unresisting hand, feels fingers fold around it, around a weapon that can’t kill but can still do its duty. “It’s your choice,” he breathes as they part; he understands that now. Mr Dark is right- it is Jensen’s choice in either direction.
He feels a hand wrench him round, all Mr Dark’s debonair calm vanishing as he hears Jared’s words. There are fingers at his throat now and the claws he’d seen before are lengthening, sharpening, digging into him as clothing shreds. Behind the rags gleam violent tattoos of every man and woman that had come before, taken their fill of power, and then been forced into serving time, inked and etched on, living and transferrable from body to body as each new one takes on the burden of the circus until they find another willing to make the same choice. His fingers fumble uselessly in his pocket for the salt and fail to grasp it. A retort sounds across the room; the small metal bb embeds itself into the mirror and from it runs a thin spiderweb of cracks that spread and cover the room entirely, shattering every reflection. And Jensen is there, wrenching Mr Dark away from Jared, his face finally fully alert and aware, staring in horror at how close he’d been to accepting the offer made.
“We should run,” Jared says, as calmly as he can, as Mr Dark keeps changing and growing, dark fur sprouting, eyes gleaming entirely, utterly consumed in his transformation, the tattoos, the illustrations that cover his body the only things that remain intact, terrifying in their humanity, the only bit that remains to him. Jensen nods and lets go, and they run as fast as they can through the shattering rooms, the lights flickering out completely, until they are solely in the dark. Tiny flecks of glass sting their hands and exposed skin until, for protection, they both cover their faces with their arms and run completely blind, following the faint gust of wind that blows through: blessedly free of scent, just cool and faintly rainy against them. Behind them, in the darkness, stalks Mr Dark, in his element but unable to force them to acquiesce, his power limited by his own rules. For the sake of security, Jared folds his fingers around his small salt bag and tosses a handful behind him, not sure what it might do to help, but also sure it can’t hurt.
When they stumble out into the open air, the first thing they feel is fresh droplets of rain. Despite the stinging pain of the numerous tiny cuts across his hands, Jared smiles again. Jensen takes his hand to pull him onwards, towards the bright headlights of a car in the near distance. Strong hands take his elbow and help him in; despite being nearly blind in the dark and the rain, Jared knows it’s his mother, knows his father has Jensen, and he lets himself sag. Questions can wait until they’re home.
It’s not until they’re inside and some of the shock has faded that Jared can believe they’ve escaped, that Mr Dark isn’t with them still, just waiting. He sips numbly at the warm liquid his father presses gently into his hands, feels the fierce blaze of dandelion liqueur down his throat, heating him up instantly in a way that the fire leaping in the hearth failed to do, while beside Jensen stares dully at his own glass. His mother leaves the room with a small bunch of twigs in her hands; he hears her light footsteps in the hallway before she returns. “I feel so stupid,” Jensen says finally. “I came so close to saying yes, and just because I wanted things faster.”
“There’s no shame in that,” Jared’s mother says reflectively as she tapes another small stick above the window in the room. “Better safe than sorry,” she says to nobody in particular.
Quieter, Jared’s father speaks. “We knew you’d be at the circus,” he says, answering the silent question that had been there all along. “But it’s not something we could interfere in.” There’s something brooding and dark in his voice; Jared senses, rather than sees, his mother squeeze his hand comfortingly. “Not tonight,” he continues, “but some night, I’ll tell you how we knew.” He stands and stretches. “For now though we’re off to bed. We’ll give you a chance to chat.” He holds out his hand, and Jared’s mother takes it again, leaves them with a pat on the shoulder and a whispered good night.
There’s too much to say between them and no good way to start, so Jared does the obvious, turns his hand palm up towards Jensen and holds it out. Jensen’s fingers close on his, cold and strong, and something in Jared sighs with relief. They’ve overcome this; and whatever marks Mr Dark has left, whatever remnants remain, or how far-reaching they are he’s pretty sure they can deal with them. Even the separate paths that they might take, don't frighten Jared, not now. Something will always bring them back together.
He’s not surprised when Jensen kisses him, not after everything else tonight- thinks he might never be surprised again- he’s just bone thankful that Jensen feels the same way. Jensen's mouth is sweet with the last of the dandelion wine, the taste of summers past, recovered again.
Fandom: SPN RPF
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Rating: PG-13
Length: 14K
Notes: For J2_everafter. Thanks to the mods, and sorry for my late posting! With huge thanks to
3pomegranate who extended a very welcome helping hand. Any and all mistakes that remain are 100% my own.This is a very different style to my usual, so although I always appreciate concrit, it's even more appreciated on this particular one!
Summary: When Jared comes back home near Halloween, the Circus arrives- and makes Jensen an offer he can't refuse, while Jared must work to save him.
Part One found here
The town isn't ordinary, he knows that somewhere deep down. The summers are hotter, the winters are colder, the springs are sharper and the autumns burrow somewhere inside you and fill you with a melancholy that can be hard to shake off. He can't explain it to his friends, can't even articulate it to himself sometimes, just knows there's something different. It washes people up on its shores, and they don't ever seem to leave, holding fast to the town like this is some tiny pocket of refuge, even with all its faults and all its flaws. Even Jensen, stalking alone through the night brings most of it on himself, Jared thinks with absolute fairness. He thrives on difference, had set his eyes to leaving almost as soon as he understood what it meant, and that is something that can never blend in to the comfortable twilight of the town's existence.
“Come on," Jensen says, and there's a live wire spark to him, glinting from his eyes and his face, striking off the soles of his shoes, and Jared follows him like he’s always done, drives them to the field where the Circus has set up like usual. He doesn't know what he was expecting in the light of day- perhaps that Mr Dark would accost them immediately, drag them bodily into the Mirror House- but what he expects is not what he gets. Under the sun, in the cold afternoon air, the final Circus of the year is old and battered, torn and ragged, nothing like the gleaming polished machine of the night before. It's not the same in any particular; the great top sags, and the same old rides glisten and beckon as they have always done; whirling teacups, pirate ships, the Scream, the Vortex, the mirror maze is the same lean-to shack it always has been, faded and storm-weathered, and the people who man the rides and staff the booths look exactly as they should- as tired and worn as their circus. There's no man in a cape sweeping around. There are no cast-iron lanterns with white lights; it's exactly the same circus that comes around every year. On the whirling teacups there's the same stain from the time Karly Reynolds threw up a cherry soda, spilling down the side like whatever colouring in it had been too difficult to clean off, sunk into the chipped peeling wood. Jensen turns to Jared and his eyes are fully open now, confused for a second until that melts away and he nods before him.
"Come on," he says, and it's like having the old Jensen back again, when his cold hand slips into Jared's and he tugs him towards the rides.
The afternoon that follows pulls Jared back in time. He's done this a thousand times before, beside, adjacent with Jensen, every ride he goes on, every stupid game he plays, every ridiculous exhibit that he looks at. He's slipping back in time, and unbidden the thought rises in his head, that if Mr Dark had known what to offer him, Jared might not have gotten off so easy the night before. What Jared wants isn't emblazoned on the surface, he can't find neat, suave words to articulate it, can't drag it up to the light and make it curl in on itself. It beats just below his skin and pounds through his blood, as much a part of him as his hair, his eyes, his tendency to make terrible jokes. You can't isolate it, can't put it in a centrifuge and draw it out, make him an antidote. There's nothing there for Mr Dark to grasp, it'll just run through his fingers. Not like Jensen who shines as hard as he tries not to, whose face which is so secret to most, is so easy to read to those who know what to look for.
It's easy to reach inside Jensen and draw out his secret thoughts and wants because they float so close to the surface. Mr Dark can offer him power, Jared thinks distractedly as he watches Jensen play a game against the ridiculous strength tester, smacking it down as hard as he can. Power without the need to wait, an escape route already built for him, a slippery slide that he should fear but refuses to. And when Jensen scores 850 Jared lets out an excited cheer, hears the bell ring out, watches Jensen turn to him with a blinding smile that almost chases the shadows from the night before in his eyes away. Jensen drops the hammer on the side and collects his prize with a grin. "Not giving it a shot?" he asks, and there's the faintest hint of a tease there and Jared grins back.
"Sure I will," he says, makes a big show of pushing up his sleeves and swinging the hammer in preparation. He likes the look of mild disbelief that Jensen shoots him, contemplates a little more posing before he gives it a go. He hits it as hard as he can- feels the sturdy strength of the hammer in his arm- they've never gone easy between them, and the bell rings out a little higher, scores him a 900 and he smirks at Jensen as he collects his very slightly bigger prize. "Natural talent," he says, and gives a grin that could probably be described as shit-eating at the very kindest. Jensen elbows him in the side for that, heads straight for a challenge he knows he can win. The rifle range is as dilapidated as the rest of the fair, and the wood of the booth is warped and broken. The figures still stand up straight though, and the guns are polished, their stocks shining bright as Jensen hands over his dollars and hoists the gun with confident ease in Jared's direction.
"You first," Jensen says and there's a challenge right there in the tone that Jared tries not to think too hard about. He sets the gun to his shoulder and fires the little peppered shots as accurately as he can, doesn't hit a single figure and groans,- slumping with mock failure.
"How will I ever live with myself?" he says with exaggerated grief, as Jensen picks up a loaded one and narrows his eyes in concentration, knocks each target down with perfect accuracy, honed from shying stones at crows (and a stint on the shooting team at college, though Jared notices he doesn't tell that to the booth owner who looks on with a grudgingly impressed expression.) When Jensen hoists the ridiculous stuffed moose in his direction with a muttered comment about how God had clearly intended it for Jared, Jared can barely stop a disbelieving smile from tugging at his lips. He has a shelf at home filled with this stuff,- stuffed animals, ugly vases, broken clockwork toys of some sort or the other,- and Jensen has an equivalent one, and it's been a thoroughly set-out convention between them that each circus has a winner. Jensen handing over a prize is not just a once-in-a-blue-moon experience, it's genuinely never happened before.
He's holding the stuffed moose for a second with a look on his face that he's pretty sure is really stupid, when suddenly a thought strikes him with dread. "This isn't some goodbye gift, is it?" he asks. "Because I'm going to be really pissed if that's all I get." he tries to turn it into a joke like he always does, but he can't help the unease that creeps in.
Jensen gives him an odd sideways look that Jared can't quite interpret. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, but the words fall flat because Jensen's never been able to lie for shit, much though he'd like to think he can.
The wind is colder now as it whips around Jared's face. He's suddenly chilled to the bone and the sun is going down early, it feels like. The sky is completely grey now- darkening fast- and the younger children are being taken home by their parents before the rougher evening crowd arrives. As the field empties out around them, Jared shivers reflexively, thrusting the hand that isn't holding his moose deeper into the pocket of his coat and encountering once again the heavy parchment of the business card he'd been given. "You shouldn't do this," he says, but Jensen's already moving towards the Ferris Wheel and doesn't hear him over the sharp whistle of the wind and the sudden burst of carousel music.
Jared trails behind him, looks at the smooth skin between Jensen's hair and the collar of his coat, pale and vulnerable, and is filled with sudden fruitless anger. Always running ahead, he thinks, and he wants to hold tight and never let go, force Jensen to see reason. By the time they've passed over their tokens, the ride is almost ready to start; they scramble into the same cage, same bench, pressed warm against each other against the increasing cold of the darkening air. The air smells of oil and grease, the sharp tang of metal almost comforting in its alienness, and when Jared looks at the tilt of Jensen's head as he looks out over the fairground he's glad of it. His hand twitches in his pocket and he thrusts it stubbornly deeper. Of everything that's been wrong since he's got home, this urge to hold Jensen's hand is the least of it, and he can't bring himself to be embarrassed. As the ride speeds up, he throws caution to the winds, though. It might be breaking the rules of their game to upend it so entirely; not to seek to win in any way, but he doesn't care. Jensen broke the rules first, bent them to his whims when he made Jared fall in love.
When he slides a cool hand across the nape of Jensen's neck in a way that might be joking at any other moment- a way to warm his hands- Jensen turns to look at him properly. They're at the highest point of the ride now, staring out across a landscape that can barely be seen, and the ride has paused. Jared holds his breath for so long he thinks he might pass out, and almost musters the courage to lean forward and change everything between them forever. Then the moment is lost; the ride swoops down and forward so fast that the breath he's just let out is lost as well; the g-force throws him against Jensen hard enough to surprise a startled grunt from him. He doesn't remember this ride ever being so strong before, but has no time to reflect on it; his fingers bend in the wire rims of the cage as he holds on tight for dear life.
When the door opens and they tumble out, Jensen is laughing, teeth gleaming in the faint lights of the booth and Jared still wants to kiss him, tie him close even if just for seconds, offer him something else, but it fades away when in the distance he sees Mr Dark standing there and watching them both, his face a blank white oval devoid of expression. Jared stares back, but when Jensen turns Mr Dark is gone, melting into the air like he was never there, and Jared is filled with a surge of determination. This game isn't over yet, he thinks, and this time it's him striding forward, Jensen stranded for a second in the crowd before he catches up, heading straight for the decrepit mirror-maze. Know your enemy, he thinks. This might not be the same, Circus but there has to be commonalities, have to be places where they co-exist, and he suspects that the best place to find them may well be the maze. It is not the test, but it may help prepare.
Jensen's questions clearly die on his lips as he takes in where they're heading, sucks in a breath deep and sharp like he's not ready yet, and Jared can't help thinking: good. This is only a taste, after all, of what Jensen longs for. Out of the corner of his eye he spots the merry-go-round, battered and creaky, a few kids clinging grimly to the painted horses while bored parents sip at stale drinks. But when he blinks twice, fast, it's just a wavering shimmering beacon and before his eyes the children age, innocent eyes in ancient bodies, wisdom bought at too high a price. He falters for a second, wonders for the first time if he is crazy, if this is some kind of infection that Jensen has as well, until the faint smell of cotton candy strikes again and reinvigorates his belief. This is happening, he thinks, and plunges into the mirror maze pursued by the raucous calls of kids shouting too loudly, voices too high and happy to fit the scene.
If he'd thought outside was dark and cold, in here, surrounded by mirrors lit by dimly flickering lights inset into the corners, is worse. Bone deep chill strikes off the smooth surfaces and at the edge of his vision he sees himself multiplied a thousand times. Jensen is beside him, warm and solid, steady and unchanging, for the first time since Jared had returned. They're silent now, the only sound the sigh of the air as they inhale too deeply. Jared dares to look at the first mirror, sees himself ridiculously short and squat, wider than he is tall like he's been squashed down, drawn out, a sad puffy figure with mournful eyes that gaze back at him and blink slowly. Beside him in the mirror, squashed up close, Jensen looms impossibly tall and thin, peering back with impersonal detached curiosity, strung out and spare, barely a man. And, when he turns away from the sight, his coat flares out a little bit like a black cape swirling around him.
Jared lingers seconds longer, meets his own gaze, his eyes the only thing that are the same, sees the whispered implied threat built into the walls. A voice that Jensen can't hear sighs out from the corners of the room, sinks tendrils into his brain, don't get in the way of what was meant to be, and Jared feels his skin crease into wrinkles at the edge of his eyes as he frowns, thinks silently back fuck off. He doesn't know how much of an effect that will have; he turns and follows Jensen into the next room, looks without seeing into mirror after mirror that distorts and breaks, fractures and shatters him time and time again, mending him only for the space between glances. He can't remember why he thought this was a good idea, pitting himself against this early foe: midnight is the moment, midnight is the place, he thinks wildly; this is the mere shadow of what will come. He can’t be sure what fled through his mind, but whatever he had intended, it wasn’t this. He’s pulled along, helpless in Jensen’s wake, from frame to frame, dizzying flashes bewildering his eyes.
From one mirror his face leers out, ten years older, smartly dressed, standing in a courtroom with a man he knows is guilty of the worst of sins; when he blinks, the man shakes his hand and leaves, and Jared smiles. In the next one, Jensen kisses him, bites at his lips, pushes him down to his knees, and something in Jared goes hot and cold at the same time, forces the blood to his face at the sight even though he knows Jensen can’t see it. He doesn’t look at the next ones, doesn’t ask what Jensen sees, fears the answer too much.
Had he thought this would give him ammunition, help him convince Jensen that this was madness? This was Mr Dark's ground, it belonged to him, not to Jared; he could show them what he wanted- only glimpses, naturally, since this clearly wasn't his area of full power, but still enough to repulse Jared (at the same time as it tugged at something deep in the pit of his belly) and to attract Jensen even more. When they stumble out the other side, Jared feels even more hopeless, lost and confused, so far from Jensen though they stand so close. But he knows in himself that he can't give up, can't just let this happen. That's never been in his nature; he may stare at the earth, but that's anchored him in a way that Jensen, looking far forward into sky, always striving towards the future, has never had - and Jared tells himself that it's a strength.
They make their way back to the car, no more diversions, and Jared drives them back home, silence hanging heavy and thick between them in a way that makes him want to protest, to destroy the quiet with his words, with music. He tries turning on the radio, but it's set to the local soft-rock station and the first song that curls its way out of the speakers is 'Sympathy for the Devil.' Apart from anything else, the Rolling Stones have never been up Jared's street, so he flicks it off and stares straight through the windshield at the velvet darkness of the gathering nightfall, the harsh flashes of the tail-lights of other cars. He looks at Jensen twice and meets only his turned cheek as he gazes out the window at nothing at all. Tonight is the night, he knows it; he knows that it's not yet time, though, so when he drops Jensen off, he doesn't say anything, doesn't clutch at him or ask him to make promises that he'll only break if he makes them at all. Lets him slide out of the car, leaving a stuffed moose behind him and an empty space. Something in Jared's chest throbs at that, wants to burst through the skin, and he has to sit there for long minutes, watching the light flicker on in Jensen's house, before finally he makes his way back to his own home.
His mother is reading, spectacles perched on her nose, incongruous with the rest of her, and it seems all of a piece with the evening that his parents too are aging, withering. He remembers the soft whirl, the hypnotic rise and fall of the merry-go-round, the children flickering from young to old; wonders if they would be tempted, whether it would be enough to make them fall, to have those heady years of youth back again. His mother seems settled here and now, but looking at her he remembers how lightly she flitted from place to place once upon a time, a grey bird on wing racing before the storm, and he twitches, wants to keep her here forever, however impossible that might be when he can’t even be sure of staying, himself.
His father emerges from the kitchen, a tray with three coffee cups on it- drinking coffee at night is a habit they've never broken- and they sit in silence, until Jared's mother pushes her glasses up a little bit and looks at him penetratingly. "Take salt tonight," she says, a non-sequitur if ever he's heard one, then shuts her mouth with a snap as though she thinks she's said too much already. It doesn't come up again, but still he tucks some in his pocket- he's not quite sure why, but his mother's advice has never steered him wrong before, then heads up to his room.
Jared sits there and lets the seconds tick away, followed by the minutes, in crashing tumbling waves against the clock. His hands are cold even in the warmth of the room; he tucks them close against his skin, an ice-burn against his arms, and waits for the long moments to pass. Every sense seems more alert, as though the later it got the more awake he became; strung tight as a bow, an arrow waiting for a place to go, his ears hearing everything around him. The soft low murmur of voices from his parents: no words to be heard, just the deep thrum of their tones echoing through the walls through some trick of ventilation. It comforts him obscurely, as it always had in the past, knowing they’re close, knowing that whatever happens, they'll be there. Even if I'm not, he thinks. It burns as cold as his hands, as he tries not to think on it; pondering what will happen tonight will drive him mad, if he isn't already for even contemplating this.
Finally his ears catch it: the soft scrape of foot against brick, Jensen slipping down the side of the building. When Jared looks out, all he can see is a black shadow shifting into the bushes; Jared breathes in deep as he heads on down, as well. Despite all the time he'd had to plan, he still isn't sure what he plans to do- whether he will stop Jensen from ever reaching the circus, hold him down if needs must, or whether he'll plead life's case against Mr Dark and trust to what he knew could be between them if they gave it a shot. As he speeds fleet-footed after Jensen, he lets all the thoughts slip away, caring only about keeping up with him here and now. They are slower now than they had been the first time they dashed the mad dash; Jared is thankful for the respite, though he suspected from the flickerings around them both that the distance is being shortened imperceptibly. Certainly, houses seem to shrink and fade impossibly fast. He sucks in a deep breath and speeds up just a little bit, until he is pounding three feet behind Jensen, who never stops to turn and look, as though he can't hear Jared behind him.
There is a shiver of sound around his ears and a light weight settles on his back, sweeps dust-wings around him, skinny arms going round his neck. "Faster," says an old grey thin voice, and a cracked giggle follows. "I'll tell you how it goes, boy," and a sharp heel digs into his back. "We're obliged to let you attend, this you know is right and true. We're not obliged to allow your voice to be heard; this, too, you must know," and grey powdery dust flows into his mouth, coats the inside, covers teeth and tongue, binds them tight. He sucks in a terrified breath. This isn't fair, he thinks, and she sniggers like she can hear his thoughts. "There is no fairness," she says. "This is your friend's choice to make." She slip-slides over the word friend as though to mock it, strip it of any retaining power, ridicule him for his naive presumption that he could stop this.
Determined now, he runs faster despite the deadening weight of the old woman on his back. If he can't speak, can't convince Jensen with his words, he'll have to stop them from ever arriving at the place where he'll make that choice. He's taller, faster, he knows this, and he sets his mind towards the task, strains every muscle. And, as they widen out on the road, he makes his move: almost leaps through the air and brings Jensen down, rolls them over and over, gravel scraping through too few layers, bright sharp pinpricks of pain, and opens his mouth to tell him no.
A pathetic deathless squeak emerges and he tries once again, but Jensen is already rolling away, staring at him as though he can't believe his eyes. "Jared," he says, and the tone is indefinable, but the surprise is there. He hadn't heard Jared run after him, had been lost so deep to his own thoughts, he hadn't thought to turn around even for a second. "You can't stop me," he says. He sounds determined, but underneath there is a fast running current of doubt. "I've read about them, what they can give," he says, and Jared thinks of library shelves coated with grey dust, a man stamping out Jensen's books, Machiavelli, Alexander the Great, the history of power, Eisenhower not Roosevelt, Churchill not Lloyd George. And there, bound in black, dark tales of travelling power, mysterious deals; he pictures Jensen, age twelve, on the nights he wasn't out running with Jared - head underneath the blankets as he devoured the possibilities. Then, at fifteen, putting away childish tales and taking up the moral within; eighteen, striking out for gold and leaving; twenty one, and taking back those dreams, going back to basics. "They can give me it all, Jared," and he shrugs hopelessly. "I can't pass this up, I can't," and Jared wants to shout at him, wants to shake him until his teeth rattle in his head, because what is the price. What will they take from Jensen in exchange? He catches the tremble in Jensen's mouth, knows that Jensen has thought about it and decided whatever he's giving up is worth it.
They struggle fruitlessly, hopelessly in the dirt for a few moments before Jensen wriggles free despite Jared's best efforts. "Tell me to stay," he says and his eyes are wretched, his hands fists by his sides, "tell me that this is wrong, that this isn't the best way, and I'll stay." He takes Jared's silence for acquiescence; Jared can't blame him, because he's kept his mouth shut in the past and let Jensen careen helplessly towards disaster, followed behind him without the sense of a dog in his head. Now, when he tries he can't unblock himself; can't spit out the desperate plea for Jensen to stop and think about this.
Can only watch Jensen jog away, head down, shoulders hunched. Then he stands, hands dangling uselessly beside him because what is the point? He swipes a weary hand across his face and hears his mother as clear as day as though she was beside him, his father's warm solid presence as well, and hears her favourite saying- the one she always used to trot out when Jared complained about school group projects or grumpy old ladies who hit out at him with umbrellas when he tried to help them with their bags. Sometimes the people who least want your help are the ones who most need it. A little of the malaise that had settled over him lifts, he is warmed, his mind feels a little clearer. When had a setback ever stopped him dead in his tracks? If he doesn’t have words, he'll have to find another way to convince Jensen.
He starts running again, noticing vaguely that sometime between the fight and his resolution that the old woman on his back had vanished. He feels lighter, stronger; his legs work just fine now, stronger than he'd thought - and he has a goal, a fixed objective in his mind. He can do this. Slow and steady will win the race after all. It is with little surprise that he rounds a corner that should never have been there and finds the circus spread out before him like an undead carnival. If he tilts his head just right, it doesn't look exactly like the first time he'd seen it- a carnival of fifty years ago decked in black and white - it has taken on different lines, a different shape. Now it gleams entirely afresh and anew, modern minimalism at its finest, and he understands deep within his bones that the carnival is shaping itself to Jensen's desires, enticing him in with sharp-edged promises. The merry-go-round is sharp sticks of white candy now, nebulous clouds instead of horses, and alone the Mirror Maze is only black, the same dark forbidding looming centre-piece it always is.
Even that has changed, though; as Jared gets closer, he can see the shape is imperceptibly changed, that the house now looks as though it could be the twin of Jensen’s own. The same ivy crawls up the side and the empty windows glisten bleakly. Despite himself, his footsteps slow as he approaches. They’re not in there, there’s no-one here at all, and he lets instinct guide him for the moment. The little bag of salt in his pocket meets his hand as he thrusts it in for reassurance; as he passes the now wavering shooting booth whose mirror he and Jensen had played at on an afternoon that seems so long ago, he leans across the counter and unhooks a rifle. It’s not designed to hurt, he knows that objectively, but it feels as though it belongs in his hands and he wonders briefly if it was the same one that he’d fired earlier. Even if it could hurt, he knows that he only has one chance with it, and that chance is slim. Still, it’s something to hold; something that glistens in his hands. He hesitates for long seconds, not sure where to go next. Before him there is the grey and black striped tent, canvas rustling in a non-existent gust of wind; behind him stands the mirror house. He shivers suddenly, sure that someone is watching him.
When he turns, though, nobody is there and he sets himself a little more firmly. Tent first, he decides, and sneaks round to the back of it, presses his ear up close. He can hear a muffled murmur of voices, but can’t distinguish words or tones - just that it seems to be an argument. Silently, carefully, he moves around until he finds a tiny gap in the material, just enough to put his eye to it and see what’s going on inside. There’s just darkness at first; then his vision adjusts and he can make out unmoving figures standing, staring at the slightly raised platform where Mr Dark stands and harangues them. His ears are still muffled, but he can see Mr Dark’s mouth move; can see the wide gesture of his arm as he pulls Jensen up on stage beside him. Jared blinks quickly, barely willing to miss a moment of what is going on, but once his eyes flicker open again, he finds himself staring into the dark unblinking abyss of Mr Dark’s eye- black, ringed with yellow that looks as though with the slightest provocation it could erupt into flames. The canvas parts in front of him, welcomes him in, and an ironic cheer goes up from the crowd. On the stage Jensen stands still and Jared wills him to meet his eyes.
“There’s nothing you can do now,” Mr Dark breathes into his ear. “People make their own choices in this life, Jared.” At the edge of his cuffs and collar there are tiny flickers of movement, like something crawls beneath his shirt that can’t be explained, something that’s excited. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, and one thin bony hand brushes back Jared’s hair. “When he goes into the night, he doesn’t have to be alone, you know.” And perhaps Jared had been overly optimistic in assuming there was nothing that could tempt him, nothing that Mr Dark could read from his eyes and his heart. Still, he shakes his head, stubborn to the bone.
“You can’t have him,” he thinks, and his only answer is a deep rich satisfied chuckle. Mr Dark leaves him standing there for the moment and walks back with due patience to Jensen.
“You all witness this,” he says with a smile. “A deal is a deal, after all. There is no cheating here. No hidden clauses. There is only an exchange.” He pauses and lands a firm hand on Jensen’s shoulder. “This young man wants to take on a very heavy burden; wants to do a lot of good with it as well,” and he waits for the crowd to murmur its agreement: a consummate performer, the ringmaster leading his flock on their merry way. “We’ll give him the opportunity to do that. All we ask is that when the time comes he’ll have to do one thing he is asked. As per his request, he is assured that it will harm nobody; that he will not be asked to use any power he has accrued for anything evil. Our word in this is binding.” He looks round sternly.
Jared is confused to his core. He’d assumed that the whole point of the deal that Mr Dark wanted to make was to have a puppet he could use in whatever position of power he could secure for Jensen. But one request didn’t seem enough. As though Mr Dark could hear his thoughts, he turned towards Jared and smiles, letting one eye close in a wink that could’ve been described as saucy if it hadn’t been terrifying on that almost skull-like face. His eyes flash green for a second; Jared almost chokes, wishing the binding was off his tongue so he could warn Jensen. He can’t understand why he doesn’t see Mr Dark’s intentions. Still nothing comes out of his throat. His fingers feel numb and heavy- he can’t even draw the rifle up to his chest.
Every member of the circus is filing out slowly now, forming a guard of honour to escort Mr Dark and Jensen to the mirror house, their eyes flat and shiny in the light of the moon. Jared feels the familiar clutch of the Dust Witch’s arm through his own. “Cheer up, dearie,” she says. “Change has to come.” It so bitterly echoes his thoughts of the last thirty-six hours that he has to laugh despite himself. He stills as it makes its way past his lips and rings out clear in the darkness. The dust hasn’t dissipated enough to let him talk, but it feels thinner and lighter in his mouth, like soft ropes binding instead of iron chains.
As he walks with the rest up to the house, his mind turns that over frantically, looking for every shred of advantage. Laughter helps, it’s clear. It doesn’t belong in the darkness or to this solemnity. There are no clowns in the ensemble that trails behind him, not even sad painted smiles. He thinks hard of funny things, of light, lets silent laughter hiss from him, heady giggles welling up in his throat. He feels the twitch of the old crone’s arm next to him in warning, but his mouth is loosening, his arms are lightening, he can feel the weight of the rifle once more in his hands, can remember the salt in his pocket. Best of all, he can feel optimism returning, replacing the fear and the worry. Things are never as bad as they look.
He doesn’t let the Mirror Maze dampen his new found hope; knows if he lets it go, he won’t get it back again. Holds on tight to every good thought he can think of: his mother and father, hands joined across the table. How Jensen looks when he’s happy - and if he hadn’t already known deep down how he feels about Jensen, then it might have come as a shock to him how many memories he has that consist just of Jensen; entire summers spent in his company, how deep his smile is burnt in, and he concentrates on it solely. This is power of its own kind, he’s sure of it. Power enough to loosen his tongue, free his arms and maybe give him a chance to stop all this from happening.
When they are deep into the bowels of the House, he averts his eyes as best as he could from the flickering scenes that march across the mirrors as though they are more portals than reflections. He notices with a shudder how whatever squirms under Mr Dark’s shirt seems more active than ever here, as though it is in the company of its own kind. With solemn procession, they thread their way through to the largest room of all, sheathed completely with mirrors, light emanating from no source at all. Jensen steps in, right up close to the glass, and Jared takes his chance. Let me say goodbye, he broadcasts as loudly as he can at Mr Dark, injecting it with every ounce of doom and gloom that he could muster - hiding his light under a bushel and hoping that it will work.
“Very well,” Mr Dark says. His face is inscrutable; a little younger now, perhaps, as though he is feeding from the collected hushed presence around him, as though he siphons it from Jensen in preparation for the exchange that will of necessity set Jensen on the path he will need to take in order to one day become Mr Dark. Jared steps forward, pretending that he is yet weighed down by dust and ashes and the death that should be marked upon him still. Jensen focuses on him for the first time, green eyes distant as though he is struggling to remember; struggling to swim back up out of the soupy morass that is dragging him down, convincing him that this is a good idea. Mr Dark might have spoken truth about not lying outright, but cheating was within the rules of the game - for who would take up his burden willingly?
Jared hesitates for a second, hoping that it will be enough, then coughs forth the last of the dust from his mouth, and leans forward to kiss Jensen for the first time and possibly the last. Breathes into him every shred of the happiness he’d collected on the way, the happiness for which Jensen had searched for so many years and imagined he’d never found. Presses the rifle into the unresisting hand, feels fingers fold around it, around a weapon that can’t kill but can still do its duty. “It’s your choice,” he breathes as they part; he understands that now. Mr Dark is right- it is Jensen’s choice in either direction.
He feels a hand wrench him round, all Mr Dark’s debonair calm vanishing as he hears Jared’s words. There are fingers at his throat now and the claws he’d seen before are lengthening, sharpening, digging into him as clothing shreds. Behind the rags gleam violent tattoos of every man and woman that had come before, taken their fill of power, and then been forced into serving time, inked and etched on, living and transferrable from body to body as each new one takes on the burden of the circus until they find another willing to make the same choice. His fingers fumble uselessly in his pocket for the salt and fail to grasp it. A retort sounds across the room; the small metal bb embeds itself into the mirror and from it runs a thin spiderweb of cracks that spread and cover the room entirely, shattering every reflection. And Jensen is there, wrenching Mr Dark away from Jared, his face finally fully alert and aware, staring in horror at how close he’d been to accepting the offer made.
“We should run,” Jared says, as calmly as he can, as Mr Dark keeps changing and growing, dark fur sprouting, eyes gleaming entirely, utterly consumed in his transformation, the tattoos, the illustrations that cover his body the only things that remain intact, terrifying in their humanity, the only bit that remains to him. Jensen nods and lets go, and they run as fast as they can through the shattering rooms, the lights flickering out completely, until they are solely in the dark. Tiny flecks of glass sting their hands and exposed skin until, for protection, they both cover their faces with their arms and run completely blind, following the faint gust of wind that blows through: blessedly free of scent, just cool and faintly rainy against them. Behind them, in the darkness, stalks Mr Dark, in his element but unable to force them to acquiesce, his power limited by his own rules. For the sake of security, Jared folds his fingers around his small salt bag and tosses a handful behind him, not sure what it might do to help, but also sure it can’t hurt.
When they stumble out into the open air, the first thing they feel is fresh droplets of rain. Despite the stinging pain of the numerous tiny cuts across his hands, Jared smiles again. Jensen takes his hand to pull him onwards, towards the bright headlights of a car in the near distance. Strong hands take his elbow and help him in; despite being nearly blind in the dark and the rain, Jared knows it’s his mother, knows his father has Jensen, and he lets himself sag. Questions can wait until they’re home.
It’s not until they’re inside and some of the shock has faded that Jared can believe they’ve escaped, that Mr Dark isn’t with them still, just waiting. He sips numbly at the warm liquid his father presses gently into his hands, feels the fierce blaze of dandelion liqueur down his throat, heating him up instantly in a way that the fire leaping in the hearth failed to do, while beside Jensen stares dully at his own glass. His mother leaves the room with a small bunch of twigs in her hands; he hears her light footsteps in the hallway before she returns. “I feel so stupid,” Jensen says finally. “I came so close to saying yes, and just because I wanted things faster.”
“There’s no shame in that,” Jared’s mother says reflectively as she tapes another small stick above the window in the room. “Better safe than sorry,” she says to nobody in particular.
Quieter, Jared’s father speaks. “We knew you’d be at the circus,” he says, answering the silent question that had been there all along. “But it’s not something we could interfere in.” There’s something brooding and dark in his voice; Jared senses, rather than sees, his mother squeeze his hand comfortingly. “Not tonight,” he continues, “but some night, I’ll tell you how we knew.” He stands and stretches. “For now though we’re off to bed. We’ll give you a chance to chat.” He holds out his hand, and Jared’s mother takes it again, leaves them with a pat on the shoulder and a whispered good night.
There’s too much to say between them and no good way to start, so Jared does the obvious, turns his hand palm up towards Jensen and holds it out. Jensen’s fingers close on his, cold and strong, and something in Jared sighs with relief. They’ve overcome this; and whatever marks Mr Dark has left, whatever remnants remain, or how far-reaching they are he’s pretty sure they can deal with them. Even the separate paths that they might take, don't frighten Jared, not now. Something will always bring them back together.
He’s not surprised when Jensen kisses him, not after everything else tonight- thinks he might never be surprised again- he’s just bone thankful that Jensen feels the same way. Jensen's mouth is sweet with the last of the dandelion wine, the taste of summers past, recovered again.
