Author's Notes: In the autumn of 2008, Alia and I met for the first time at the Ohio Renaissance Festival in Harveysburg, OH. While walking around with my husband Joe and several of Alia's friends (Hi Susie!) we got to discussing a story about our favorite fictional agents working undercover at a Faire. We were going to work on it together but as time went by, other projects took up our time.
Then I was reminded just recently by the lady herself that I owe Alia a story and about our conversation at that RenFaire; for me to write what we'd discussed that day was my assignment. So here it is!
I wrote a good half or more of this during a three-hour, caffeine-fueled stint at my favorite Starbucks in Madison Heights, MI. Nothing like a couple of venti cinnamon dolce lattes to get my ass in gear, lemme tell you!
Spoilers: En Ami. Takes place shortly after En Ami, before Chimera; A/U after story begins.
Thanks so much to Cory for putting petal to the metal on this one—
and Alia for all the RenFaire help as well as proofreading.
This is the R-rated version of an NC-17 story. The original can be found at my website.
Faire Play
By Suzanne L. Feld
Rated R for language and adult sexual situations
August 2000
"Damn, Mulder, you look good in tights!" Scully exclaimed, more out of surprise than because she'd meant to. Her partner, who had just left the curtain-draped men's changing tent, was outfitted in a black and silver Italian doublet with a colorful, harlequin-style, balloon-sleeved blouse beneath, snug black hose, and high, wide-cuffed boots—the very epitome of the rakish, charming rogue he was portraying. In one hand was a wide-brimmed black hat with a fan of peacock feathers sweeping from the silver filigree hatband.
"I feel like an utter idiot," he said, frowning darkly as he picked at the seat of the tights with the hand that wasn't holding his hat, twisting around to try and see the back of himself. "And these damn things are not as comfortable as they look!"
She snorted laughter, then reached out and smoothed back the heavy black leather of the doublet's lapels over his chest so they lay flat. "You did leave your underwear on, right?"
"I wear boxers, Scully, you know that. They'd have ruined the lines of the tights."
"Obviously it didn't occur to you to get a pair of briefs to wear, so quit complaining if they ride up your butt," she grinned, walking around him to get the full effect. Never would she tell him, but her heart beat just a little faster at the sight of his muscular thighs in those tights; she would be watching throughout the day for him to bend over, causing the doublet's tails—which barely covered him when standing—to ride up and reveal that glorious rear end.
But for now she was still fighting laughter over the catastrophe that had resulted when they'd made the major mistake of giving Mulder a sword to wear with his costume. She'd been in the ladies' changing tent with the seamstress only a short time before when she'd heard a commotion nearby, Mulder's voice swearing, a series of loud crashes, and someone else yelling to hold still. The seamstress had gone to find out what the ruckus was, since Scully was still half-dressed, and came back howling with laughter. She'd reported how Mulder had tripped himself and everyone else in the tent with the scabbard attached to his belt, knocked over clothing displays and mirrors, and nearly took the whole tent down before they removed the sword and replaced it with a long knife. She'd explained that it was difficult to handle wearing a sword at first, and all the regular staff at the festival knew it—but they'd never seen anyone quite as bad with it as her partner.
When she came back around to the front of him, still trying not to laugh, he looked her up and down, demanding, "And where is your costume, Miss It's-So-Damn-Funny?"
"The dress needed alterations. Madam whats-her-name, Adia or Alia or whatever, is taking in the seams of the bodice—it was too large. Whoever wore it before me was quite the busty gal," Scully sighed. "Although the length fit, at least."
"She musta been pretty damn top-heavy," Mulder cracked, fanning himself with the hat. "Damn, this outfit is going to be really uncomfortable by noon. It's barely nine-thirty and I'm already sweating in it."
"Mine's not going to be much cooler," Scully sighed, glancing over at the seamstress' tent. "They didn't have anything light and gauzy I liked."
"What, no tavern wench with a low-cut bodice and skirts up around her knees, flashin' her pantaloons at the customers?" he grinned, still fanning himself with the hat, peacock feathers flopping back and forth.
She raised a brow up at him but didn't deign to answer, thinking that he'd get his comeuppance for that remark when he did see the outfit she'd chosen. With perfect timing the seamstress poked her head out of her tent, calling, "Miss Scully?"
"Back in a bit, Mulder," she said flippantly, but as she went to the tent she wasn't looking forward to donning her Renaissance finery either. With any luck they might find their suspect today, but on the other hand it could be days before he made a move and they were able to identify him. In the meantime they were staking out the West Virginia Renaissance Festival for a serial rapist; with the full cooperation of the Faire organizers they were able to go undercover as costumed employees, which let them blend in and allowed access to all areas of the festival. Only three people on the grounds knew who they were: the seamstress and the tailor who were lending them the costumes, and the ticket-taker who was one of the co-organizers they'd met with when they'd arrived the night before.
This bastard that they were after had already struck at four other RenFaires and was steadily moving north as they opened across the country. The festivals normally ran in the fall, but the ones in the South started earlier in the year than the ones in the North. If they had him figured right, he should strike sometime this opening weekend, and with any luck they'd catch him before he got another victim.
As the seamstress helped her into the hip-length shift, long chemise, dress, bodice, and girdle (which was really a wide belt slung low around her hips), Scully mused on the bad timing of this assignment. She and Mulder were still recovering from the debacle of her trip with Cancer Man, which had badly shaken his trust in her—and she didn't blame him. Before that she'd thought that they might be moving towards something a little more than friendship, but now they were right back where they'd been some months ago. She'd hoped this assignment would help get them back on an even keel, but with Mulder looking like a dangerously sexy aristocrat, she wasn't sure how to treat him—and when he saw her in this costume, she wasn't sure how he'd treat her. That was part of the reason she hadn't chosen one of the cooler tavern wench or country maid outfits; they were too low-cut with enough cleavage to drive her—not to mention him—insane, even when laced as high as they would go. And wasn't that just what they needed?
***
While waiting for Scully, Mulder plunked his hat on his head and went over to the only food vendor open this early—the RenFaire started at ten—and got them each a frozen lemonade before wandering back towards the dressing tents. This early he'd have preferred coffee, which the seller also had, but it was just too damn hot already for that. This year autumn was warm and humid rather than cool and rainy… of course.
Already a large number of costumed workers were wandering about or standing in small groups and chatting. The Faire Queen and her retinue were sprawled among a group of picnic tables not far from the privies, she with her heavy brocade dress hiked up past her knees and waving a wide fan at her head and neck. One of the ladies-in-waiting, a lanky blonde in an unflattering pink dress, spotted him watching them and beckoned to him, but he grinned and shrugged while waving back, then turned away and headed back to the dressing tents.
And froze when he spotted Scully standing a few feet away, looking down as she tugged at the bottom of her bodice. Despite the two frozen lemonades slowly melting in his hands, he was unable to do anything other than stare wordlessly at his partner.
Scully's dress, like his outfit, was mostly black but with red and gold trim, featuring a bright red, leather over-bodice with matching gold and black brocade edging. It was just floor-length and snug to the hips, of a medium-heavy material with long, form-fitting sleeves that laced up the inside of her arm down past the elbow and fell just past her knuckles. The crimson bodice plunged deep between her breasts, clinging to and outlining them clearly, but no skin was visible due to the black dress beneath that covered her cleavage. Still, a goodly portion of her bare upper chest was visible, and he immediately thought that she needed a really kick-ass necklace to finish it off.
Around her hips was a wide black leather belt and, hanging from it, a decorated sheath with a long knife inserted in it similar to the one at his waist as well as a good-sized, rather lumpy pouch on the other side. Slung over her shoulder was a matching leather quiver and his eyes moved over the unstrung longbow she held in one hand, still fussing with the bottom of her bodice with the other, wondering if she knew how to use it.
But it was her hair that really caught his eye; shining like burnished copper in the sunlight, it had been drawn back from her face in a woven-cup-thingie that he didn't know the name of. A thin, golden crown-like tiara was inserted in the hair over her ears and fanned out in a sunburst over her upper forehead. It made her look regal… and dangerous.
"Dammit, this doesn't feel right… does it look okay, Mulder?" She twisted around and then sighed with frustration, letting the quiver drop down her arm and inserting the bow in a holder on its side before shouldering it again. "Something's twisted back there… can you get it?"
He cleared his throat and handed her one of the beginning-to-melt lemonades, then used his free hand to tug down the twisted material that was just to one side of where the bodice laced up the back. "Looks great, Scully. You look like some kind of girl knight or something," he said as he stepped back, wondering if he sounded as lame as he thought.
"Thanks, that's better. I'm supposed to be a lady huntress; it should be well in character with our job as peace-keepers," she said. "As usual I could really use a few inches to seem more intimidating, so I'll have to try and keep my shoes hidden since I'm wearing mine and not period ones."
Just then they were hailed by Matt Greene, the organizer who was working the front gate today. "There you are," he said, huffing and puffing up to them almost breathlessly. Though not grossly overweight, he was rather soft-looking with a bit of a gut, and in his getup of a King Henry VIII-type, heavy brocaded doublet and breeches he was probably warmer than they were. "Could both of you stand at the gate this morning and peace-bond the weapons with these?" he said as he handed over an open-weave cloth bag, which Mulder quickly discovered was full of white plastic cable ties. "Once the incoming crowd thins out, if you'll wander around and make sure no one takes the ties off, Agent Scully, that would be great. If they do, just bind them again and feel free to threaten at will."
"Should I stay at the gate all day, or can we switch off?" Mulder said, tying the bag to his belt after handing Scully half of the ties to put in her waist-pouch. They had been briefed last night on their festival duties, though he'd thought they'd be wandering the place together, not being posted separately even for a short time. With the rapes that their suspect had committed, he didn't want Scully wandering around and poking into dark corners alone, FBI training and gun or no FBI training and gun. The bastard had taken down a policewoman who'd been acting as bait despite four other undercover officers in the area. He always managed to somehow sneak up on his victims without being detected, hence the FBI being called in.
They always did their best as a team watching each other's backs, anyway.
"Since I know you need to be wandering the grounds, I've asked another worker to come in, but she can't make it until noon when she'll take over for you," he explained, mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief taken from inside the heavy doublet. "Just once I wish it would cool down in the autumn before we close for the season, dammit! Anyway, if you need anything just let me know; I'll be here all day. If I'm not at the front gate, look for me in the tavern," he added as he walked away. "And don't forget; stay in character!"
***
They walked together to the front gate of Beckshire, the name of the fictional village where the WV Renaissance Festival was being held. It was a wide open field in a valley between two blunt mountains, ten acres of small, wooden buildings and tents housing a variety of medieval-themed businesses: food, drink, clothing, walking staffs, weapons, a harvest market, candles, and more. There were also several open-air theaters, a jousting arena with stands and colorful knights' dressing tents, stables, and in the very center, a wide, grassy common where people could lounge on blankets with a tankard of mead or a roasted turkey drumstick. Not just staff, but attendees as well dressed in medieval gear spanning a variety of cultures, from Spanish to Greek to Russian to the more common Anglo-Saxon/European. Jugglers, pirates, harlots, buskers, and even a professional insulter stood ready to welcome and amuse the crowd on this opening weekend, though the festival itself had started the day before. Already the wide grassy parking lot was well over half full, and there was a large crowd of people waiting to get in; they were mostly quiet and not rowdy, which was a relief to the two agents in charge of policing them.
Scully couldn't help chuckling as the Queen's Retinue strode up and took their places by the gates; the Festival Queen was a tall, statuesque, middle-aged woman in a stunning velvet and lace-trimmed fleur-de-lis dress, complete with Elizabethan collar and pearl-studded hairnet, but a pair of plain old tennis shoes peeked out from beneath the rich, voluminous skirts. Someone else would also be on their feet all day and had planned ahead; Scully decided not to worry about her shoes any more after seeing that.
Finishing her lemonade as they walked to the front gate, Scully tossed the empty cup in a trash can and tried to hold her skirts still as she caught up to Mulder and Matt Greene who were walking ahead. While the chemise, shift, and dress below the bodice were roomy, the layers of material kept tangling around her legs and she was afraid she'd trip and go sprawling before she got used to it. Mulder would never let her hear the end of it if she did, she was sure.
Once they were in position she nodded to Matt, who had the "guards" lift the bar across the front gates and open them. Pretty soon Scully was so busy trying to stop people who appeared to be intent on ignoring her that she barely noticed how hot and sweaty and dusty it was, and by the time the crowd thinned enough that both of them weren't needed, she was surprised to find that over an hour had passed.
She walked across to her partner, who was threading a cable tie through the filigreed handle of a very delicate yet dangerous-looking rapier and wrapping it around the scabbard. "Now there ye be, me bucko, and don't let me be seein' ye takin' that off now," he said in a rather muddled pirate-ish accent as the costumed customer moved off. "Duelers walk the plank," he called after him.
"Mulder, what kind of accent is that? Ye're dressed like an Italian noblemon, nay Long John Silver," Scully said, moving to his side and into his shade.
"It's the best I can do, Scully; it's been a long time since high school drama class," he said in his normal voice, looking down at her with some surprise. "I had no idea you were so talented. A true Irish brogue, eh?"
"It's my Aunt Olive's—she used tae come over from th' Emerald Isle every other year or so and stay for a month, so I heard it a lot growing up," she said, still in character. "We should have dressed ye as a pirate instead of a nobleman, is me guess."
He shrugged, watching a small, costumed group as they walked through the gates, but none were carrying weapons. "You heading off to go wandering?"
"Aye, I was thinkin' about it," she said. "Can I get ye anythin'?"
He was still looking down at her with brows raised. "Jesus, you do that so well I'd think it was your real accent," he said with clear admiration. "Another of those frozen lemonades would be great, thanks."
She moved away as he stopped another incoming group, this one with several daggers and long knives. After buying him a lemonade and herself a diet Coke—the sugar was too much this early—and delivering his drink, she strolled away to check out the rest of the festival, promising to return in an hour.
But before she was even out of sight of the front gate, she spotted a tall young man dressed as a French cavalier with a long, thin scabbard at his side that didn't have a cable tie on the sword handle sticking out of it. Though they made light of it, locking down all weapons at a large public gathering was a deadly serious job and required by law. Remembering how she'd planned to handle this type of situation, Scully tossed the rest of her drink in the trash, threw her shoulders back, and strode up to the cavalier and his group of friends, announcing: "Hold, Sir Knight! I am one of the peace-keepers at this foin Faire. Yer reputation precedes ye, and the queen bids me bond your weapon so we don't have a repeat of last year's unfortunate episode." She held up a cable tie, which she'd had in her reticule.
"I, uh, just bought this a few minutes ago," he stammered, pointing at a weapons seller several buildings over as his friends stared at him with mouths agape.
"Fie on the seller then; they know all weapons must be peace-bonded," she said as she approached with the tie, raising her eyebrows at him questioningly. The ersatz cavalier allowed her to wind it around the handle and then the scabbard, arms held out from his sides. As she walked away after thanking him for his cooperation, she chuckled to herself as she heard his friends questioning him excitedly about what had happened last year and his protests that he hadn't even been here. Keep it light and amusing if you can, Matt had advised, and most people won't give you a problem. Well, that had worked nicely and she'd remember it should she run into another unbound weapon.
They hadn't had time to see much more than the front gate, privies, and first few shops, among which were the clothiers' and changing tents for those who bought their raiment at the Faire. Most of the permanent wooden structures that ringed the large, open center area were shops for vendors such as artisans making chain mail, jewelry, leather goods, and while-you-wait portraits as well as for costumers, hairdressers, woodworkers, and glassblowers; there was even a foundry for the resident blacksmith. When she passed the smithy and saw a stocky brown horse standing patiently having its feet worked on, Scully remembered that there would be full-contact jousting later in the day and set off to find the stables. It had been many years since she'd had the chance to be around horses, but a girl never outgrew her very first love.
***
After Scully left, Mulder amused himself by heckling everyone who entered, whether or not he had to stop them to peace-bind a weapon. Staff at the festival were encouraged to interact with the visitors, to engage them and help get them into the spirit of the Faire. There was a professional insulter wandering around, stopping people at random with various Shakespearean insults such as "Thou unmuzzled half-faced skainsmate!" and "If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt."
As a pair of rather punkish-looking teens entered, the Insulter, who was standing nearby chatting with one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, called after them; "If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry," a line which Mulder recalled from Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1.
Hell, I can do that, he thought.
As a tall, thin woman who was accompanied by a shorter, heavyset, middle-aged man approached, both dressed in rather moth-eaten and ill-fitting Elizabethan costumes, Mulder called out, "Thou are like the toad, ugly and venomous!"
The man turned towards him and lowered thick, black beetle-brows over small, pig-like eyes. "What'd you call me, son?" he growled, lifting one loose sleeve to show what appeared to be a biker tattoo on his hard upper bicep. Flabby, perhaps, but not weak.
"That's a quote from the Shakespeare play As You Like It," he quickly explained in his normal voice, not wanting to start any trouble. "No true insult intended, m'lord."
"Hmph." The man turned away and they walked on, and Mulder decided that maybe insulting wasn't his strong suit. Perhaps he should stick with the pirate persona.
A short time later a trio of teenaged girls dressed in short-shorts and tank tops came tripping towards the gate, clutching their tickets and eyeing him, giggling and nudging each other. "Arrrr, me lovelies!" he cried in his best buccaneer's voice, combining Gene Kelly in The Pirate with Dustin Hoffman's Captain Hook from Hook. Leering openly, running his eyes up and down their scantily clad bodies, he roared loudly enough for half the place to hear: "Ye're the finest pirate booty I've ever laid me eyes upon!"
This was much more successful; the giggling girls almost went apoplectic, scurrying past and about falling over each other as they disappeared into the crowd, most of whom were laughing along. Grinning, he watched them go, stuffing his thumbs in his belt and rocking back on the inch-high heels of his boots.
"You're a natural at this, you are," a woman's voice in a crisp English accent said from nearby.
He turned to see the pale blond wearing pink that had waved at him earlier while he had been waiting for Scully, and who had been talking to the Insulter just a short time ago. "Avast, me dazzlin' beauty!" he immediately exclaimed, though she certainly wasn't the prettiest thing he'd seen all day—and far, far below the bar set by his stunning partner. But no need to tell her that. "Come to shiver me timbers?"
She giggled, dimpled, and curtsied rather clumsily. "The Lady Angelina, née Annie Platt of Beckley, at your service, kind sir," she introduced herself. Putting one hand out, she fluttered pale eyelashes up at him.
Don't quit your day job, he thought. Taking her hand, he pressed a brief kiss to the back of it and bowed in return with one arm across his midriff and the other flared out behind him as he'd seen done in the movies. "The dastardly pirate Black Fox Mulder of Alexandria, Virginia, at yer service," he replied. They had decided to use their real names although staying undercover; it was unlikely that anyone would discover that they were agents in the few days they would be here. If the suspect didn't strike by the time the festival closed tomorrow evening, they'd move on to a different Faire, probably the one in Maryland that opened the following weekend. "Well, blow me down, a foin lady like yerself deignin' to talk to an old salty dog like meself."
She pulled a tiny lacy fan out of the pouch dangling from her wrist and fanned herself with it, unabashedly eyeing him over the top. "If I'm not being too forward, may I request your escort at the midday meal?" she said coquettishly. "Staff eats in shifts and I'm up next."
Was it lunchtime already? He circumspectly tugged aside the colorful sleeve of his blouse to see his watch: quarter after twelve. Where was his replacement and, most importantly of all, where was Scully? She should have been back long before this. Full-blown paranoia grabbed him by the balls and, totally ignoring a troupe of weapon-laden men heading towards the gate, he blurted, "Sorry, I'm here with my, ah, girlfriend, and I'm meeting her—gotta run!"
Hurrying at a near-gallop though the crowds, he scanned the sea of faces for the one with the patrician nose and clear blue eyes beneath the bright red hair and gold tiara, or any glimpse of her black and red dress. Panic was beginning to rise in his throat when he finally spotted her slender form by the stables, standing with her back to him and talking to a young man. He slowed, feeling his heart nearing its normal pace, and was scowling when he reached them. "Arrrr—here be me wench! For-r-r-get all about me?" he said as he stalked up behind them then added, "Honey?" while glaring meaningfully at the stableboy.
The young man, shirtless and wearing loose breeches with knee-high boots and holding a tall pitchfork, jumped a foot and gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing tellingly. He stared up at Mulder with a rather bewildered look on his face. Though compactly muscular and tan with broad shoulders, he was a good three-four inches shorter and easily ten to fifteen years younger than the looming male agent. "I, uh, hafta—uh, nice talking—later!" he babbled, backing away and disappearing into the depths of the building.
She turned and gave him the eyebrow, arms akimbo. "Mulder, that wasn't very nice. What time is it? I'm not wearing my watch."
"Almost twelve-thirty," he exaggerated. "Got a little worried—you know this suspect caught that female detective unawares, and she was a trained officer with backup standing by. One minute she was checking out the parking lot, the next she was waking up half-naked on the ground."
"I was never alone," Scully informed him, raising a brow again and regarding him frostily, then waved her hand at the eddying, thronging crowd around them. "I wouldn't play bait without my partner watching my back."
He heaved in a breath through his nostrils then instantly regretted it; they were standing less than two feet from the stable. Putting his hand in its usual place at the small of her back, he led her away. "So, what did you find out? If anything other than Mr. Ed's phone number back there?"
"I was discussing horses with Randy," she stressed the name, glancing up at him, "and I wasn't trying to find out anything, although I did spot a couple of possible remote places where a rapist might try to take a victim."
"I didn't know you were into horses, Scully," he said, sniffing the air—safely this time as they were some distance from the stables. Now that he could smell something other than horse shit, he noted that someone was cooking something good nearby, and he steered her in the direction of the enticing scent. His stomach rumbled and, now that his fright had passed, food was uppermost in importance.
"When we moved to Maryland I made friends with a girl whose parents owned a boarding stable," she said, letting herself be steered. "I liked horses as much as the next teenage girl, and we went riding every chance we got. I was just wondering what type of horses they use for the jousting because it's not the big draft horses you see on TV and in movies."
"So what are they?" he asked, nudging her into line at one of the food concessions, hoping she hadn't seen the menu yet since there didn't seem to be anything even vaguely healthy on it. But there were enough taller people around them that she must not have, because she didn't object. From his vantage point he could also see that this whole concession area was under an open-sided wooden roof, so it was much cooler than being out in the sun which he was sure she didn't mind.
"Quarter Horses. Randy was telling me that, though they're not big, they're very strong and can turn on a dime better than the large horses can," she said. "He also told me that most Renaissance Festivals do use draft horses, but it's more realistic to have these despite what popular culture shows. Apparently the true knights' horses of old were more like bigger riding horses than the draft horses we imagine them to have been."
"Hmph. Looks like you learned a lot from that strapping young lad," he said close to her ear. "Sure you didn't slip off for a roll in the—oof!"
"Insinuate anything like that again, Mulder, and I'll use my bow next time," she said in a low, pleasant voice, drawing her elbow back from where it had connected with his midsection. They reached the counter and, without missing a beat, she said, "I'll have the grilled chicken sandwich on whole wheat without mayo, and a diet Coke—and he's paying," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at him as she stepped away from the counter.
Still rubbing his breadbasket, Mulder ordered two Scotch eggs, a fried turkey drumstick, and two 'trollhouse' cookies along with a pint of Guinness and paid for it all without comment. Ignoring her eyebrow as they moved over to the pickup window, he said, "I want to see you eat one of the fried turkey legs before we go, Scully. That would make my week."
"Not likely. I don't eat fried foods, and those things in particular look terribly greasy," she said, watching a barrel-chested bard in a colorful, flowing outfit and with a mandolin slung across his back accept one of the legs, which was wrapped in oil-spotted paper, and walk away gnawing at it.
"Live a little, Scully," he admonished, leaning one shoulder against the wall next to the pickup window and folding his arms across his broad chest. "Life's too short to live on yogurt and salads."
She shook her head, the tiara not moving at all. "It'll be shorter if I end up having a coronary from blocked arteries," she said bluntly, helping him gather up their food and drink as it arrived at the window and was pushed through to them. By the time they were settled at one of the trestle tables with condiments, napkins, and their food sorted out, she seemed to be less irritated with him, which was a relief because that wasn't exactly the emotion he'd been hoping for from her.