Chapter 3
AN: Thanks again for the reviews...This is fluffy with a little bit of angst and a lot of fun...I hope you enjoy...
Spencer Reid was nefariously plotting, wickedly and viciously planning his next move...on the chess board, of course. He'd set up some of the most difficult scenarios for his brain to tackle into submission, so that he could beat Bob, aka the dreaded Sheriff of Nottingham. As a fellow chess champion, Reid had known Bob for years. He was a good guy, and he was working for a good cause, too, but he tended to be quite arrogant. He had good reason; he'd taken the title at this event for years.
Not this year. It was Reid's turn to shine.
He hummed the tune I Shot the Sheriff, while he got himself out of a rather hideous situation of four pawns versus a minor. He was doing great—nothing would stop him from beating Bob this time...
But his own nerves.
Reid, as a whole, tended to over think. So much so, he made stupid mistakes he normally never would. He was a far better player, even though Bob was good, but he'd never beaten the other man here. Something about this tournament—the audience and the actors—made him incredibly nervous and almost jumpy. Chess was usually a quiet event that took methodical thinking, not a rollicking game for showmanship. Even now, he knew Bob would be shouting, and—
"Dang!" he cursed, as he knocked over his chessboard from the hay bale he'd had it balanced on. Yet another sign of nerves.
He started wondering if he should do some sort of stress relief thing, maybe some stretching or something. The match was in two hours, and he'd been doing nothing but chess. Gideon had always told him not to put all his thoughts into one thing, all of his proverbial eggs in one basket.
"Diversify. Think outside the box. Then nothing will be an unpleasant surprise," he'd said more than once.
Reid's stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in the past six hours. He started contemplating food. Perhaps he should go get a turkey leg? The protein would help with thoughts, and the tryptophan in the turkey would help calm—
He felt the cold blade of a rather blunt knife against the back of his neck, distracting him from all thoughts of food.
"Yarrr! This is Salty Sally, the pirate, ye landlubber! Yer my prisoner now!"
The voice of Salty Sally was the entirely recognizable Emily Prentiss, so there was absolutely no real fear in him whatsoever. He was pleased that she had come to the tournament. Since she had returned to the BAU, they'd become closer. He'd grown quite...fond of Prentiss.
He grinned, but tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, as he moved back to his hay bale seat. "Ah...Sally? I was just about to get a turkey leg, and then—"
"That be Salty Sally t' you!" She pressed the blade closer to his throat. "No more smart talk from ye, laddie, if ye know what's good for ye!"
Reid chuckled. He couldn't help it. Her pirate accent was atrocious; it kept slipping every few seconds. She was worse than Kevin Costner doing an English accent, and nothing was much worse than that!
"Quiet, scurrrrrrvy dog!" she growled.
Her offended sound made Reid laugh even harder. So hard, he had tears rolling down his face.
"You have no respect for a pirate queen, eh?" Emily asked fiercely.
Reid was about to answer, Normally, I have infinite respect for Emily Prentiss. However, in this case...
But then she stepped in front of him...
"Did you say you're the Sheriff of Nottingham?" Penelope asked.
"Yes, milady." He grinned at her, a wolfish grin that could rival Red Riding Hood's canine friend, and said, "Since you are with law enforcement, you need not worry. I'll protect you."
She giggled. That sounded like some cheesy pick up line Derek would use on one of his bimbos he picked up on any given Saturday. "Thank you, kindly, milord. However, I do feel that I should warn you."
"How's that?"
Shaking her head sadly, she said, "I am a long time and dear friend of Robin Hood."
"The criminal?"
She gave a regretful sigh. "No, the chess player."
The Sheriff laughed, and then said with a teasing wink, "T'is the same man; his chess playing is what is criminal!"
"I can't believe that," Penelope scoffed, defending her Boy Wonder. "He's a very good player."
"I'm better," he answered with such a swagger, it was humorous.
"Could be," she baited, "but Reid is the best I know."
The Sheriff waved his hand in dismissal. "Enough of that talk. You have never seen me play, no?"
She couldn't deny that. "Nope. I haven't."
"And therefore, you do not have a fair basis for which to judge our play?" He arched a brow at her, similarly to a certain chocolate dreamboat she knew.
"I guess not..."
He looked overjoyed at winning that point of contention. "Well, then, fair maiden. I can forgive the egregious error—your support for the wrong team—if you tell me one thing?"
"What is that?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"If you promise me that he does not own your heart?"
Robert, the Sheriff, had such a hopeful look on his very handsome face, she felt very pleased. "No, he does not."
He smiled, and then stood and extended his hand to her. "Milady, may I escort you for some refreshments?"
She grinned back. "Yes, you may...but I still won't be cheering for you this afternoon."
"T'is a pity," he answered, and then smiled suggestively, "but perhaps I may earn other rewards?"
Penelope blushed and accepted the proffered arm, as the afternoon suddenly looked much sunnier.
Man, it was a long drive out to the Renaissance Faire. They threw those things out in the middle of a cornfield in Timbuktu. Derek had unfortunately had two house renovation appointments he'd had to keep; otherwise, he'd have gone to cheer on Reid. He wouldn't have worn tights—hell, no—but he would've gone. He was a team player, and he loved to be around Garcia—even if he had to tolerate Lynch. She was his best friend, his other half, his partner in crime.
Then he'd received a call from Prentiss—his partner out of crime—that morning. According to a rather jubulent Prentiss, who always had his back, there'd been a fight, and it seemed to be the end of Garcia and Lynch. Not only that, but Penelope was feeling down because she had to be alone. He couldn't have that; not when he could sweep in and save the day.
He'd rushed through both appointments, even hammered his right index finger in his haste, and then hit the road on his motorcycle. Pulling into the lot, he removed his helmet, feeling extremely grateful for its plastic bug protector mask. He was filthy dusty and tried to brush himself off, but it didn't help. He moseyed up to the gait—an hour on a motorcycle made anyone mosey—and purchased a ticket.
Moments later, he found JJ, Will, and Henry, and greeted them with, "Hey, guys."
"Hey, Morgan," JJ said with a smile, before she glanced back to Henry.
Derek noticed the costumes. No self respecting male wore tights like that; he could imagine the mental whip cracking JJ must've done to get Will to wear that get up. He gave the other man a crooked grin. "Uh...nice costume."
Will, another alpha male in law enforcement, shot him a look that simply said, Shut the hell up.
Morgan bit back his chuckle. "Did you see Penelope?"
"I think she went after Prentiss, and I know Prentiss was looking for Reid," JJ answered, as she started repacking her diaper bag.
"By the chess board?" Morgan asked.
JJ looked up at him with a smile. "Yes, I think—oh, no. Will! He's after the glassware at that shoppe. Hurry!"
Derek chucked, and then left in search of the giant chess board. When he reached that area, all he saw was a rather lovely redheaded woman, who was pouting and seething at the chess registration table.
She glanced up at Derek. "Hello. Can I help you?" Her tone was so dull, it was almost comical.
"I'm looking for Spencer Reid," he said, and then backtracked. "I mean, Robin Hood."
"Oh," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "You're another one of those."
The malice in her voice took him aback. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Those Team Sherwood people."
"What's wrong with us?" he asked, and then put on his most charming grin. After all, he'd learned to get more flies with honey. "We don't bite unless you ask us to."
She gave him a skeptical look, and then tossed her head. "Ha! Another one!"
Fine, he'd be curt if he had to. "Look, Miss—"
"One buxom woman comes here, flaunts her wares, and steals away the only interesting man here," she snipped. "A tavern wench, at that!"
Derek frowned. There was only one really buxom woman on their team...
"Which woman?"
"Her," the cranky lady said, pointing over his shoulder. "That one."
Derek turned...and nearly fell over.
