again.

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

Second offering on the day. Hope you enjoy.





Of Men and Mice

Burns Night is sacrosanct. This unwritten rule is disclosed to new CI5 agents by their elders and betters at the Red Lion on the first Friday after recruitment, and thus has far more resonance and usefulness than anything that ever came in a book, with or without small print.

'Come hell or high-water,' the agents say, 'come Christmas, New Year, or Easter Sunday,' the Cow is at his desk tending the web that stretches from his hands out across this great and sometimes bloody land. 'But' - and at this point even the regular thud of darts hitting the board quiets for a brief moment - 'But, from twelve noon on the twenty fifth of January, to the same hour the following day, HE shall not be disturbed.'

The Guardians of the Day, customarily the most senior agents on the squad, wear their mantle with pride. It is their task to ensure that the rule is followed. And not just by CI5. No one, with the possible exception of Her Majesty - and only then if it's in person and concerns one of the corgis - is allowed to defile this, the single most important, night of the year. The current Prime Minister, normally a considerate and thoughtful fellow, has never quite recovered from his only attempt to schedule a meeting for the afternoon of the 25th. Since it was his first year in office, and even CI5 agents can be generous, all he received in reply was a five pound sack of turnips and a politely worded note to the effect that the following day would be preferable. Other miscreants have not got off so lightly.

Thus the rule has stood, unbroken since 1971, and would have remained so, except for events currently being played out.

In this, the year of Our Lord, 1983, two days have passed since Doyle was rescued by his partner from imminent death at the hands of a very nasty bunch of thugs, and since Bodie was raked over the coals for disobeying a direct order. It is also just over one day since Mr Cowley effectively placed several pounds of high explosive under the Home Office by revealing that the entire Ojuka plot had been bankrolled by one of their own, someone who had far too many fingers in the colonial pie to take kindly to the recipe changing.

All in a day's work for CI5, you might say, and you would be right. Nothing is more typical, nothing more expected. But for it to fall so close to the sacred feast is unusual and this year there ensued something of a paperwork frenzy in order to ensure 'The Day' was protected.

And who lay behind this magnificent feat of organisation?

Murphy? The man with all the computer answers? No, though he was pivotal in ensuring three 'urgent' telephone calls from the Home Secretary were diverted to a discrete little establishment in Soho. Was it then, the chain smoking Anson, last seen escorting a vital, yet pretty, Foreign Office employee out to a well lubricated dinner? Or Susan, perhaps? She of the kicky heels and even kickier karate moves?

It was none of them. Nor anyone that HQ is willing to finger - though if we peer through this door here, it's just possible we might be able to eavesdrop on a revealing conversation…


"Christ, I thought the old man was never gonna shove off. After all that effort-"

"Not to mention a donation of very expensive twelve year old malt by yours truly -"

"Thought he was gonna be here forever. Stuck to his desk with his ear glued to the phone -"

"And bang goes our night of fun and frolics with the staple gun."

"Just so long as-"

"The red phone doesn't ring. Yeah, alright, sunshine. I think we've both got it."

Doyle sighs, heavy and put upon. "I remember last year. Three strokes away from the orgasm of a lifetime when the bloody thing rings. And don't think I've forgotten that trick of yours with the ice. The Minister's still wondering how a mouse ended up in the old man's office."

A grin spreads across Bodie's face. His eyes glint with mischief as he shakes his glass, setting the cubes within to rattling. "Fancy another round?"

"Not this year, mate. The wrists are still a bit sore."

Mischief transforms into concern and Bodie sits forward in his seat reaching for Doyle's hand. "Let's have a look. Didn't those idiots in A and E give you anything for them?"

Doyle submits to the inspection, peering at the damage himself. It's not bad, just not up to bearing the pressure of cuffs just yet. "Nothing I can take and still have a drink, and I'm not letting tonight pass without having at least one for the bard."

"And they say I'm the poetry buff."

"Only because no one's bothered to ask why you learn 'em all."

They share a smile, as private and gentle as any that has graced a man in love. Slowly they move closer, tipping toward each other like glasses in a toast, eyes switching focus to explore an entire expression, then back to dive deep into emotions that effervesce with joy.

The kiss, close and closed-mouthed, is chaste in its way, though burgeoning with more potential than a hay field in spring. Doyle's hands tighten on Bodie's knees, his thumbs digging in and then relaxing in a rhythmic grind that sends flutters of arousal up Bodie's spine to settle in his temples. A light sweat breaks across his brow and he reaches up to loosen his collar. His fingers fumble and he feels Doyle smile against his mouth.

"Yeah, you can laugh," he whispers and retaliates by winding his fingers into Doyle's mop and tugging gently. Doyle gasps and surges forward, shoving Bodie back in his chair which creaks and swings away from the desk, turning them so they're facing away from the door.

Knees one each side of Bodie's thighs, Doyle's perch is too high for ease, so he tips Bodie's head back and leans down to continue their kiss. Bodie meets him gleefully, his hands now finding their home cupped under Doyle's arse, his long fingers probing gently at soft flesh clasped in denim between them.

"Fuck," mutters Doyle under his breath a few moments later and he pushes upright.

"Always said those jeans were too tight."

"Thought you liked 'em." He flicks the button open and lowers the zip, revealing tanned skin and the cusp of his crisp curling hair.

Bodie groans and mouths his way forward greedily, grabbing the fly in his teeth and tugging it further open. He inhales, loving the musky scent of maleness released, the slight hint of sweat starting to emerge from its soapy disguise. "No skivvies," he says, his lips leaving damp traces against Doyle's belly.

"Only for you, mate," comes the reply. "Wouldn't risk it for anyone else."

Not that Bodie's listening. Nudging aside the denim, he's found the satin soft skin he's looking for. Heat over steel. Salt over sweet. Solid throbbing life under his questing tongue. He teases, running tiny licks beneath the head and relishing the jerk of hips in hands. It's fun, but the jeans are in the way. He pulls them down, helping Doyle to stand so he can shuck them completely, and when Doyle starts to pull his shirt over his head, Bodie says, "Leave it," before tugging him back onto his lap.

"On?" Doyle raises an eyebrow. "Kinky." But he's not going to object; the catch and rub of cotton over his nipples is good, and even better when Bodie gives them a tweak and sucks them wet. "Okay, enough," he says eventually, rising onto his knees and pushing Bodie's head further south. Bodie obliges by sliding further down in the chair.

"You want me to suck something else?"

"You'd better or - Christ on a cross!" It's a good job Bodie's holding him firmly or he'd have suffocated the daft bugger, pulling a move like that on an unsuspecting party. He forces his clutching fingers loose and pats at Bodie's hair. Not that it helps. He still looks like someone's been hanging on for the ride.

He moves his grip to Bodie's shoulders, to the shirt that stretches tight across them, then to the collar and lets his fingertips drift across Bodie's nape, just disturbing the short fine hairs there. Bodie grunts and he feels it around his cock, feels the swift intake of air and the small choke of surprise.

But then all he can feel is Bodie's mouth as it closes on him, hot and wet and tight and sucking him down and down and down. He whimpers slightly as his hips twitch, wanting to thrust - god so much - and he forces himself to breathe, to grab at something like control. But Bodie's having none of it. His fingers are working again and this time there's no denim between them when a finger brushes against his balls. He feels them roll, that churning surge that sends even more blood into his cock.

"Bodie," he creaks. "Please."

Bodie smiles, licks his lips, and returns to his task. It's good. He's good, and that's being modest, but even so, his mouth quickly feels stretched, used, sore - and he loves it. Loves this. Loves the rub of his teeth against the inside of his lips, loves the sting of sweat in his eyes, loves reducing Doyle to clutching and pleas, loves the heavy heat of him, loves the connection it gives them.

Loves Doyle.

"Bodie, god!"

Loves to feel Doyle come in his mouth. The way his cock swells, the way he pushes against Bodie's grip desperate to get deeper, for more, for just a second, until Bodie lets him and then it's there, his mouth fills and he swallows, again and again and again, sucking gently until Doyle shudders above him. With a final tug, he lets him go, lets the small soft dampness of him free, nuzzles him and looks up. Doyle has his forearms resting on the back of the chair above Bodie's head; his eyes closed, his hair a riot of tight damp curls. He looks knackered. And beautiful

Bodie soaks in the sight. He's hard himself, but he can wait. Long enough to enjoy the moment, anyway.

Doyle cracks his eyes open and peers down at a smug, self-satisfied grin, then further at the size of the damp patch on Bodie's cords. It really won't take long to return to favour, he thinks. With a single wriggle he's on the floor, has Bodie's trousers pulled open and yes, there's the lad in all his glory; dark red flushed and leaking like garden hose after a hedgehogs been at it. This is going to be quick - thank god, 'cause he's still twitching through aftershocks himself.

He's right. Within a minute or two, fingers are yanking at his hair and Doyle's doing all he can to avoid being gagged while above him Bodie's chanting his name at a volume that makes Doyle glad that, excepting for the guard at the front door, they're alone in HQ tonight. Doyle grabs at Bodie's hands, pushing them away until they start to behave. He's all for fun, but he likes to stay in charge.

Bodie comes with a bitten off shout that might have been a curse when it started out but ended up sounding more like a name. Doyle sits back on his haunches and grins up at Bodie, who's sitting there with his eyes closed, hands gripping the arms of the chair and sweating like a racehorse. His vest is visible at armpit and collar where his shirt has turned almost translucent, and he looks a right proper, kissable, sight.

Doyle can't resist. He hunkers up further and whispers onto the tip of Bodie's damp sweaty nose, "If thou should kiss me, love, who could espy thee?"

And, like putting a penny in a mechanical's slot, Bodie's lips open and he mumbles, "If thou would be my love, Jamie, come try me!"

There's a slight pause and then a voice from the doorway says, "Not the bard's greatest, I'll grant you, but aye, better I suppose then ruining one of the classics."

It's entirely possible, Bodie thinks, as his body does what his mind can't start to fathom, that he has never stood to attention so fast in his life. His heels slam together and his arms fall straight to his sides, his shoulders are back, his eyes are fixed and not even a kick in the privates would induce him to move them. If he's going down, he's going down a soldier - and isn't that an unfortunate metaphor.

Beside him, Doyle has moved just as fast, and their shoulders are close enough to touch briefly as Doyle centres himself.

From the corner of his eye, Bodie sees Cowley hang up his coat. He's wearing a kilt and a grey tweed jacket and since it's not midnight yet, he must've been called away from his supper. But how? By who? Any call should have been routed through this office, to the phone sitting there on the desk, silent, red and accusing. His heart plummets. They've failed. For the first time in the history of the squad, the old man's night of nights has been disturbed.

"Sir-" Doyle starts and Bodie wants to kick him. Now is not the time for making excuses. Now is the time for awaiting punishment and hoping like hell it only comes in the form of marching orders and not a prison sentence. The lack of a follow up suggests that Doyle has realised this too.

Cowley pauses in front of them, his gaze raking them from head to toe, and Bodie is suddenly, painfully, aware that his meat and two veg are hanging out of his trousers and that the office stinks strongly enough of sex that it could be mistaken for a whore's boudoir.

"Good night?" Cowley asks, and Bodie's discipline is shaken enough by the mild words that his gaze darts to the old man before reverting to its former fixed point. There's no discernible expression on Cowley's face. Nothing that might give Bodie a clue as to precisely how his career is going to end.

"Sir-" Doyle tries again, and again that's as far as he gets. Really there is absolutely no response to any of this. No excuse, no reason, no justification. He and Bodie were caught in flagrante delicto in the outer room of the old man's office. Case closed.

Cowley huffs a little and says, "Well, if you've something to say, say it. We've not got all night."

He can't. He still has nothing to say. Next to him, Bodie shifts minutely and then snaps out, "Sir, this was my idea. Doyle had-"

"Nothing to do with it." Cowley's gimlet gaze transfers its attentions to Doyle. "And I dare say you'll say something similar."

All Doyle can do is nod mutely. Since he was the one who climbed on Bodie's lap, technically it is his fault.

"Ten minutes. My office, both of you," Cowley snaps. "And I'll thank you to adjust your dress before you knock." With that, he's through the door, closing it loudly behind him, and they're alone.

Doyle sags. He feels like someone just removed his spine and replaced his knees with water. Grabbing the back of the nearest chair, he leans heavily on it, breathing slowly and waiting for the adrenaline crash to wear off. For a second he can't think of anything but that, and finding his jeans and getting them back on, then he realises something is wrong. Bodie, specifically is wrong.

"You alright?"

"Course I am." The way Bodie yanks his trousers up and closed belies that statement.

Doyle reaches out and grabs his arm, "Oi, just hold on a sec, will you," and the way he freezes under his touch makes Doyle's gut clench. The Bodie he knows has apparently done a bunk. He knows the one standing in front of him right now, and he's a difficult bastard to love, let alone get through to. This is the man who ran to protect Marikka, the man who would have killed King Billy if Cowley hadn't stepped in to stop him. This was Bodie scared, hurt, and hurting, cutting himself off from his feelings. "It isn't your fault, okay. Took both of us to do this, sunbeam, and I'm not dropping you in it to save meself."

It takes a moment, but then Bodie's eyes meet his own. "Is that what you think's bothering me?" A harsh bark of laughter escapes. "Didn't even cross my mind. You wouldn't do that."

"Then what the hell's wrong with you?"

"What the hell's wrong with me?" Bodie's voice is rising. Wincing slightly, Doyle gestures for him to keep it down. The last thing they need is to get even deeper into Cowley's bad books. Bodie continues speaking, but now at an angry hiss. "You ever been in jail, sunshine? It's not a walk in the bloody park, you know. And being ex-coppers'll make us perfect targets. All those bastards we've put away over the years, oh they'll love this. Word'll get out that-"

He probably would have carried on longer if Doyle hadn't brought him up short. "Who said anything about prison?"

Bodie glares at him and says, "It might have escaped your attention, though I dunno how, but this great nation of ours bars homosexuals from working in intelligence."

"Yeah, bars, but it's not illegal, Bodie." This is what was bothering him? The possibility of a prison sentence? Doyle senses an unshared episode in Bodie's past and resolves to get to the bottom of it. Later. When they're not about to be hauled over the coals. "The worst Cowley can do is fire us."

"Not if I resign first."

Shit! Why did the great prat have to be such a martyr? "You could try listening to what he has to say first. He might surprise you. He was alright over that Pellin business." He pauses. Better not build him up too far. "Though this is probably gonna end up worse than counting Russian trawlers up in the Hebrides."

"You reckon?"

As they talk, they sort themselves out, tidying hair and shirts, straightening the papers on the desk and opening the window to let in some fresher air. Finally there's no more delaying things. After a quick mutual check over, Doyle knocks on Cowley's door and goes in.

It's surprising how easy it is not to watch Doyle's arse as he follows him into Cowley's office. He might as well get used to that, since any chance of being able to watch, let alone touch, in the future is small. Whatever else Bodie might be, he's not stupid. He knows they're for the high jump this time.

The old man's still on the phone, but he waves them into the chairs opposite him before swinging his own around and continuing his conversation. Bodie sits as close to attention as he can manage and tries not to listen in, though it's not easy. Not least because Cowley accent becomes more pronounced the longer he speaks. It hypnotic. Riveting.

"Aye… Aye, I see… And the doctor… Nasty bit of a turn then… Anither week awa'… Will nae put the plans agley… Enow, Ma, dinna fash yerself…"

Bodie glances over at Doyle, not sure if he heard what he thinks he heard.

"Ma?" Doyle mouths back, his eyebrows raised.

Now isn't that a thought. Imagining the Cow springing full grown from some god's brow is less unsettling than the idea that he was once a child and thus had to have had a mother - continues to have a mother. Bodie's imagination immediately conjures up a fearsome Scottish woman in widow's weeds and wielding an enormous ladle. Christ! Cowley's mum is still alive.

That the woman who instilled all the uprightness of character, all the deep regard of tradition, of life, of freedom and justice, in one of the few men Bodie has ever been able to respect…

Despite everything that's happened to him this evening, the thought that this woman is on the other end of that telephone is the most terrifying thing of all to Bodie. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he tightens his hands together and ducks his head. After this realisation, any punishment Cowley decides to mete out will be child's play.

With a sudden jerk, he realises that the phone call is over and that Cowley's attention is now fixed on him. Has he asked something? He flashes a quick a look at Doyle, who shakes his head minutely. Not missed anything then. Not yet.

"So you're fond of Robbie, are ye?"

It's a night of confusion piled upon confusion. Doyle blinks at his boss. "Erm… yeah. Sir."

There's a book on the desk - antique red leather, gold leaf. "There's folk who canna see much more than the nose on their face, and that only when it's pointed out to them," he says, his accent still strong, "and I'd like tae think that I've trained the pair of you a mite better than that." The book rests between them. Doyle looks at it, cocks his head slightly to read the spine - The Poetry of Robert Burns. Cowley's still speaking, his index finger taps the book when he says, "When this man was in his prime, men caught doing what you two were doing would've been hanged with none to gainsay them. Most would've approved. It was the accepted way of things. By the same measure a poor farmer would not speak to an Laird unless he was spoken to first and whatever a woman owned became her husbands' when they got married.

"But some didn't agree with that way of thinking. Some felt all were equal under God's eyes, and so should be under his law."

"Yeah, they're called communists," Doyle hears Bodie mutter under his breath. He resists the urge to kick him. Sometimes Bodie can be too dense for his own good.

Cowley pauses before saying, "Aye, of a kind, but remember this was long before Engels and Marx put pen to paper. And most of these men were not revolutionaries. They didn't try to destroy the system from outside, they worked to change it from within. They exposed corrupt judges and ministers of Parliament. They fought legal cases to uphold the rights of the common man. They wrote open letters and poetry and songs which moved even the most callous heart to mercy." His finger taps again and Doyle knows exactly what he's about to say. "Rabbie Burns was one of those men.

"And since every year I choose to raise a glass in his name, to remember his life and his work, what makes the pair of you think that I am not the same kind of man?"

"Sir-"

"Think, Bodie, think hard before you answer."

Cowley pulls himself to his feet and limps a little as he heads for his drinks cabinet. The clock on the mantle gives a quiet tinkle. It's midnight. He's missed his chance to share this year with his drouthy cronies, but, he supposes, there are worse than Bodie and Doyle to spare his time, and his whisky, on.

"Well, laddie? An answer?"

"To be honest, sir," it's Doyle, covering for his friend, his lover - his partner in every sense of the word, Cowley supposes. "You go to church every Sunday, read the lesson. There's not many vicars'd approve of Bodie and me."

He has a point and one that Cowley does not feel inclined to argue. "Aye, well, that's as might be. That's no reason to tar all God-fearing men with the same brush." Sometimes he feels ancient when compared to these youngsters, and this is one of them. They're innocent, despite all they've seen and done.

But wasn't everyone once upon a time? He pours three generous drams, passes two of them over and claims the third for himself. "Under the circumstances, I think we can give the traditional toasts a miss, but I'll offer up one mesel'." Raising his glass, he says, "To justice, blind may she remain but never hobbled."

His two agents stand, both lifting their drinks and voices, "To justice," with Bodie adding, "and Her Majesty," and he can't help but smile. He would have added that himself except he had a feeling Bodie would do it for him.

But this is not the end of matters. "So," he says, "Now we've established that I'll no' be asking for your resignations, what do you propose I do about the fact that you were caught fornicating in the outer office? And while on duty?"

The pair of them freeze, Doyle with his drink still tilted against his lips. The vapours rise and tickle his nose, but he couldn't move if his life depended on it. For all his blasé attitude earlier, he's seriously worried about the punishment Cowley is going to cook up for them. He can be a devious old coot when pushed.

"There is a small job in North Wales I could use you both for. Something about ensuring the Menai Bridge doesn't get stolen," Cowley pauses and Doyle does his best to conceal a wince. He can imagine it now. Freezing gales off the sea and nothing but choirs and chapels to keep them company. Not that they don't deserve it but -

"But since that's really better suited to a single man -"

"And his sheep," Bodie mutters.

Cowley fixes him with a disgusted glare. "And I am not inclined to split you up, for the moment," the threat implicit in the last is enough to make Bodie flinch and look away, "I have another little job for you."

"What's that, sir?"

"I've a visitor due in at King's Cross Station at midday tomorrow. Since I'll be in meetings all afternoon, you'll act as chauffeurs and entertainers for the rest of the day. And for the week while I'm busy. And I'll expect the both of you to be on your best behaviour. Especially you, Bodie"

Baby-sitting. Bloody perfect. And a proper punishment as well. The old man knows how much he and Doyle hate it. He glances over at Doyle, who's reading him like a book, as always, shrugs and grins unrepentantly.

Only then does he turn his attention back to Cowley who's saying, "The twelve fifteen train from Glasgow, platform ten, and you'd better not be late."

"Right, sir. Twelve fifteen. Platform ten. Who is it we're picking up again?"

"Oh, you'll not miss her," he says with the most evil glint in his eye that Bodie has ever seen. "Her name's Mrs Eileen Cowley and I'll make sure she'll be looking out for the pair of you."




This is the fragment of a poem which inspired the piece. Originally titled Passion's Cry, it appears to be a defence of love in all its many forms.



Sappho Redivivus by Robert Burns (1789 - Fragment)

By all I lov'd, neglected and forgot,
No friendly face e'er lights my squalid cot;
Shunn'd, hated, wrong'd, unpitied, unredrest,
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest!
Ev'n the poor support of my wretched life,
Snatched by the violence of legal strife.
Oft grateful for my very daily bread
To those my family's once large bounty fed;
A welcome inmate at their homely fare,
My griefs, my woes, my sighs, my tears they share:
(Their vulgar souls unlike the souls refin'd,
The fashioned marble of the polished mind).

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer,
Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear;
Above the world, on wings of Love, I rise-
I know its worst, and can that worst despise;
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall,
Montgomery, rich reward, o'erpays them all!

Mild zephyrs waft thee to life's farthest shore,
Nor think of me and my distress more, -
Falsehood accurst! No! still I beg a place,
Still near thy heart some little, little trace:
For that dear trace the world I would resign:
O let me live, and die, and think it mine!

"I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn
By driving winds the crackling flames are borne;"
Now raving-wild, I curse that fatal night,
Then bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight:
In vain the laws their feeble force oppose,
Chain'd at Love's feet, they groan, his vanquish'd foes.
In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye,
I dare not combat, but I turn and fly:
Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire,
Love grasps her scorpions-stifled they expire!
Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,

Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone;
Each thought intoxicated homage yields,
And riots wanton in forbidden fields.
By all on high adoring mortals know!
By all the conscious villain fears below!
By your dear self!-the last great oath I swear,
Not life, nor soul, were ever half so dear!




Title: Of Men and Mice
Author: Josey
Rating: NC-17, though only just.
Circuit Archive, Pros-Lib: Yes, if it’s wanted.
Summary: The bard was right about the best laid plans.
Disclaimer: Don’t own them, just adore them.
Notes: Thanks to byslantedlight for the excellent beta.

Comments

[gilda-elise.livejournal.com]

Very nice! I like how you went from hot and steamy to dead serious. Cowley is hard to read sometimes, but I really liked that he turned out to be on their side.

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[sc-fossil.livejournal.com]

This was just marvellous. Now why is it that I love the idea of Bodie being terrified of Mrs Cowley? That week's babysitting job is going to be something. Thank for the story.

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

LOL. I'm sure he was shaking in his shoes at the station.

Thank you!

[msmoat.livejournal.com]

Heh. They deserve the punishment. *g* I like this version of Cowley--I do think he'd be like that, and I love the tie-in with Robert Burns. Nicely done. Thank you! But, oh, that moment of discovery was, er, painful for all. *g*

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

LOL. Thanks. I'm glad Cowley rang true for you. Above all, I see him as an incredibly fair minded man.

[snailbones.livejournal.com]

Meep - a terrible punishment indeed!

I loved them sticking up for each other like that too, bless them. And Cowley in a kilt... ::fans self::

Great read, thank you!

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

He'd look most dashing in a kilt, wouldn't he.

And thank you!

[erushi.livejournal.com]

Hee, I enjoyed this, I really did! Loved how it went from humourous to hot to serious, and yet still with a fun undertone. And oh, trust Cowley to devise such punishment! *g*

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

*VBG* Glad you enjoyed, and thank you!

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

I'm running late, but I reckon it's never too late to thank someone for a lovely bit of fic! I very much like the idea of Cowley knowing and liking this aspect of Burns (though I don't know what he would have thought of Burns' faithlessness to his wife and affairs with other married women ... ) and most of all I think it's entirely right and warranted to have a Cowley who is fair and devoid of prejudice. It's the perfect punishment, of course - and I think they'll acknowledge eventually that they got off lightly (well they were on duty after all!) - especially after they've learned a few titbits about Cowley as a wee boy *g*
Thank you for a great read!

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

No later than me with replies. lol

I think Cowley would have appreciated the ideals behind the faithlessness. Despite his pragmatic front, he has a poet's heart, I'm sure.

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

Oh and thank you!

[saintvic.livejournal.com]

The image of Cowley as a lad is probably going to stay with me for a while *grin* but not as long as the wonderfully hot images that you treated us to as well *GRIN*. I also really enjoyed the style of writing at the start like a story being read out and then the shift works well to bring us into the present.

[empty-mirrors.livejournal.com]

Cool. I'm glad it worked for you. The story just kinda wriggled out that way and didn't want to change.

Thanks for commenting!