Title: What I Did On My Summer Vacation, By Andrew Wells, [Part 2 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. Also: Every possible Sci-Fi geek fanboy reference I could think of is crammed in here. JOY!
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."
Part One, if you missed it. AND YOU MISSED A LOT.
"Well, Andrew, I know you didn't ask, because I can clearly see that you would prefer to talk about Star Wars and the sort of breakfast that fuels the genius of George Lucas, but I was able to learn the dances in Moulin Rouge within a matter of weeks. And I don't think there's anything wrong with little boys who took formal dancing so their aunties would have a dance partner at family gatherings. In fact, I think it's quite manly."
"Thank you, Mr. McGregor. I am quite manly, and if I may, can certainly cut a rug with the foxtrot. But let's get back to that breakfast of champions you mentioned for Mr. Lucas..."
"Now shee here, ladsh. I don't mind shitting around in a pub, dishcusshing how to make movesh on the ladiesh so you can get them to show you their boobiesh, but I don't have all day to talk about danshing and food. I've got a caber tossh to get to."
Andrew was disappointed. He still hadn't been able to get Sir Connery to admit that Spike- er, Timothy Dalton was the coolest Bond ever. And he would. Oh, yes. He would.
"Sir Sean? Is this a private caber toss, or can anyone join in?"
Jonathon broke in, shifting against the burro to get more comfortable, meaning, further away from the biting end, "What's a caber toss?"
Andrew slumped his shoulders forward and smirked, "They're like, huge tree trunks with all the branches and sticks wacked off. You grab one end and throw it."
"Sounds like a good way to get splinters, to me."
"That's just what I said!"
Andrew eyed the stack of cabers the men were standing around. "Looks like a good way to get splinters, to me."
Sir Connery laughed and clapped Andrew hard on the shoulder. Andrew staggered forward, wincing, and mouthed, "Ow! Ow!" when no one was looking.
Sean and Ewan wandered over to the kilted men - yes, they dress like that ALL THE TIME. All of them. Every man in Scotland wears a kilt every day. And Andrew still didn't get why everyone laughed when he asked what they wore under them, he just laughed along with them because he hated not being in on a joke. And apparently he kept saying the same joke over and over again. But that was not the point.
The point was that a bunch of strong men who didn't look like Willie the Groundskeeper - not a lot of redheads in Scotland, evidently - were standing about a bunch of tree trunks. And picking them up. And running and yelling and throwing them. Apparently this wasn't a joke like the whole "what's under your kilt" thing. Which Andrew still didn't ge-
"Did you know they don't wear anything under their kilts?"
Jonathan started choking on his pretend swig of tequila. Interesting that neither of the two acknowledged that the level of alcohol never dropped in their tequila bottle, and it was the only bottle of alcohol they had been "drinking" for three days now.
"H-how did you know that?"
Andrew waved his hand slowly in front of Jonathan's face, "You do not need to know that information at this time."
"You are not a Jedi Master, Andrew, for the millionth time."
"I could be. I learned all of the Master's tricks. Ewan is really cool. He said that singing and dancing are manly and-"
"Enough with the Broadway Baby routine. I told you I didn't care that you liked Cats, okay? I mean, it's kind of fun? To imagine a bunch of cats the size of people? And they-"
Andrew looked at Jonathan like he had grown another head. "Um, liking Obi-Wan when he sings about his heart breaking and knowing that he will become one of the greatest Jedi masters the universe has ever known is not the same as you putting on your mother's wig and singing along with your Grease soundtrack."
Jonathan carefully set the tequila bottle down in the crook of the burro's knee - do they have knees? The leg-bendy part, at any rate - and launched himself at Andrew, thumbs carefully tucked inside his fists so he wouldn't accidentally catch it and bend it backwards too far, because that really hurt. He slapped his fists in Andrew's direction with a gasping, "uhn, uhn" noise while Andrew threw his arms up to block his face and let out a high, keening noise, kicking his foot somewhere in the direction of the whirling dervish of dark-haired elfin malice, a.k.a, Jonathan.
"You used to sing that with me! You used to beg to play Rizzo! You swore you'd never-"
"Kinickie! I wanted to be Kinickie! And you're missing the best part! SPICE! Jonathan, they have SPICE!"
Jonathan leaned back and whispered reverentially, "The worms are spice. The spice IS the worm." His voice changed to that of wistfullness, "Kyle MacLachlan looked really cool in the skin suit. Muab'Dib. Now, what the aitch? They have spice?"
Andrew nodded, adjusted his serape, and looked off into the Mehican night sky.
"They call it... Haggis."
Andrew stood with his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, leg bouncing and a look of uncertainty on his face. "What if I, you know, throw it and hit someone in the eye? It's all fun and games until someone throws a caber in someone else's... eye."
Ewan laughed, grabbed one end of his caber, and hoisted it to his shoulder with ease. But he was a Jedi, so sure it was easy for him. He was probably using a mind trick to float it and-
Ewan was speaking. "You haven't eaten anything, have you? Go have a bit of a nosh, then you'll be ready." Ewan gave a few running steps while the kilted men - some with jaunty caps and white feathers on their heads, there may have even been a few bagpipers in the mix, Andrew couldn't be sure because he was focused on Ewan's throw - began to yell. They were getting louder and louder as Ewan sped up, then their voices rose in a crescendo as the large trunk was tossed, the noise ending with a loud, "whoa!" as the caber crashed and thumped to the ground.
Andrew nodded briskly a few times, marched back to the table that someone had thoughtfully brought out to the field, and really, the tablecloth was a lovely touch, and ooh! Little finger sandwiches! Andrew hoped they didn't have nuts in them - he was allergic to them and broke out in hives. And sometimes if the crusts weren't cut off, he sometimes choked. Dried bread was hard on his delicate system, which was why his mom always cut the crusts off and there was something that looked like a donkey's peni-
Sir Connery stepped up behind him and clapped him hard on the shoulder again. Andrew was beginning to think about suing him for damages.
"That'sh haggish, laddie. Few bites of that in your wame, and you'll finally feel like a man. 'Bout time you had that feeling, eh, shon?"
Andrew gave a weak laugh and a small conciliatory smile, then had a flash of intuition. "Sir? I'll eat that on one condition."
"What'sh that, shon?"
"You admit that Timothy Dalton was the closest to Ian Flemming's ideal of a superspy, and you were only about the girls and gadgets, and I'll eat your... haggis."
Sean looked at the boy while chewing the inside of his cheek. "You want me to shay that I got the ladiesh and the gear. That I alwaysh got the ladiesh, and Dalton only did the shpying, ish that it?"
Andrew heaved a sigh of relief. "Yes. That is exactly what I want you to admit."
"Shon, lishten. I appreciate that you are a young tyke, and you grew up after the age of Free Love. But believe me, my Bond is the besht. The mosht remembered. There have been pollsh taken, and the fellash love me, not to mention all the ladiesh." Sean flashed his sparkling grin and ruffled Andrew's hair. "But if all you need to hear is that Dalton did all the work, and I got all the pushy, then fine. There you go. Now eat the damned haggish."
A few of the kilted men - one of them had a broadsword, Andrew was sure of it - had finished their plates of haggis. Their eyes glowed with blue intensity.
Andrew took a deep breath, and ate a bite. He quickly looked around for something to wash the taste down with. It was like that time his Nana had pulled out a grey piece of mystery meat from the freezer and tried to tell him and his cousin that the ice crystals protected the meat from spoiling, then boiled it and told them to just put a lot of ketchup on it, because she was not going to eat Captain Crunch cereal for dinner, and she was on a budget anyway, and would he just eat it and then call his mother to come get him.
One of the Scotsmen - a Laird? He was wearing a linen blouse with ruffles, which accentuated the strong muscles in his chest somehow - handed him a tankard and told him to drink, then another Scotsman - okay, this one kind of looked like Robert Duval in Braveheart with a wild beard and he had an arrow broken off and stuck in his chest and he wasn't even flinching-
"What was in the glass, Andrew?" Jonathan's face shifted from irritation to amusement. "You didn't drink it, did you?"
"Shut up, Wee Willy Wonka and the Interrupting Factory. I'm trying to give my tale some atmosphere."
"Pffft. Okay, Rachel."
So the second guy clapped Andrew on his back, which forced the drink down his throat, thank you very much, and it burned like acid. And tasted like an old shoe soaked in dirty water that skunks had bathed in.
"The finest ale in Scotland!"
So that's what beer tasted like.
Andrew, filled with haggis (Spice) and ale (skunk juice), was finally ready to toss the caber. Was finally fortified enough to be able to do it. Oh, god, he didn't want to do it.
"Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope..." he whispered.
And there he was. Obi-Wan guiding Andrew's hands to the caber, Obi-Wan explaining quietly how to use his legs and back, or... just try and hold it steady then shift forward so it wouldn't fall on Andrew's feet. Obi-Wan with his soothing Jedi voice and strong Jedi hands, teeming with midi-chlorians-
Andrew took a calming breath, imagined he was on Degoba, pictured Jonathan as Artoo chirping encouragingly, smiled, nodded, and lifted. Nothing moved. Imagined doing a handstand, then quickly got sick to his stomach, because being upside down bothered his inner-ear condition, which kept him from playing sports and he had NOTES, thank you, excusing him from gym, then found his inner strength from the haggis (Spice), and lifted the end again. And again, nothing moved.
"Okay, then, um, I tried and all, so thanks but-"
"There is no try. Do or do not."
"Tchuh. You said that backwards, Ewan. It goes, 'Do or do n-' "
"Andrew, pick up the bloody thing and let's be done with it, aye? Oh, um, 'Size matters not.' That help you any?"
Andrew smiled and nodded. "It does. Truly you are a Jedi Knight." He looked at the trunk he was attempting to pick up, eyes slitted with fierce concentration, and lifted the end. Three men rushed forward and helped lift the heavy pole onto his shoulder. Andrew coughed, the wind knocked out of him briefly, then took several steps forward, pushed with his shoulder and blacked out.
When he woke up, he was a little disappointed that he wasn't in a water chamber with a re-breather, but then he realized that he would then be expected to kiss his sister and that was gross. What he did wake up to was a bunch of men looking down at him with distast-, um, with concern. Sir Sean Connery stepped forward, pulled him up to standing, and spoke.
"That was the biggesht peash of girly throwing I've ever sheen."
"Um, girls are really strong in Scotland, so that was a compliment."
Jonathan leaned back against the burro, closed his eyes and smiled. "Yeah. Sure it is."
"Whatever. You don't even know. You've never been further than twelve blocks from your house."
Jonathan tapped the side of his head, "I've been further up here. And they totally called you a girl."
"They did not! And besides, you didn't meet a Jedi and a James Bond. And let's not forget that he admitted to being only about the girls and ess ee ex and that Timothy Dalton was the greatest Bond that ever was."
"Because he's a liar. And an idiot."
"Did you just call Connery an-"
"ROGER MOORE WAS THE GREATEST BOND EVER."
"Yeah, in stupid crazy land, maybe. A land filled with SHORT, dumb, weenie-"
"Timothy Dalton is a chin-dimpled FREAK!"
A loud eeeeHAAAAW and a stiff bite on the thigh from the burrow shut them both up quickly. Evidently it was time to get some sleep.
"Scoot over. You're hogging all the burro."
Jonathan scooted towards the back end - it may smell more, but he would be further from the teeth - and made room for Andrew. They settled in, heads against the burro's sides, and drifted off towards sleep.
"Is beer really skunky?"
Andrew sighed the sigh of the hard-lived. "Yes, Little One. It is the very essence of skunk."
Later, when Jonathan heard the nasal wheen that indicated Andrew was asleep, he stuck his pinkie in the tequila bottle and tasted it. A few convulsions later, he corked the bottle, made a face, and sighed. Being a Mehican was going to be hard.