Title: Fool in Motley
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Fandom: View Askewniverse (post-Mallrats, but otherwise indeterminate 
in time)
Pairing: Jay/Silent Bob
Feedback: kel@crazysheep.net
Status: New
Series/Sequel: Two-parter (I sincerely hope!): "Fool in Motley" 
and "Fool in Denim".
Rating: PG-13 for language at the least
Disclaimer: Yes, practically everything I write involves characters 
originally created by other people. Those other people will 
hopefully feel flattered. Fans make the world go round.
Warnings: Bob in tights. Jay spouting poetry. Strange men wearing 
pearls. Otherwise the usual.
Notes: This was written on my new and very loud 7100 Mac. Any typos 
are mine, much as I'd love to blame it on this machine. (I am not a 
Mac user. I repeat, I am *not* a Mac user. Much as I am now the 
owner of one. This has nothing to do with the story; I just wanted 
to see if my mood improves as time goes by.) I do not know if there 
is an actual "Highlands Park"; it just sounded like a good name. Oh, 
and credit to (Check; Joanne) for the word `fuckedupness'. And 
Sebastian was an actual fellow I met at the 1984 Larkspur, Colorado 
Renaissance Faire. He was a wandering bard and poet, and he stored 
his tips in his codpiece, so that by the end of the day he looked 
ready to take on the 50-foot woman and any handy friends she might 
have had. Jingle jingle jingle...
Summary: Jay decides to mess with Bob at a RenFaire, and the plan 
backfires alarmingly.


"Fool in Motley"
by Kelandris

"Dude, this is fucked up."

Jay was talking to himself again. Or, more precisely, he was talking 
to a flyer he held in his hand.

"Of all the major shit that's gone down, all the faggy fucked-up shit 
you've pulled, this is the most fucked-up. This is like a *pinnacle* 
in your history of fuckedupness, my man."

He blinked, shaking his head, as he looked down at the words on the 
sheet.

"And runnin' around in your goddamned *underwear*... Dude, what the 
*fuck*?"

Absently, he smoothed a wrinkle in the paper that his grip had 
caused. He furrowed his brow in bafflement as he read the flyer 
again.

"HEAR YE! HEAR YE!" it read. Below the words danced a man in black 
and white, from belled shoes to jester's cap, with tights and doublet 
in between. He wore a smile wider than his face seemed to be, and 
was pointing to the words at his left.

"The Highlands Renaissance Faire Players call you, one and all, to:

"The HIGHLANDS RENAISSANCE FAIRE
"HIGHLANDS PARK

"August 17, 18, 19
"10 am to 6 pm each day

"*food* *gifts* *games* *dancers* *music* *magic* *and more*

"KING STEPHEN AND QUEEN CHRISTINA INVITE YOU ALL TO JOURNEY INTO THE 
PAST..."

A list of vendors and entertainers followed, but he'd stopped 
reading. Outside of a snort when he saw the beer logos, he was 
done. He crumpled it up, tossing it into the center of the room, and 
walked away. 

Then he looked back over his shoulder. Slowly he began to smile, as 
he crossed the floor to the crumpled ball. He bent, picking it up 
and smoothing it out, and reading it over once more inspired a 
wickedly feral grin.

"Yo, Lunchbox," the blond said softly. "Let's play..."

***

Getting in was a weird deal. As he came closer to the north side of 
the park, he saw a staggering number of people in costume. Leather, 
lace, black cloaks, low-cut white blousy things. Corsets on nearly 
everyone, male *and* female, it seemed. On the women it looked 
good. Well, okay, fuck, on some of the guys, too. One of them 
walked towards him, grinning, and he instinctively backed up a pace.

The man was dark-haired, the hair wavy and flowing over his 
shoulders. He wore what looked like a skin-tight black jumpsuit, 
with a slashed vest in black and silver. Velvet and spandex clung to 
him like a second skin, slashed in some intriguing places and trimmed 
with rhinestones and pearls. He wore a large leather codpiece that 
Jay could swear jingled, like bells. Jay swallowed.

"Good sir," said the man, his voice dripping honey. "Have you come 
for a day's journeying into our fair realm?"

"Uhh..."

"Please, good sir, we commend thee for your intent, but would ask of 
thee--dost thou enjoy a challenge?" His eyebrows rose suggestively, 
and Jay swallowed again.

"What kinda challenge?"

"Oh, prose and poesy, of course--today only, a clever lad like thee 
might find thy way into our borders through a gift of song or story. 
Art thou intrigued enough to try?"

There were snickers at this, some open laughter. One female voice--
Jay couldn't place who--said sarcastically, "Him??"

Jay tightened his hands into fists, snarling, and then Bob's face 
swam into his mental vision. He remembered a night a few weeks back, 
Bob sitting on the couch, Jay kneeling on the floor rubbing his 
feet. Only natural; big guy worked his ass off protecting for a 
living; least Jay-boy could do was unknot some of those tense 
muscles. He blinked, his gaze unfocusing for a moment, and thought 
back. Bob'd been reading. What'd he been reading?

Shakespeare. He closed his eyes now, trying to recall... That was it.

"*When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Hap'ly I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.*"

Opening his eyes cautiously, he waited for people to start throwing 
things, but they all seemed stunned. Then--NOISE, sudden and 
unexpected. Cheering! They were cheering him! People were 
clapping, whistling, some few coming forward to clap him on the back 
and nod their costumed heads. All the esteem he'd risked came 
flooding back.

"Damn, I'm good," he said happily. The man in black heard.

"Indeed so, fair swain--and what else can that silver tongue do?"

"Babe, you would be surprised," Jay muttered. Then his head jerked 
up. He'd heard... something. Something floating over the crowd noise. 
Something familiar.

The man in black sighed.

"Ah, methinks another voice doth intrigue you," he said, his 
expression wistful. Jay looked down, irritated and confused at the 
same time.

"Doth intrigue... Uhh, yeah, so, whatcha got goin' today?"

The man gestured, sweeping his arms wide as if to scoop up the entire 
park and show it to Jay.

"Entertainments for every taste and sophistication, games and 
jousting, a fine variety of merchants' wares, and of course, hot 
spiced viands to warm your belly, and cool ales from far and wide to 
slake your thirst."

As he said these last words, he draped an arm around Jay's shoulders, 
steering him towards the far end of the park. Jay shrugged, 
calculating the odds of him getting raped behind a tree against the 
odds of free beer and some information. He didn't think he was in 
any danger, and let the man pull him into the glittering crowd.

It was so odd... he felt both slightly superior to all these idiots in 
their laces and finery, and thoroughly out of place that he wasn't 
dressed the same way. And still he kept hearing snatches of familiar 
sound, and realized the voice was growing more distinct the closer 
they got to the beer garden. The man, long since having introduced 
himself as Sebastian, kept pointing out various sights as they 
crossed the park. And still Jay heard the voice.

"*No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:" Jay heard.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are,*"

Damn it, he *knew* that voice. Where the hell was it from?

"*For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And `gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which hourly robs me.*"

He walked into the beer garden, Sebastian at his side, and there was 
a man on stage, dancing. He was dressed like the fool on the flyer, 
dancing back and forth, and there was a small dog snapping at his 
heels. The crowd was laughing, but Jay looked around, uneasy. Dimly, 
over the crowd's laughter at the fool, he heard something familiar. 
Some half-remembered sound that scratched at his brain and begged for 
entry. He still couldn't quite make it out, but he couldn't seem to 
stop listening for it. 

Damn. He'd been about to get a beer out of it, too. Sighing, Jay 
rose, leaving Sebastian behind, ambling out of the beer garden. He 
turned randomly towards the edge of the park, heading towards a group 
of tall trees. There, there it was again.

Here under the trees, there was a small stage, with a seated figure 
at the edge of it. A small crowd had gathered, laying on blankets 
spread on the grass. They listened with rapt attention as Jay 
crested the small hill between him and the little grove. The figure 
on stage began to speak as Jay stepped forward.

"*Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!*"

He shook the spell of the words away, staring intently at the small 
figure on the stage. Man, that was familiar. Fuck, but it sounded 
like...

"Motherfuckin' bitch," he breathed. Some slut in a floating brown 
dress began to scold him, but he flipped her off and moved a little 
to the side, thinking.

It was Silent Bob. He was hearing Silent Bob. He was hearing Silent 
Bob *speak*, in front of *other people*.

A nasty grin spread over his face. Ooh, won't that tubby bitch be 
surprised... He picked up speed, tracing the words back to their source, 
getting closer and closer to the edge of the stage.

"*Take all my loves, my love, yea, take then all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself decievest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill will shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.*"

And there he was at last, standing up to face the crowd gathered at 
the small stage. Descending the crest of the small rise, Jay looked 
around, catching the familiar gleam of brown hair under a floppy dark 
hat. Then he blinked, shaking his head. What the *fuck*...?

Silent Bob--who was anything but silent at the moment--stood on the 
little stage, wearing black as usual, but all similarity to the known 
stopped there. Black knit tights clung sensuously to hefty muscled 
calves as if molded just for him. Black velvet pantaloons clasped 
around each knee, and they were deeply slashed to reveal rich 
burgundy satin inserts. A black padded doublet was over that, 
stitched in gold thread, the dags at waist and shoulders trimmed in 
that same burgundy color. And the sleeves of the doublet were 
slashed nearly to ribbons, with burgundy inserts as well. But these 
inserts were also slashed, revealing a second layer of pure and 
shining gold

Jay actually stumbled, seeing him. He'd been all prepared to laugh 
him off the stage--fat man in tights, come on, now!--but he was... he 
was...

"Beautiful," Jay breathed.

Bob's head popped up at that, and he took off the floppy black cap 
and bowed deeply in his directly. Jay inhaled, one sharp gasp, and 
blinked. Bob's long brown hair, unbound, flashed in the sun.

**Oh, shit, I'm dead,** he thought.

But Bob only smiled, and began to recite again.

"*Lord of my love*," he said softly, "*to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:*"

Bob's eyes seemed to burn into Jay's. The blond swallowed, 
fidgeting. His hands fluttered at his sides, and he felt hot, 
somehow, or warm, anyway, like the air had heated up around him. Or 
he was blushing maybe... What?? He shook his head. Fuck, like he 
*ever* blushed, he thought, bringing his hands to his face.

His cheeks were hot.

"*Duty so great," Bob continued, "*which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;*"

*All naked*. The phrase ran through his mind. He shook his head, 
dazed, jarring an image of Bob away. Bob on his bed, sleepy weekend 
morning, sheet half-covering him as he turned to look at Jay.

*All naked.* Sheet slipping as he turned, that open, vulnerable look 
in his dark eyes, before he pulled the day's armor on. Caught in 
that few spare minutes of morning when he fancifully thought he could 
see into Bob's soul, and maybe, maybe Bob's soul see into his.

*Fuck that,* he thought, angry now. *Fuck all of this. I'm on acid 
if I think this is cool.*

And he turned to storm off, but Bob's next words caught at him, 
caught him up, turned him around to face the stage. 

*Damn it...*

"*Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.*"

And, the poem concluded, he simply bowed and walked off the stage. 
Jay stared after him, eyes wide, watching him go.

*How I do love thee...* he heard, over and over. *Love thee. Love 
thee. Love thee...*

**Bob... loves me?**

END
(In order: Sonnet XXIX,, Sonnet XXXV, Sonnet CXLII, Sonnet XXVI. By 
William Shakespeare, of course.)
*****
Kelandris the Mad
love has no meaning, not where we come from