Title: What I Did On My Summer Vacation, By Andrew Wells, [Part1 of 2] written for entrenous88's Scottish Ficathon
Pairing: Nothing sexual, Andrew, Jonathan, Sean Connery, assorted Scotsmen
Summary: While in Mehico - on the lam from Evil!Willow - Andrew regales Jonathan with ribald tales of his adventures abroad the summer after graduation to prove that Timothy Dalton was the best James Bond. Warning: burros.
Disclaimer: I make no money from writing this stuff, which on one hand, bothers me. Because who doesn't want extra money? On the other, it's fanfiction, and possibly not very good, so I have the satisfaction of being paid what I'm worth. I've also been free-basing fish-tranquilizers and someone should call me an ambulance. Thanks to shuckit_trebek for loaning me "Connery Shpeak" and to crazydiamondsue and "Perfect Score on the SATs" cherusha for the beta work.
"Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Where Johnny Depp Still Has Eyes and is Not a Part of This Tale-"
"Okay, numb-nuts. Enough with the Depp."
Andrew gasped in horror, hand clutched into an ineffectual fist at his collarbone. "There is NO SUCH THING as enough Depp, Short Round. Neither the public, nor Tim Burton, will ever be sated."
Jonathan covered the mouth of the bottle with his thumb where Andrew couldn't see, took a pretend swig of tequila - he has a sensitive throat, okay? - barked out an "ahhhh," and pointed with a finger, his hand still holding the bottle because it made him look like a real hombre when he did that. "You know, the day you can tell a story without getting off track into some weird fantasy life from the movies is the day- "
He took another pretend swig, remembering to make his eyes half-lidded. It was his sixth pretend swig.
"Ahhh. The day you get a real set of balls. And not the kind you steal from a demon dimension."
Long suffering sigh.
"It was a REALM, not a fully realized dimension, and you call yourself a Dungeon Master?" Andrew shook his head ruefully. "Oh, Youngling, sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip that started from LAX and ended up in the darkest places of a man's soul - a small pub in Edinburgh, Scotland, where I stared down Sean Connery."
"Pffft. You did not." Jonathan settled in to the burro's side - after a few days you got used to the smell - and decided to quit arguing. After all, there weren't many things to do to pass the time in Punta Arriba, a town just south of the Arizona border in the heart of Mehico. And they had already learned the hard way that burro tipping was a joke the locals played on gringos - they bit HARD.
Andrew stood, adjusted his serape, and stared into the night sky. He wished he was able to grow facial hair - that would have been a good moment to twirl a mustache.
"It was the summer after I graduated Sunnydale. My mom wanted to take me back to the Motherland. Her family, the MacLeods, still lived in a quaint little village in the Highlands. Apparently there was to be a great "Gathering." I wanted to bring my sword - there could have been Immortals there, and as you know: there can be only One. My mother informed me that it was not that kind of gathering. I brought my comic books instead...."
It had been a rough night - stormy - and a difficult flight, doomed from the moment the plane took off and the stewardess took away my Game Boy. Something about interfering with the controls or something. Then came the movie: Mr. Deeds. And there I was, without a distraction. I was saving the in-flight magazine for emergencies-
"Get on with the trip, moron. I don't care about your flight. Wait - was this before they stopped serving meals? Because I didn't mind airplane food so much. Everything was small, and - . Never mind. Go on."
Andrew began again.
We had arrived in Scotland, birthplace of plaid and my mother. I couldn't understand a word her family said, so I decided to explore the quaint little village full of history and also shortbread. I happened upon a tiny little comic book shop - perhaps I would find something new. Also, up front was a really cool Manga display - always a good sign.
They had a bunch of DVDs - regional, yes, but I knew how to get around that. And there I saw it - boldly placed near the cash register for all to see. An abomination before men...
Jonathan interrupted with, "A "Wonder Twins" comic book?"
"No, and hey! I liked Gleek." Andrew looked off into the desert; his eyes taking on the look of a man haunted.
"They had a 'Best of Bond' display and the Connery movies were in front; the Dalton oeuvre was nowhere to be seen."
Jonathan rolled his eyes, pushed the donkey's head away from his shirt buttons, but didn't say anything. After all, they were hundreds of miles from their "Red Dwarf" DVDs and any kind of "Dr. Who" convention. Being a Mexican was hard - all they had were memories of their former life, now.
Andrew stood in front of the display, toe tapping a pissy little staccato until the shop keeper realized he had an angry customer and offered his services. He had forgotten he was in Scotland and that they didn't care about customer service. Andrew heaved a sigh. And still the shop keeper flipped through his magazine, ignoring him. So Andrew cleared his throat, his toe tapping so vigorous that he was practically bouncing up and down, and then cleared his throat again.
"A hot toddy'll do you right, laddie."
"Um, I don't know what that is, and also.. you have inaccurately portrayed the greatest spy who ever... spied."
The shop keeper closed his magazine with a snap and peered over his glasses at the American. "Is that right? Did one of those buggering Irish lads put Brosnan up there, then?"
"No, and to think that Remington Steele could- NO. Sir, I'm going to say this once-"
The shop keeper stood and maybe that was a raised platform he was on? No, it wasn't. He was moving around the counter. Andrew had thought Europeans were short - everyone said so. Everyone was a liar, apparently.
"Um, I don't understand how you can have a Best Of Bond display and have NO TIMOTHY DALTON?" He felt lightheaded. Also, he was afraid he might throw up - Lord, but that was a tall man.
The shop keeper clapped him on the shoulder. "Ahaha! That's a good one. That poncy bastard cannae find his arse with both hands."
Andrew wanted to point angrily in the shop keeper's face, but his whole arm was numb from where the large man had clapped his shoulder. He remembered he had two arms, and pointed with his left hand, instead.
"Timothy Dalton was the greatest Bond in the entire franchise, and Connery wishes he was as cool and suave as the REAL BOND."
Jonathan interrupted at this point. "Which was Roger Moore! Moonraker was a work of ART!"
"I'm telling this story, Darby O'Shrill, so you can pipe down!"
Joanthon impersonated Mike Myers saying "piper doon" and they both laughed. Andrew wished someone would have strummed a guitar and shaken a maraca at that point to get back into the story. At which point he remembered he was telling a tale of Scotland, and the maracas with its rattlesnake sound would be wholly inappropriate. A bagpipe, then. And so he imagined a lone, keening tone, then picked up the tale.
The shop keeper wasn't sure if the skinny idiot standing in front of him was pulling his leg, or if there was about to be some non-believer blood splattered on the sidewalk.
"What did you say?"
"I said: Timothy Dalton was the best Bond, was the most handsome, and brought the franchise back to its literary roots!"
"I think you'll be taking your Limey-loving arse out of my shop, noo. You're either starkers, or you have a death wish."
"I am fully dressed, which is besides the point."
"Perhaps you'd like to say that to Sir Connery's face?"
Andrew folded his arms, adopted a cool and haughty demeanor and replied, "If he was here, I would."
"Weel then, Laddie. Today'sh your lucky day, it sheemsh."
Sir Sean Connery stepped out of a small hallway, wiped his hands on the front of his kilt, adjusted his sporran, and stood toe to toe with Andrew. "Whatsh thish I hear about Dalton? That shlimey upshtart couldn't originate a role if hish life depended on it."
Gasps arose from the handful of patrons in the shop. The shop keeper made a fist, then pointed a finger sharply at Andrew's face. "That's SIR Connery to you, you minging Yank."
Andrew made a tiny, fussy bow at the man with his eyes closed. "Touchè. Although I'm from California, not New England, but that is no matter. SIR Connery, sir? With all due respect, you were too focused on the ladies and not enough on the spying. Seeing as the movies were about a SPY..."
Connery laughed, and pointed a thumb at the boy while looking at the store owner. "Get a load of thish kid. Shon, I think you've misshed the whole point of Jamesh Bond - it'sh all about the tail. Pushy Galore, Mish Moneypenny, Kisshy Shuzuki... The moviesh are about getting a shweet car to get shweeter ladies. In bed." Connery flashed his leg-spreading grin.
The shop keeper broke in, "Maybe he's ne'er had a bit of arse. Is that it boy? Only been greased yourself, is it?"
"I don't speak Scottish, so I don't know what you mean by that, but you," he turned back to Connery, "have just explained why Dalton was a better 007. He was handsome, dashing, and he looks like Spike, but with dark hair, and he was grittier and more troubled and more human and captured Fleming's dream!"
Sir Sean Connery nodded to the shop keeper, took Andrew forcibly by the elbow and steered him down the street to a corner pub. The windows were so caked with grime, the light from outside barely filtered through. Gas torches on the walls provided a weak light inside. Sawdust was on the floor. A few old men, who were playing chess in the corner with their hounds snuffling in the dust and debris on the floor, gave a cheery shout at the sight of their nation's hero.
"Ladsh. Thish round'sh on me." He nodded to the bartender. "Give my new friend here a glash of your finesht shctoch. He and I are going to have a talk about why Dalton washn't the besht Bond."
"You tell him, Sean!"
"That bastard said what, noo?"
"Fellash, it'sh alright. What'sh your name, shon?"
"Andrew. Andrew Wells." Andrew had to work hard to not say "Wellsh."
"Weel Andrew, we're going to have a drink, and we're going to have a dishcusshion about the importansh of ladiesh. Now, if you prefer the boysh, there'sh nothing wrong with that."
Andrew felt uneasy. Like that time when Warren had sent him with the Trio's demands to Spike's lair and he had found the vampire naked, doing chin-ups in his crypt. Andrew had slunk out unseen and took several laps around the cemetery before heading back to the guys. Timothy Dalton looked a lot like Spike. They both had those cheekbones, the chin dimple, the tight, compact bodies... Timothy Dalton was the BEST. Someone was talking to him.
"...and sho when a boy and a girl have feelingsh for each other, they get out toysh to play with. Like feather boash and hand-cuffsh. It'sh what Mother Nature intended."
"Um, okay. I don't... Uh."
Andrew took a small sip of his scotch and immediately started coughing. Connery pounded on his back and laughed. "Thatsh it, shon. Mother'sh milk. Drink up. It'll put hair on your chesht."
Andrew flashed to an alabaster body doing chin ups. He took a big swallow of his drink and almost passed out from the burning. He tried to speak, but his voice wouldn't work properly after the large slug of alcohol. Obviously the scotch sold in Scotland was way stronger than what was sold in America. Which was why it burned so much. Not because Andrew had never had it before. Because he had. At a cousin's wedding, but not the cousin that Jonathan knew, a different cousin. Who lived in Canada.
"And it'sh okay to want to touch their boobiesh. They like it. Well, they like it when I do it. Sho are you? Into girlsh?"
"G-girls? Yeah. Scully, Xena, Deanna Troi... They're hot."
"Shcully? Who the hell namesh their shweet little girl Shcully? What the hell ish wrong with Maryann or Lushy?"
"I'm partial to Clara, myself."
"Ewan McGregor, you magnifishent bashtard! How are you?"
Jonathan interrupted at this point.
"Okay, now I know you are making this up. No way did you meet Obi-Wan."
"I am telling this story, Shortathan, and you- . I am telling this story! And this was Jar-Jar Binks era-Obi-Wan, so then it was all about Qui-Gon being the cool one."
"Fine, but I'm telling my story about giving Jodie Foster directions to a coffee house and her falling in love with me, next."
Andrew rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Quid pro quo, Andrew."
Andrew smiled and nodded his approval. "Nice one. Now, can I get back to my story? THANK YOU."
"I'm partial to Clara, myself."
Jonathan broke in, "You did that part already."
Ewan flashed his million dollar grin. "Fancy meeting you here, Connery! In all the pubs in all of Scotland, its two greatest stars happened upon the same one at the same time."
Andrew looked up and deadpanned, "Yes. Isn't that odd, yet fortuitous? Mr. McGregor? Pleasure meeting you. I'm Andrew Wells. Your impression of Alec Guinness is truly inspired."
Ewan crooked a thumb at the boy and asked Connery, "What's all this, then?"
"Shays Dolton wash the better Bond. I think he'sh into boysh. Shaysh there wash too much focush on girlsh and carsh in my moviesh."
"Ach, you're talking crazy. Andrew, is it? There's no finer Bond than Sir Sean, here. We drinking scotch, then? Brilliant."
Ewan climbed onto a bar stool next to Andrew and lit a smoke. Andrew thought about taking up the habit. All the cool guys smoked. McGregor, Dalton, Spike... But if he was going to continue to be a Super Villain, he'd need full lung capacity. Hmm. Better not, then.
Andrew spoke up. "Okay, so back home I have a friend who thinks Roger Moore was the better Bond, and clearly he is insane. Short men can't be trusted. Also, he always hogs the good controller when we play Warcraft, and I know he's lying when he says there aren't any Red Vines left."
Ewan blinked owlishly. "Right. Say, would you fancy a sneak peek at the next Star Wars script?"
"Okay, no way. NO WAY did you see a script for SW3. No. Way. George prints that on secret paper that dissolves after contact, and you would have told me spoilers, dingus. Now get back to the real story."
Andrew huffed a minute, eyes to the ground. "Okay, fine. FINE. I asked him about Moulin Rouge, are you happy now? Now listen up! And stop interrupting. You're screwing up the narrative flow."
TBC! RIGHT HERE, in fact.