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vukovich · 1 year ago

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Chapter Forty

“What’re you, a fuckin’ cop?” came the snake’s voice, but it was coming from the mouth of the boy with the spun gold ringlets for hair, who was eating cold pepperoni pizza over a kitchen sink that probably cost more than Harry’s rent. “Some kind of fuckin’... wizard cop?” he mumbled.

Harry looked down at his own outstretched hand like it had betrayed him. All he’d said was, ‘Harry’ when the boy, because though he looked like a young man, he acted like a boy, had asked him who the fuck he was.

And so, like the public figure he often had to be, Harry had gone in for a handshake and a press-friendly introduction.

“Harry…” Harry said weakly, “...Potter?”

The boy shrugged at him and chewed pizza crust like he wanted it to suffer. His jaw muscles cast soft shadows in the tepid dawn light. The kitchen windows overlooked gardens that sloped down towards the barnyard, where the yard light was still on, but the sunlight was almost as bright.

The light brought out gold in the emerald satin of the boy’s pyjama bottoms. His chest was bare, though Harry didn’t dare look at his body.

Harry’s stomach growled.

“Uhm,” Harry said, wishing desperately that he weren’t completely nude, with only his hands for underwear. “Yeah, actually. I am a wizard cop. I guess.”

“Thought so,” he said, and ripped off another piece of crust like a wolf at a carcass. “Came in here dressed like fuckin’ Little Red Ridinghood yesterday.”

He’d been right about the boy when he’d seen him by the pool. His gaze did cut like glass. He had eyes like a Husky, black fading to palest grey at the center. The light caught them and they felt like headlights.

The boy spoke with his eyes as much as his lips, still chewing, his mouth not opening wide enough for human speech, “You sneak like a fuckin’ cop. Like you’re goddamn invisible in your fuckin’ shit-kickin’ boots’n capes. Shoulda put some strobes’n fuckin’ sirens up your ass ‘n’ put you in stealth mode.”

Harry snort-laughed so hard he felt like his tonsils had dislodged.

“What?” the kid said, speaking normally. “You did have a big red fuckin’ cape on. Pretty hard to miss.”

“No,” Harry said, almost wheezing, “the stealth mode part.”

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed. “You heard that?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Are you seriously a Parseltongue?”

“Are-you-seriously-a-Parseltongue,” the boy mocked, which wasn’t a sentiment Harry had ever heard conveyed through hissing. “Does Draco know you’re a fucking cop?”

Harry gawped at him. Who the hell was he? How could he not know who Harry Fucking Potter was, first off? His face was in the fucking History of Magic textbooks in every language in every school.

And how could any Parseltongue not know who he was?

“Uhm,” Harry said, “yeah. He knows I’m an Auror.” As an afterthought, he hissed, “Duh.”

If the boy heard him, or understood Parseltongue, he didn’t show it. “Show me your arms.”

Harry immediately held his forearms out. Something about the boy’s voice didn’t said he didn’t broker. He hummed, chewed, and shrugged.

“Weird,” the boy said. “Is it somewhere else?”

Confused, Harry shook his head. “Is what somewhere else?”

“Your Mark,” the boy said, rolling his eyes. “Duh.”

The boy held his forearms out, and one one of them was a canine skull, identical to Draco’s, but in bright white. It almost glowed, not unlike the galloping lines on Draco’s body that Harry may or may not have dreamt up.

“Fuckin’ dumb enough to be a cop, that’s for sure. Cops here are probably washed up jocks, too. Fuckin’ peaked at seventeen playing some fuckin’ wizard-ass version of football. Or soccer. Or whatever stupid fuckin’ thing they call it. Fuckin’ wankball’s yer uncle or some shit.”

“Pah!” Harry belted. His lips pursed, and his jaw slid forward, putting his tongue in a position it hadn’t used in years. “Quidditch.”

The boy’s eyes went wide.

Harry smirked. “It’s called Quidditch.”

Harry drew a breath and waited for some kind of Parseltongue bonding moment. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Not a hug, but maybe some disbelief, or awe. Some kind of connection.

Instead, he got: “And I’ll bet you were real fuckin’ good at it in high school. Huh,” the boy looked down his nose at him, “Kawaii Five-O?”

“What?!”

“The fuckin’ fuzzzz,” he hissed, and reached out to ruffle Harry’s disheveled curls. “Butt-fuckin’ naked, look’ like a fuckin’ Troll doll, walk-of-shamin’ it for cold pizza.” He pointed at Harry’s chest, at the vee in his gold chain, and handed him a piece of pizza. “Wizard Britain’s finest, huh?”

This was possibly the strangest interaction Harry’d ever had in his life, and he’d known Luna Lovegood for over twenty years.

The boy tugged on Harry’s chain. “Fuckin’ adorable, man.”

“Uhm, thanks,” Harry muttered, and took the pizza. It was so cold, it was stiff. “Wizard-ing, by the way,” he added. “Not… ‘wizard Britain’. Wizard-ing Britain.”

“Shut the entire fuck up. Nobody cares.”

Harry took a bite and nodded tritely. He’d never been bullied in a locker room by a teenage boy, but this was pretty close.

Eyes like monochromatic supernovas fixed on him. “Does the emperor know you’re walkin’ around the house with your schlong schlangin’?”

He’d never considered referring to Malfoy Manor as a ‘house’ before.

“No,” Harry said weakly. “I didn’t want to wake him.”

The boy handed him another piece of pizza, even though he hadn’t finished the first one, then Vanished the box with his bare hand.

“He’s gonna be furious when I tell him I talked to you,” the boy sneered, and the curl of his lips was so familiar.

A sense of unwelcome crept through Harry like a rising tide, like an invitation had been revoked. All the uncertainty he’d felt when he arrived returned. Maybe he’d overstepped his welcome.

He certainly hadn’t been greeted warmly, and then Draco had flat out said that he didn’t actually think Harry would show up.

The boy said, turning away, “Or you can tell him. You’ll see him first, I guess.”

Maybe Draco hadn’t cared if Harry came tonight. And maybe it was because he already had someone.

“Why would-” Harry sputtered. Outside reality came crashing in like a wave. Why had he assumed Draco was single? Why did it matter? Was that why Draco had said what he’d said about not loving Harry? “Why-”

The boy left with a heavy roll of his eyes. “Tell him you met Tyler. I fuckin’ dare you, Kawaii Five-O.”

24K9

A daily(?) kinktober 2023 fic. Will post to AO3 on American Thanksgiving, 2023.

Harry is a K9 unit Auror. Draco is the Ministry Kennelmaster. How could that possibly lead to anything?

Tags: collaring, top Draco, sensual pet play, touch starved Harry, bathing, shaving, rescue dog feels, other tags TBA, maybe dark draco ending?, maybe werewolves?, definitely coming untouched though, just blasting rope man

Chapter One

“I assure you, Auror Potter,” drawled the Patronus, speaking even before it found its full form, “there is nothing wrong with your partner.”

Malfoy’s tone was patronising, as though he were telling Harry that the monsters under his bed weren’t real, and to go back to sleep.

Next to Harry’s desk, his ‘partner’ had managed to catch his tail and was currently gnawing on it with nothing short of ardour. K9 Auror Wurst, aka RottWurst, clamped down on his fluffy tail so hard, Harry swore he heard a crunch.

The bright fog condensed into a direwolf the size of a modest pony. It was the perfect symbol for Draco Malfoy. A pale, leggy, sharp-toothed relic of another time.

“And I assure you,” Harry spat, “Kennelmaster Malfoy, that this mutt’s fucking touched in the head.”

The mutt in question was eighty-plus pounds of Rottweiler-poodle abomination. He looked like a St Bernard had dug into an avalanche, missed the humans, and hit a thousand-volt power line instead. The curly white fur on his belly was caked with mud, and his brown muzzle still had bits of grass clippings on it. The rest of him was black, save his brown eyebrows and speckled ears.

“He keeps alerting to sex magic, not dark magic. It’s fucking embarrassing. Dragged me across Hyde Park. I had to use a Confundus on him to get him back to the office.”

The direwolf was so still that Harry blinked twice to make sure the shape wasn’t burned into his retinas. It was a bloody showboat of a Patronus.

It was so bright that it brought out the dinginess of Harry’s office. The yellow carpet had a pale brown trail between the door and Harry’s desk chair. The corners of the ceiling had cobwebs, and the baseboards held an unhealthy amount of dust.

The fresh dog piss on the floor didn’t help things.

“I mean, he’s not worthless,” Harry added. “But Robards said he can’t reassign him to Vice. That he doesn’t have that authority. So it must be you who has to do it.”

It was a little risky to bypass Robards the way he had, contacting Malfoy directly. He probably should have made an appointment with his assistant or something.

But he’d been angry, so he’d pulled an interdepartmental priority Howler out of his desk and sent it.

There was probably a DMLE protocol for contacting a member of the Wizengamot. There was a DMLE protocol for everything but wiping his arse. Actually, they probably had one for that, too.

Harry blinked again. His eyes were dry. He was on hour seven of a twelve-hour shift. After this, he’d get another coffee.

The direwolf shifted its weight, then leaned back, hindquarters high, in a deep stretch. Its paws spread out in front of it.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was actually stretching. And what that might look like.

It’d been years since he’d seen Malfoy in person. Just in the papers, and only in the background of Wizengamot photos. He’d been called to his Wizengamot seat the day after his thirtieth birthday, having met the minimum age. They hadn’t called Hermione to hers until she was thirty-two. She’d die mad about that.

The direwolf laid down, then yawned.

Harry yawned.

Wurst yawned. Then farted.

Harry thought to check the time. 2:30 AM, according to his wristwatch. He’d been on the clock for fourteen hours. Not seven.

“Shit,” Harry said.

He’d woken a member of the Wizengamot at 2:30 AM. And an important one.

The direwolf sighed and tucked its muzzle under its paw. Harry held his breath. Maybe Malfoy would fall asleep.

Maybe he’d doze off, and he’d think he dreamt he got a Howler in the middle of the night from a burnout beat cop at least six rungs below him. Maybe.

The direwolf sighed again, then drifted away like will-o'-the-wisps on the wind.

Maybe Malfoy wouldn’t report this.

Maybe.

Maybe Robards wouldn’t kill him.

He drummed his fingers on his desk. If he did get written up, it’d be his sixth this year. Two of them were for failing to meet dress code, but the shaving regulations were stupid, and the hygiene one was just weird.

Still.

Wurst looked at him. He looked at Wurst.

Nothing would happen. His talk with Malfoy had only lasted a few seconds. He’d think it was a dream.

It would be fine.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry told Wurst, ignoring the sweat on his palms.

Wurst’s nostrils flared, and then an ivory envelope slid under the door. It sat on the grimy carpet for a moment, then folded itself into a swan. With a few wingbeats, it landed on Harry’s desk and unfolded itself.

Inside was a business card.

Draco L Malfoy Wizengamot Member, Kennelmaster Warminster BA13 4SH UK

“Shit,” Harry said.

He flipped the card over. On the back was an appointment date and time. Tomorrow.

“Fuck.”

Robards was going to kill him.

#24k9 #we've been off the rails for a while #but now it's obvious #welcome to an oldschool vuk fic #buckle up

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reekierevelator · 5 years ago

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Beyond Burns

a short story

I was getting set up to record my latest spacecast on holiday trips to Mars, - Spacex starships were offering a special deal, - when in barges the director, slamming the door behind her.

‘What does the big data analysis tell you to spout on about this time?’ spluttered the red-faced human, in her usual sensitive way.

‘Summer holidays – trips to Mars.’

‘Oh, not that old shite again. Same every year. Hell’s teeth, we don’t employ robot vidcasters just to end up doing what everyone else does. Post-festive season it’s all diets and holidays, same old same old. Now listen to me Chuck, I’m after the interplanetary broadcaster medal and the other stations are already all over the new technology. We have to do better than RADG, who got that whizz-kid to do an interview with James Watt.’

‘Who?’

‘Who knows, an engineer or something, hundreds of years ago, the point is Chuck that if they can do it so can we. We need to get our act together, get on this bandwagon quick, or else we pack our bags and get out. It’s a cutthroat business – well, not for you obviously, maybe cut your cables and sell you for scrap if no-one else wants you, but at least you don’t have any bags to pack. Listen hard Chuck, we’re up against it, so do it now while it’s still just this sound across time tech stuff; get in right away before upgrades escalate it to visuals and prices follow suit.’

‘But all my algorithms are geared to entertainment, holidays and so on – what do I know about history, engineers?’

‘It doesn’t have to be James Watt, numpty. We can set up the new tech to beam in on anyone selected. Even this sound-only stuff is expensive though, so we need a well-known name. It’s January, you know that red red rose song? I’ve always had a hankering to know more about that bad boy.’

‘Who?’

‘Name of Robert Burns, numpty. I can’t be the only one still knows the name, even if it’s hundreds of years since he was around.’

‘Where do I find him?’

‘For God’s sake Chuck, it’s over a year since you were working out of Moon West. You need to be all about Earth people now. He was an Earthling. Ok, I know this is tricky for robots but you’ve got to remember Earth people can be as interested in their ancient predecessors as in red planet holidays.’

‘You do know they’ve worked out that water problem on Mars now.’

‘Will you forget Mars Chuck. Just do as I ask, ok? Bobby Burns. Get on to him. Record him. Get him on the WSKY worldcast.’ The director flung her head back, turned on her high heels, flecks of saliva spraying from her mouth, and slammed the door on her way out. All work and no love life, that woman’s heading for a heart attack. I suppose I might be too if I had one.

I searched my Universal Knowledge databanks and checked out this Burns guy. Apparently an Earth human born 1759, died 1796. An entertainer. Wrote some songs and poems. That must have been what passed for entertainment in those days. And I thought, that’s only thirty-seven years, hardly enough time for a simple human to have done very much.

I switched on my motor control and rolled off to see the engineers. This new-fangled technology annoyed me intensely. I mean I was only built five years ago and already my memory capacity can’t keep up with all the new software updates. It’s the middle of the twenty-first century, the Earth’s dying on its feet, anyone human who can afford to is escaping, moving to the Moon, or buying a holiday home on Mars or Venus - some even taking a punt on Mercury - and so my mad boss lumbers me with this nonsense about new tech and tells me to talk to an ancient geezer from centuries ago. I mean, jeez-o.

The engineer android showed me the kit and explained how to set date and time and to use GPRS Historical Module to pinpoint the human I wanted to talk to, and some kind of one-way microscope to get a visual fix. Then there was this contraption to shout though so that your voice somehow carried back through time. The engineer said it would probably sound a bit tinny to the recipient, especially given my five year old voice activation system. He warned me the humans were all ensnared by religious controllers back then and it might sound like some ethereal voice of God to him when he heard it. But then he smiled that ingratiatingly metallic smile of his and added that he knew any good media jock – such as myself – would be well-used to talking to total randoms at any distance and putting them at ease.

Since this guy Burns hadn’t lived that long, for a human anyway, I decided that to get anything at all interesting out of him I’d better set the time module for his last couple of years. He’d at least have had time to do something. I fixed the controls for 1795 and told the engineer to locate Robert Burns and tie me on to him. My databanks said he ended up someplace called Dumfries in a bit of the Earth called Scotland.

The engineer locked on to a scruffy looking human, half-dressed in breeches and black waistcoat, living in some dingy accommodation in a squalid street called the Mill Vennel. Then he turned to me and clicked his metal joints into the thumbs up sign.

Surprised, I pressed my voice activation speaker close to the horn and shouted ‘Hey there, Bobby, this is Chuck, coming straight at you from WSKY Earthwide, - and, oh yeah, I’m about two hundred years away.’

There was a slight time delay before I heard: ‘Whit the Deil!!’ Whit’s that rammy in ma lug?’

‘Hey, like I said Bobby, it’s me, Chuck. You won’t be able to see me…’

‘Whit, are ye hidin lik some kin o wee sleekit cowrin tim’rous beastie?’

‘No it’s this new tech Bobby, no visuals yet, maybe in a few years - once the android geeks have worked on it…’

‘Is this God speirin? I canna unnerstaun. Whit d’ye want o me? An can ye stop ca’in me Bobby?’

‘Ok what name do you prefer? My databanks are throwing up options – there’s Bobby, Bob, Bert, Bertie, Rob?’

‘Rob? Aye weel Rab, Rabbie then.’

‘All good, - Rab it is, and what I want here is just for you and me to have a chat Rab – maybe I‘ll ask a couple of questions – you ok with that Rab?

‘You’ve a gey peculiar voice God.’

‘Like I said Rab, I’m Chuck, can’t really claim to be a deity as such. Call me inhuman if you want. I don’t mind. I can’t take offence. You can say what you like to me.’

‘I canna unnerstaun ye. But syne yer no God, that’s something forbye. I canna deny I’ve had mair than a few run-ins wi the Kirk in ma time. Yet, I’m aywes interestit tae hae a blether wi ither chiels an hear their stories.’

‘You’ll need to speak up Rab, the sound’s having to travel quite a long way. Can you just behave like a typical human who walks along entirely by himself and bellows into some mini-microphone that’s radio-linked to the communicator in his pocket.’

‘Whit? Oh I can bellow alright. Gin ye ever heard me recitin ma verses at the Tarbolton Bachelors Club, the Crochallan Fencibles, or even in The Globe ye widna doot it.’

‘Well, that’s good to know Rab. But I see all those get-togethers involved drinking alcohol.’

‘Aye, an whitfor no? When chapman billies leave the street, an drouthy neebors neebors meet. There’s naethin wrang wi the nappy. Wi tippeny we fear nae evil; wi usquabae we’ll face the devil.’

‘You could be right Rab. Not something I can comment on. For me, it’s just another way to rust the bodywork. So can we do the usual stuff? Check through the data - What you do, where you came from, how you got into the business, famous friend anecdotes, women you’ve known – you know, the usual stuff. When we’re done my monomaniacal medal-seeking big boss director will bung you some compensation for your time.’

‘A ken the big boss type. Ye shouldna worry aboot yon high heid yins that think ower much o theirsels Chuck. Ye see yon birkie ca’d a lord wha struts an stares an a that? Though hundreds worship at his word he’s but a coof for a that. For a that an a that, his ribband, star, an a that, the man o independent mind, he looks an laughs at a that.’

‘Well Rab, that’s certainly something I’ll add to my memory bank, but robot unemployment is on the up these days and the second-hand market is down. It’s the metal scrapheap that beckons if my boss gets vindictive.’

‘Ach, dinna be feart man. Did I heard you say ‘compensation’? Does that mean money?’

‘Sure, cash, spondulicks, filthy lucre.’

‘I’ve aywes suffered wi bein awfy short o the siller.’

‘Glad to be able to help out Rab. So let’s get started – early life?

‘Aye weel, let’s see, ma faither, a gairdner, tenant farmer, wis pit aff a fairm in Kincardine, near Stonehaven. Cam tae Ayrshire an met ma mither. Build his ain but’n’ben at Alloway for a vegetable gairden. The faimly grew so he needed mair room. He took oot a loan for a tenancy at Mount Oliphant. Found it wis gae stony grund. The loan wis lik a millstone. Seiven bairns an me the auldest. We a had tae chip in wi the fairmwork soon as we were able. An later we flitted tae a fairm at Lochlea but naethin much changed. Ma faither wisna weel then an I wis the man o the fairm at fifteen. Hard, hard life. Aywes freezin or mingin, or baith; workin masel tae death.’

‘But what about college Rab?’

‘College? I went tae schuil at Kirkosward for a few year, stertit when I turned six. Ma faither wis mad keen on the learnin but. Scrimped an saved. Got me a tutor for two year, learning French, studying English. An efter that faither taught me hissel – geography an sic lik. An then a year o the mathematics in Ayr. Aye, I wis well educated, nae ignorant ploughboy. I’ve aye been wide-read. An then ma mither taught me tae. Ma mither wis born Agnes Broun. She hadna her letters at a’ but she wid sing as braw as the laverock. Mony a song I took fae her, an a bit o the fiddle anaw.’

‘My data banks say you wrote songs yourself? My boss seemed to know one.’

‘Aye, scrieved the first few at fourteen. They skipped ben ma heid gin I grappled wi the plough. They went down well wi the lassies. Mind, even at the schuil there was yon Peggy Thomson. Ye ken, the sweetest hours that ere I spend are spent amang the lasses O. At Lochlea there wis an eager lass, Elizabeth Paton. Oh aye, but gie me a cannie hour at e’en, my arms about my dearie O, an war’ly cares an war’ly men, may a gae tapsalteerie O. She had ma bonnie wee bairn an we ca’d her Elizabeth. But a wis too young yet an her faither wadna let us mairry.’

‘But what became of your daughter?

‘Died. No lang syne. I canna speak o it.’

‘Sorry to hear that Rab.’

‘Aye, it angers me the whiles. State o the warl. Politics.’

‘How do you usually vote Rab?’

‘Vote? Nae French Revolution here frien. Nae restoration o Scots independence. Sic a parcel o rogues in a nation. Wid the lik o me, a tenant fairmer, hae the franchise? Na, na. An them that’s tried fechtin for it are in Botany Bay. Ye can nae mair speak oot loud aboot sic things as murmur the Fiscal. But yet there’s weys if it’s dressed up in a sang. Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled - now’s the day and now’s the hour - wha for Scotland’s king and law, freedom’s sword will strongly draw, freeman stand or freeman fa, let him follow me. Mair for Thomas Muir o Huntershill that for Bruce.’

‘I see, so you wrote protest songs, political songs Rab?’

‘It’s no jist yon Whigs an Tories man. It’s a muckle brawer, bonnier thing. Like I say, then let us pray that come it may - as come it will for a that, - that sense o worth o’er a the earth, shall bear the gree an a that. For a that, an a that, that man to man the world o’er, shall brithers be for a that. Ma favourite poet wis aye Milton.

‘But the data has you down as more of a ladies man Rab.’

‘Aye, the lassies, mony a fair charmer. They lik’d me as muckle as I lik’d them. An Chuck, just in case ye really are God, I’ve suffered my penance in the Kirk for athing. But yet O Lord, confess I must at times, I’m fash’d wi fleshly lust, an sometimes too in worldly trust, vile self gets in. But Thou remembers we are dust, defil’d wi sin. O Lord yestreen Thou kens wi Meg, thy pardon I sincerely beg, O may’t ne’er be a living plague, to my dishonour. An I’ll never lift a lawless leg, again upon her. Besides, I further maun avow, wi Leezie’s lass three times I trow, but Lord that Friday, I was fou, when I cam near her. Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true, wad never steer her.

‘It’s still Chuck, Rab. There’s no gods for me. But I’ve heard humans say confession is good for the soul, so it’s as well you got it off your chest Rab. So this whole fame and celebrity thing; how did that happen?

‘Ach, I’m aye sayin I’m a fiddler an a poet. But fairmin wis ma livin. An I wis a’ set tae gie up the fairmin an flee tae the Indies when a freemason pal o mine agreed tae print up a wheen o ma poems. He cam awa wi six hunner copies an yon buik wis read a ower the land. Rax it frae ma shelf for ye the noo if ye lik. They read it even up Glesca wey, so I gaed north. That’s where I fell in wi a lass fae Campbeltown, Mary Campbell, ma Highland Mary. But she vanished. I went on tae Embra tae see yon man Creech. He printed mair editions. I wis the toast o the toon richt eneuch, invitit here, there, and everywhere. I met yon laddie Walter Scott an a’ the bigwigs. Creech said he’d buy the copyricht.

So I toured the hail country frae Highlands tae the Borders, gaitherin tunes the whiles an waitin for Creech tae stump up. I wis makin new words, better words, for thae auld tunes. I met yon greatest o fiddlers, Neil Gow, in Dunkeld. We talked o the rubata tempo, an I telt him tae save Scotland’s strathspey, its staccato, fae thae continentals lik Mozart wi their legatos an sustenos. They didna unnerstaun it. They drain the life oot it wi tremolo an vibrato till it’s sterile – and them bein paid for it anaw, no lik us. Mozart’s faither agreed wi me did he no? He kent the auld tunes an telt his laddie tae let them be.

‘The database says you were the first folk song collector; that you insisted the culture resided in the medium. The medium was the message.’

‘Aye, I kent the Italian musicians settled in Scotia. I collected sangs fae the Borders, an Gaelic tunes anaw; even Russian tunes; an Irish tunes I got fae ma sister in Dundalk. Ma favourite tune’s ‘Yestreen I had a pint o wine’; ma words tae an Irish melody. Ach, strathpeys, highland jigs, borders’ hornpipes, slip jigs, reels, - I ken them a’. Ken the notes an rhythms. I mixed them a’ thegether, jist lik I jumbled the words o a’ the dialects o Scots wi English words an Auld English tae.

An in Embra waitin for Creech did I no fa’ in wi yon Agnes McElhose. That wis a lassie cast off bi her waster o a man, left her wi twa bairns. But she wis a rare beauty, Clarinda tae ma Sylvander when we passed notes, but we ca’d her Nancy. Aye, it wis hard when I maun tak leave o her. I telt her ae fond kiss and then we sever, ae fond kiss goodbye forever. But that’s a ahint me noo. I’m long bye cooried doon wi ma wife, Jean Armour, ane o thae Mauchline Belles.’

‘So she’s been good for you?’

‘Aye, for mony a year. Chuck, my luve is like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June. My luve is like a melodie, that’s sweetly play’d in tune. She gave me twins, a boy and a girl, - of course we ca’d them Robert an Jean, - even afore we mairrit in ‘88. An mind, there’s been seiven more since.’

‘Ok Rab, that sounds great. So do you have time to do anything else nowadays other than looking after your family?’

‘Weel I’m at the songs yet, an still scrievin mair poems. Near eight hunner o them noo. But still, songs dinna pey the rent. Whit spare siller I hid got I’ve gien tae ma brither, Gilbert, tae help wi his fairm an his faimly. An noo ma health is no up to much. The consumption ye ken, a fair scunner.’

‘My database interprets that as pulmonary tuberculosis Rab. That’s not so good.’

‘Naw, ye’re richt. I’m wastin awa tae naethin. I’m bound whares ghaists and houlets nightly cry. But Jean an the ithers, they’re dependin oan me. I’ve taen a post as an exciseman. I maun ride a horse ilka day ower half the country, rain or shine. Then nichts I’m at the scrievin for a yon numbers. I’m pressed sae hard there wis even nae time tae gang tae ma ain dochter Elizabeth’s funeral An forbye, the sawbones noo prescribes bathin in the freezin Solway every day.’

‘Sounds tough Rab, but time is nearly up.’

‘Time near up?? Aye, weel, ye’re lik as no richt. Ye sure ye’re no God Chuck? Ye ken I’ve no been richt for ages. I’ve telt abody this last wee while ma time is surely comin gey soon. Aye, it’ll a’ be ower afore I get much aulder.’

‘What I meant to say was we need to wind up our chat Rab; keep down the new tech expenses etc.’

‘Aye weel, it’s been a grand wee blether Chuck. I hope the bother atween you an yer big boss-man get sortit oot.’

‘My big boss is a woman Rab, a lassie you would say, but thanks anyway.’

‘A lassie? Michty me, whit lik? Sic an antrin thing Chuck. This lassie, is she bonnie?’

‘Tall for a human, I’ve heard her called sexy, fiery, knows what she wants and works hard to get it.’

‘She wadna bide up by Alloway? I’m no deid yet Chuck an I aince kent a lassie lik yon. There's nought but care on ev'ry han', in ev'ry hour that passes O, what signifies the life o' man, an' 'twere na for the lasses O. Bring her ben the hoose gin ye call roon again an I’ll gie her a sang or twa.’

‘Well, I can ask Rab.’

‘Guid man. But here, Chuck, my jo, I canna see ye, but I’ll haud oot ma haun. And there’s a hand my trusty fiere, and gie’s a hand o thine, and we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught, for auld lang syne.’

‘Ok Rab, I’m stretching my metal limb across the centuries.’

‘Brawly done Chuck.’

‘And hey, that ‘auld lang syne’ thing, I’ve heard of it. My databanks tell me you did a song of that name; say it’s going to be really big for you. But, ah, unfortunately it won’t be published till after you’re dead. Oh, and apparently everyone will sing it to the wrong tune, using a Major 6th for a Reel instead of the Minor 6th for a reflective Air.’

‘Ach I hinna time tae care Chuck. We’re a’ jist passin through. Even you. An whit we leave ahint is fur ithers tae dae wi as they will. But mind the whiles we’re here, it’s ne’er how much God’s gien ye, it aye whit ye dae wi whit yer gien.’

‘That’s food – well, drink - for thought Rab. This spacecast will certainly be something different. You’ve added a lot to my human emotions databank. I can even see the Moon and Mars-dwelling types taking to your output once the recording is re-broadcast around the solar system. Maybe my boss really has got something going for her after all. She’s pulled you up from the depths of her human brain cells and she’s going to put you out there again. Maybe have you on the spacecast again soon Rab. Teach us a few of your songs. And you’re right. In the end we are all scrap, but maybe on the next time-tube visit we can catch you in your younger years.’

‘Ach, awa wi ye. I see ye in ma heid Chuck; fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face. An gin ye’ll be quicker than Creech wi the ‘compensation’, or I’ll be deid afore it comes. I canna even offer a wee deoch an dorus. Ach, I’ve composed mony an epitaph Chuck. It’s time I wis awa noo an scrieved ma ain.’

‘Ok, bye for now Rab.’

Just then the door crashed open and in strode the boss. ‘Well, how did it go? Tech work ok? Lively discussion? Am I in line for the interplanetary broadcast medal after all?’

‘Aye,’ I said ‘a that an a that, but a coof for a that.’

‘Are your sensors causing problems Chuck? Sounds like your wires are crossed somewhere. I swear you’re more trouble than you’re worth. If it wasn’t for the state of WSKY’s budget I’d replace you tomorrow with one of those shiny new supercyber androids coming out of the Mars mega-factory.

‘He was asking after you, great leader. Very interested to hear about you. Said he was keen to meet you, sing you some of his songs, and happy to invite you into his home if the tech ever allows it.’

‘Well, Chuck that’s really not a bad idea. He was a handsome man. Did he mention red, red roses? I think we’d have a lot to, er, talk about. Maybe you do have your uses after all Chuck.’

#Reekie Revelator #Robert Burns #Edinburgh #short stories #science fiction #scotland #Scots language

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