"What can I get for ye, m'lady?" the buxom blonde
inquired in a heavy, fake, British accent.

Scully eyed the woman's breasts, which were pushed
up to her neck thanks to the brocade corset she was
wearing. "Two cups of mead, please," she answered,
in a tone of voice that clearly said, I Am Not Impressed.

The blonde poured the amber liquid into two plastic
cups and handed them to Scully with an all too jaunty
flair, then took Scully's money, frowning slightly when
Scully didn't contribute to the small wicker basket
marked YE OLDE TIPS. "Thankee, m'lady," she said
grudgingly.

Scully gave the woman a tight smile and walked
away, looking for a sign of her errant partner, who
was off buying her a surprise gift. At least, he
seemed to think it was going to be a surprise. She
hadn't had the heart to inform him that his announcing
he "had to take care of something" as his eyes
twinkled gave him away completely.

She scanned the eating area for him, squinting her
eyes against the glare of the hot midday sun, but
gave up finally, sitting down at one of the numerous
wooden tables and sipping cautiously at her mead.
Hmm. Not bad, actually. Tangy. With a hell of a
kick to it. A yellowjacket buzzed around the rim of
the cup, and she swatted at it impatiently.

Before she could take another sip she spied out
of the corner of her eye a colorfully-clad, ridiculously
good-looking, over-eager juggler inching his way
in her direction with his bright rubber balls. She
shot him a forbidding glare and was gratified to see
him smile weakly before retreating in search of
more gullible prey. That's right, take your balls
somewhere else, buddy, she thought with a smirk.
She still couldn't quite believe that she had agreed
to accompany Mulder to a Renaissance Festival.
Not in a million years would she have thought it was
his type of thing, but the passion with which he
spoke of the pageantry, the jousting -- and of all
things the pickles -- had been enough to convince
her to go along for the ride. It wasn't like she had
anything better to do. To be honest, now that she
was here she was enjoying herself more than she
had expected. She had little patience for
the fake accents, overflowing cleavage, and such
anachronisms as falafel stands, but the mood of the
fair was unarguably infectious. Plus, she now
understood just why Mulder loved it so much. Like
attracts like, freak attracts freak and all that.

She let out an unsurprised sigh when Mulder
finally returned bearing a garland of flowers for
her hair. "You can't be serious," she said, looking
up at him from her seat. He had already outfitted
himself earlier in the day in a long, black, hooded
cloak: quite an extravagant purchase, but she had
to admit she experienced a pleasant tingling in
her nether regions at the sight of him. She felt
downright underdressed in her own casual garb
of a v-neck white men's undershirt, blue jean
shorts slung low on her hips, and black Doc Marten
shoes.

"Come on. This'll look great on you," he insisted.

He had selected a lovely color combination. Dried
cornflowers, babies' breath, and daisies, with midnight
blue, powder blue, and white ribbons trailing off the back,
which she had to admit would look great against her hair.
Many of the women at the fair were wearing similar
adornments in a riot of colors. She sighed again, a
particular sigh of resignation reserved exclusively for
Mulder. "Okay, give it to me." She stood up and took
it from him, then tentatively set it atop her head and
fought back a smile at the way his eyes took her in
appreciatively. "I really think these are more for women
with longer hair," she observed.

He shook his head. "No they're not. You look...
you look perfect," he said softly. He reached out
to run his fingers through the satin ribbons, then
planted a kiss on her forehead.

"If anyone at the Bureau saw me right now, I'd
never hear the end of it," she grumbled, trying to
maintain her composure in the face of his affection.
It was unfortunately a losing battle.

"What they don't know won't hurt them. Is that mead?"
he asked abruptly, picking up the untouched plastic cup.

"Yeah. It's not bad. I assumed they'd have watered it
down, but it tastes pretty strong," Scully said.

He sipped the drink warily, then nodded in approval.
"Good." He gulped down some more, nodded again.
"Damn good!"

"Do you want to check out this 'Living Chess Game'
or not?" she asked, whipping Ye Olde Faire Mappe
out of her black leather shoulder bag and attempting to
decipher the cryptic symbols. She noticed that a crude
drawing of an outhouse with a crescent moon on the
door represented the restrooms. Charming.

"Yeah, that's one of the best bits they do here," he said
enthusiastically. He tossed back the rest of the mead.
"But first I want to get one for the road."

"Get me one too," she said. She drank greedily from
the cup, draining it. This stuff really was great! It was
a wonder they managed to get anything accomplished
back in the Middle Ages, with this stuff around.

He took just a little too long talking to that blonde
barmaid when he placed his order, as far as Scully was
concerned, but he made it up to her with a mock bow
and a wink when he returned with two fresh cups.
"More mead for m'lady," he said in an atrocious imitation
of the wench's accent.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Come on, let's go watch
that Checker Game."

"Chess Game."

"Whatever."

On their way across the grounds to the Chess Board
they had to cross a bridge, a quaint wooden span over
a small pond, covered in multi-colored streamers, with
a large placard above it proclaiming "Kissing Bridge"
in exquisite calligraphy. How wonderfully schmaltzy,
Scully thought cynically. She eyeballed Mulder, but
he pretended not to notice -- although his hand
tightened its grip on hers. They started over, and
when they were halfway to the other side Scully
thought she just might escape with her dignity intact.

Fat chance.

He stopped in his tracks and pulled her to him,
forcing his tongue into her mouth and going at it
vigorously. She tried to maintain some remnant
of composure, but he was just too damn sexy for
her to resist, so she wound up giving as good as
she got, certain they were making a spectacle of
themselves. When he finally pulled away they
were both breathless.

"You're a real cheeseball, you know that, Mulder?"
she murmured, eyes sparkling.

"Are you complaining?"

She smiled up at him. "Who? Me?"

He grinned back and slung his arm over her
shoulder. It was so nice, he reflected, as he
sipped contentedly at his drink, to be able to
show affection in public, to casually drop a quick
kiss on the top of Scully's head before the two of
them continued on their way across the fairgrounds.
Sure, they had taken separate cars and chosen
a Festival two states away, but still... "Look,
Scully, there's another mead stand."

"Mulder, you're not even finished with what you
have," she said, sounding a little too much like
his mother for comfort. Against his will he
flashbacked to bargaining sessions for dessert
with his parents.

"But I will finish it by the time we get to the
Chess Board."

Can't argue with that logic, Scully decided.
"All right. Get me another one, too."

"You lush."

"Be quiet." She watched him unabashedly as
he loped over to yet another blonde barmaid
(do they breed them special? she wondered) and
asked for a refill. The pleasant sensation in her
nether regions was quickly turning into an
insistent throbbing. Now is not the time, she
reprimanded herself. The aroused organs in
question didn't listen. She gnawed on her lower
lip and tried to think about something safe, like
nucleotides. Nope. No luck.

Mulder looked at her questioningly when he
came back with the mead refills. "Something the
matter?"

"No," she said quickly, too quickly. "Give me that."
She grabbed the cup from him and took big gulps,
concentrating on the burn that spread through her
body as she drank. Time to practice a little self-
control, as Sister Ernestine used to say, she told
herself firmly. Still, she couldn't suppress a slight
shudder as he absently ran his fingers up and
down her back. Did he have any idea what he
did to her? Probably not, the dense bastard.

When they arrived at their destination, Scully
discovered that the Living Chess Game took place
on a large "board," consisting of squares spray-
painted onto the grass. The teams were made up
of live combatants assigned to each position, one
team representing Robin Hood and his Merry Band,
the other, the Sheriff of Nottingham and his lackeys.
The captain, or king, of each team called out the
moves and their teammates complied. To determine
which piece was to be "captured," the two opposing
team members engaged in armed or hand-to-hand
combat. The entire event was naturally
accompanied by a steady stream of bawdy humor
from the participants.

Mulder and Scully managed to claim a small
section of grass for themselves, and as soon as
they sat down Mulder pulled Scully to him so that
she was sitting in front of him, his legs framing
hers, his arms wrapped around her. Their half-
empty cups teetered precariously on the ground
beside them.

Mulder could hardly believe that the simple act
of embracing Scully could stir up such complex
and seductive sensations. He pressed his face
against her hair, the smell of her shampoo mixing
pleasantly with the fragrance from the dried
flowers in her garland, and tried to enjoy the
spectacle of the Chess Game, but instead
found himself distracted by the feel of his
partner's body against his, the way her back
fit neatly against his chest, the way her hand
rested lightly on his knee. He drank the rest
of his mead, which predictably only heightened
his erotic feelings. Idiot, he berated himself. If
Scully only knew what he was thinking about her
right now...actually, she'd probably make him act
on it. The thought made him grin wolfishly.

It's amazing that we can be together like this,
Scully thought, after all we've been through,
after all the detours along the way. She had
little interest in the Chess Game, so she was
all too attuned to the feel of Mulder's arms
encircling her, to the warm breeze that was his
breath in her hair. The mead was doing its job
a little too well, and she was feeling increasingly...
aroused. There was no more delicate way to
put it. She wanted Mulder at that instant, wanted
him inside of her, wanted to feel his hands claiming
her breasts...she shivered, and Mulder tightened
his embrace in response.

"Are you cold?" he whispered into her ear.

"No," she managed to answer through dry lips.
Experiencing a tiny thrill at her own audacity, she
began to methodically massage his thigh, tracing
heavy circles on his black jeans.

His breath caught in his throat. What the hell was
she doing? Didn't she realize he was more than
willing to fight fire with fire? Or was she counting
on it? He brushed her hair away from the nape of
her neck, exposing the ivory skin, and began
placing soft kisses there, right where he knew it
drove her absolutely nuts.

She immediately stiffened in his embrace. It was
so unfair that he knew exactly what to do to make
her crazy. She reached back with one hand to
caress the back of his head as the other
continued to knead his thigh. When one of
Mulder's hands brushed her breast ever so
slightly, she bit her lip and wondered what
would happen if she were to climax in front of
all these people. It'd probably be a better show
than the Living Chess Game, she thought acidly,
then looked up to see a tow-headed boy, about
ten years old, sitting on the grass a few feet away
and watching her and Mulder with wide brown
eyes. His green felt dragon hand puppet lay
on the ground beside him, forgotten.

My sin for the day, she thought ruefully.
Corrupting a little boy, how lovely. Mulder,
oblivious to their pre-adolescent audience,
continued to tongue the back of her neck and
began to slide his hand down toward her crotch.

Deciding to take some action toward a mutually
satisfying conclusion that wouldn't get them
arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a
minor, Scully clamped her hand down on
Mulder's to halt his exploratory expedition, then
twisted around so that her lips were just not
quite touching his.

He was already breathing raggedly, and his
hazel eyes glistened with raw need. "I want you,"
he whispered hoarsely.

"Prove it," she said, and the next thing he knew
she was taking off for the forest at a run, trusting
him to follow.

Which of course he did, knowing he could
overtake her whenever he wanted, knowing
that she knew he could overtake her whenever
he wanted. But he didn't want to catch up to
her too soon. He wanted to make sure they
were deep enough into the woods first. Deep
enough that no one would be able to hear them
scream.

When he allowed himself to catch her he grabbed
her arm and spun her around, pushing her up
against the nearest gnarled tree and pressing
the length of his body against hers. A deep
moan escaped from his throat as they kissed,
hard, bruising their mouths, clutching urgently
at each other, pulling at clothes, clawing at belts.
There was no romance here, no soft light and
candles, just pure, unadulterated desire. Within
moments Mulder's cloak fell to the ground with
a flutter, creating a dark pool on the forest floor.
Scully's shorts and underwear and Mulder's
jeans and boxers soon followed.

He reached up under her shirt to cup her breasts,
rubbing his fingers over the nipples through the
lace bra, fighting the urge to rip the garment off
of her completely. Scully gasped and with frantic
hands took hold of his cock, stroking it purposefully,
guiding it toward her, nearly overpowering him
with the force of her wanting. And then suddenly
his world shifted and he was inside of her,
thrusting madly, pushing her up against the tree
trunk as she dug her nails into his back and
held on for dear life, their moans and panting
unnaturally loud in the quiet of the woods, far
away from the activity of the Festival fairgrounds.
He had no rational thought beyond the need
to pump into her, no sensations outside of
the pleasure of being sheathed in her hot,
soft flesh.

"So good," he whispered. "Jesus, Scully..."

"No, Mulder," she hissed. "Don't talk.
Just ...just fuck me."

Mulder took hold of Scully's arms and held
them above her head, kissing her thoroughly
as he thrusted into her more violently, sharing
her need to have it rough, to have it rough
enough to block out the rest of the world, to
give expression to the raw animal need flowing
through both of them. Her thighs gripped his
and she tried to match his movements despite
her awkward position, trying to pull him deeper
into her, wanting him to fill her completely.
When he tore his mouth away from hers she
opened her eyes and looked at him, loving
the pleasure she was inflicting upon him.
This was true power, but power with no
motive other than pleasure and the need for
release. She leaned her head forward to
bite at his shoulder, and he groaned, nipping
at her neck in response. When he lifted her
shirt and pushed aside one cup of the bra to
tease and suck at her nipple, she lost it. She
clung to him as she convulsed against him,
around him, coming quietly, emitting soft
sighs and short, sharp exclamations of pleasure.

He exploded soon after, emptying himself
into her and gasping her name. He leaned
against her and wrapped his fingers in her
hair as Scully waited for her body to stop
shuddering.

"Love you," he whispered.

Scully froze. "Excuse me?" she croaked.

He lifted his head up and their eyes met. "I --"

"Oh God Mulder," she said wearily.

"I didn't just say that," he babbled. "I didn't."
He let go of her and began to pick his clothes
up from the ground, stepping hastily into his
boxers. "Forget it."

"How can I? Mulder, I thought...I thought we
both understood that we can't let things get
too complicated..." She tried to catch his eye
as she reached down for her own clothes,
but he refused to look at her.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?" he
bit out, pulling on his jeans.

"I didn't think it was," she said carefully,
taking some tissues out of her bag and
wiping off her thighs. They had so studiously
avoided the word "love," the same way
they had avoided "commitment," and "relationship."
Their world was too tenuous for that, too
unstable to allow something as abstract
as love to cloud matters, to twist them so
that they were even more complicated than
they already were. When she finished dressing
she studied him intently, trying to decipher what
was going through that brilliant and complicated
mind. He was busy futzing with his cloak.
"Mulder, look at me. Please."

His head snapped up and he stepped closer
to her, until she actually took a stumbling step
backwards. "No Scully. You look at me. You
look straight at me and tell me that what you
feel for me, what we have, isn't love. Go ahead."

She met those hazel eyes bravely, determined
that at least one of them should try to be sensible
about this whole thing, should insist on keeping
things simple...

"I can't, Mulder. I can't say that," she admitted
softly.

"I know." He reached out as if to touch her, but
then pulled his hand back and ran it through his
hair instead. "Scully, we can't shut off our
feelings, can't deny them. It's not right."

"It's not the truth, is that it?" she asked bitterly.
"Your obsession with the truth has to extend
to every single part of your life?"

"In this part, always," he said. He reached out
for her again, and this time he did touch her,
enveloping her in a tender hug and smoothing
her hair gently with his hand.

She tried to stay angry. But what could she
be angry about, really? Angry that he loved her?
"You're a pain in the ass, you know that, Mulder?"
she said resentfully, his shirt muffling her voice.

"Would you have me any other way?" he asked
the top of her head.

She pulled back slightly so that she could look
up at him, and unexpectedly broke into a
disarming, toothy smile. His body sagged in
relief. The tension had passed. "I'll have you
any way you'd like, Agent Mulder."

"Can I make a list?"

"Sure. Leave it in my in box at the office. I'm sure
I'll get to it eventually, along with all the other grunt
work." She turned her back on him and started
to walk back toward the fairgrounds.

He hurried after her, still shaking his head at her
horrendous pun, still amazed that their confrontation
had resolved itself so quickly. "Where are you
going?"

"I think I'm going to buy that black leather corset
I was looking at earlier. Just to keep you on your
toes."

His mouth went bone dry and other parts of his
anatomy responded in kind. "That's...great, Scully.
But now you've fixed it so that I'll have to carry this
cloak around in front of my crotch for the rest of the day."

She raised an eyebrow mockingly. "You think that
will be noticeable? Don't flatter yourself," she said,
grinning.

"You think you're funny, dontcha? You're real funny,
Scully, real --" He grabbed her arm and tried to pull
her to him once more, but in a patented FBI training
maneuver she swept her leg under his, knocking him
off balance. He fell to the ground, but not without
managing to pull her down with him, whereupon he
proceeded to demonstrate exactly how *noticeable*
his arousal was.

Maybe this will be okay, she thought, as she wrapped
her arms around him and held him tight. Maybe we'll
make it through. After all, there are worse things
than being in love. Maybe.

End.