Title: Nothing A Little Rum Can't Fix
Rating: PG-13
Author: Evil Kitty (mean_kitty@earthlink.net)
Spoilers: S4 BtVS and, obviously, Pirates of the Caribbean.
Disclaimer: PotC belongs to Disney, as does the Pirates theme song from the park attraction. BtVS is likewise not mine, and I am merely borrowing a character or two for an afternoon of fun.
A/N- Meant to be a little silly. ;) Takes place right after the movie.
Summery: This wasn't what Giles meant when he said he wanted a vacation.
Chapter 1 - Bad news Toto....
We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot.
Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
Giles caught the bartender's eye with a raised finger, asking for a bottle of Bushmills and a glass when the man finally made his way over. The bar was quite crowded, not surprising when you considered that it was the only form of entertainment outside of television that could be found within two-hundred or so miles.
You sure? The man eyed him up and down dubiously, and Giles bristled. He may be the oldest customer present, but that didn't mean that he couldn't drink every biker present under the table.
I wouldn't have ordered it otherwise, he snapped. The bartender shrugged, reaching under the counter for a shot glass and pulling a bottle down from the wall behind him. Giles slapped a twenty on the scarred wood counter and retreated to the table in the farthest corner from the door, where he could have his back in a corner. The gloom suited his current mood, and it would allow him to watch everyone else. The table's close proximity to the stage speakers assured that he would be drinking alone. He didn't mind it himself. If he hadn't lost his hearing by now, it wasn't going anywhere.
The chair was lower than it should have been, and he bit back a moan as he set himself down. He was in excellent shape for his age, for any age, but pushing a car for a mile then walking five more had his muscles severely protesting any further movement. The whiskey was crap, as he'd known it would be, but at least it was Irish. Damned impossible to get decent alcohol in this country. The cover band playing was better than expected, and he wondered if they'd come here on purpose, or if their cars had broken down like his had. As Buffy had once said, Ultimate Driving Machine' my ass. They were mixing fast paced country western with some classic rock songs, and he found himself silently lip-syncing along to an old Doors hit, Roadhouse Blues. Jim Morrison had been extremely lucky, he mused. He'd died young, to be forever remembered as young and handsome, never to suffer the indignities of growing old. Giles couldn't remember the exact moment at which he'd first realized that he had more years behind him than waited ahead, but could well remember the bout of depression it caused.
His car wouldn't be ready for another day or two, since the mechanics had to order the parts for it. This glorified truck shop that people kept referring to as a city had a single small motel, and he'd been able to book himself a room at an outrageous price. In hindsight, he should have opened his pockets enough to get the Doloses Chalice sent down from Oregon by US Mail, even if the damn thing did weigh nigh on a hundred stone. He'd balked at paying any more when he'd already paid for it to come down by Fed-Ex, and he hadn't wanted to wait the extra month that he'd been told it would take. The warehouse personnel had chosen an extremely inconvenient time to strike, sodding bastards one and all. Besides, how much trouble could it be to drive straight up the state?
He tipped back another shot of whiskey, as the band paused for a short break. A hundred years ago Watchers didn't have these problems. No worries about getting your sacred ancient artifact through airport security. No worry about the trade caravans being waylaid by negotiations with the teamsters No shortage of Watchers that could be sent out to bring something back. No Anya running off to the gas station with his credit card. He hastily grabbed up his glass as an armload of snack foods was dumped on the table.
she said happily, they have shrunken M&Ms. Like large M&Ms, but small. Isn't that neat? Small M&Ms! What will they think of next? Anya had never been to this part of California before, either as human or demon. She'd refused to be dissuaded from coming, and Tara had foiled his strongest excuse by offering to run the Magic Box for the two days they were supposed to be gone. Tara was no longer on his Christmas card list.
Quite remarkable. I thought you were going to stay at the motel?
She stole a chair from a nearby table and sat down across from him, waving her hand as if to dismiss the idea. The room smells badly and the couple next door are very loud while having sex.
He was going to need more alcohol. Lots more alcohol. Let's hear a hearty huzzah for whoever discovered the distillation process.
I know her! Anya exclaimed suddenly, just as he was tipping the shot glass back to take a drink. She startled him into spilling whiskey down the front of his shirt.
He'd dumped the entire glass on himself, and he didn't have a change of clothes handy. The stain would dry, but he'd reek to high heaven the rest of the trip, unless he went out and bought a change of clothes along the way.
Sorry. But, I know her!
She pointed towards a group of bikers that had just come in, dusty from the road and decked out in leather. A slim redhead led them towards the bar. We ran into each other in Crete during the first World War.
Is she a threat?
She had to think about it before she answered. That was never a good sign.
No. She grants wishes for the under appreciated and oppressed. I am only slightly under appreciated and not oppressed, so she should have no reason to dislike you.
The girl turned towards them then, and Anya stood up to wave. Recognition flashed on the other's face, and she made her way towards their table while the rest of her group settled down nearer the door. She was bordering on being too thin to be aesthetically pleasing, all sharp points and angles where curves should be. Indecent red leather pants bled into high-heeled black boots that clicked against the concrete floor as she walked. She didn't appear to be wearing anything under her half-unzipped bomber jacket.
Anyanka? Is that really you? You're human! The last bit was said in a tone that left no question of whether or not she saw that as an improvement. She came to the very edge of the table, but made no move to sit down.
Anya shrugged. Yes, but I try to not let that get in my way. Why are you here? I like your pants. Giles cleared his throat, and they both turned to look at him.
Rupert Giles, he said, and you.....
I am called Cnossia. She studied him for a moment, green eyes narrowing slightly. Her gaze shifted back to Anya. Anyanka, who is this man?
So much for being polite. Giles poured himself another drink.
He's my employer, she answered. I work in his magic store and make lots of money. But I'm very appreciated, she added hastily, with a glance in his direction.
I know you are. But I sense that he is not. Tell me Rupert Giles, do you feel as though you need to be liberated? She leaned forward, expression solemn and intent. It so mismatched the rest of her appearance that he fought to keep a straight face.
he chuckled. No, I don't need to be liberated. I just need a long vacation. Perhaps a cruise of some sort, and I just messed up rather badly, didn't I? Anya was staring at him in openmouthed horror, and Cnossis looked as though she'd either won a large amount of money or been given a fuzzy kitten. It wasn't a wish, he said weakly. You had to make a wish for a wish demon to work. It said so in the books.
It didn't need to be, they both answered in unison.
Bloody hell.