Disclaimer: Ocean's 11 isn't mine. Poetry is by Robert Burns and William McGonnagall.

A/N: Just the title of this should be enough to convince you that it's a week late. And, if I was in the habit of lying, I'd say that it was because my internet connection has been out for the last five days. (Which is very annoying.) In reality, idea didn't occur until the day.

The twenty-fifth of January started out reasonably enough. Like any other day, really. There'd been the rude awakening at five in the morning, the trip in the blacked-out limousine, the breakfast meeting that had been rather more about the concealed guns and the not-so-concealed threats than about the coffee and croissants, and the eventual understanding that while they were welcome to try to rob Roger Bruce, they would almost certainly come to regret it.

"He sounded serious," Danny remarked, as they walked back to the hotel.

"Little bit," Rusty agreed, looking forlornly around the deserted streets in search of Starbucks.

"Well, I guess we shouldn't rob Roger then, huh," Danny said regretfully.

"Right," Rusty nodded.

That was alright with them. Because they'd never been going to rob Roger. They'd been going to rob Roy.

Roy Bruce was Roger Bruce's son. A man their age having a good time frittering away his father's immoral earnings. He fancied himself a romantic and a rebel and a guardian of culture. After meeting him, they fancied him a complete moron.

They were selling him a fake piece of rock. Well, to be absolutely and scrupulously accurate, it was a real piece of rock, it just wasn't the rock they were claiming it was.

Danny didn't understand the significance Roy placed on it. But then he'd been baffled by a wide variety of human greed and avarice in his time and that had never stopped him taking advantage of it.

The facts, as he understood them after three weeks of painstaking research, were that in 1950 a group of students from Scotland had stolen the Stone of Destiny from England – from Westminster Abbey, no less – partly as a political statement, partly due to the not-entirely-unreasonable argument that it had been stolen from Scotland in the first place, some seven hundred years ago. Rusty had remarked that the statue of limitations was bound to be up on that one. Danny had been too busy admiring the sheer simplicity and vision of the theft itself. Stealing something that no one else had ever dreamed of taking. His kind of people.

Eventually, after a lot of fuss, the stone – which was in itself a rather dull and boring lump of red sandstone, but was apparently one of the things needed to make kings in England – was returned. In the process, however, it had been damaged and broken. And that was where they came in.

The tale they'd spent a week or so spinning to Roy involved an enterprising young police officer who'd noticed that the stone was damaged and had removed a pebble-sized piece as a memento. And, eventually, his son had emigrated and the piece had come into the hands of collectors looking to sell.

All straightforward enough. Producing evidence that the policeman had been there – easy. Manufacturing a piece of rock that looked, felt and would test as identical – simple. Faking sworn affidavits that this was no hoax – child's play. And Roy had swallowed it eagerly. In fact, Roy's father was the only fly in the ointment.

"He didn't mention his son," Danny said slowly, in the queue for coffee as Rusty tried to decide between syrups.

Rusty looked round quickly. "If he doesn't know - "

" - quickly - " Danny nodded.

" - quietly - " Rusty cautioned.

" - and leave town - "

" - tonight if possible," Rusty finished. "Oh, vanilla, hazelnut and caramel, please. And extra whipped cream. Thank you."

Danny made the phone call while watching Rusty stir his goo.

"Roy? Good morning," he began, his voice charming and benevolent. "It's Benjamin Walters here - "

" - Benjamin! Good morning!" Roy sounded happy to hear from him. Good sign that he wasn't in his father's confidence. Man couldn't lie to save his life. Had made haggling with him extremely enjoyable.

"I'm just calling about our deal. I'm afraid Nick and I have been called out of town unexpectedly. We'll be leaving tomorrow morning. So I'm afraid we'll have to postpone - "

" - No!" Roy exclaimed, a note of protest, petulance and greed.

" - unless you have any objections to this evening," Danny finished smoothly.

Roy hesitated. "Well, I'm hosting a Burns Supper tonight," he said slowly. "But you and Nick could come along. In fact, you'd be welcome."

"A Burns Supper," Danny echoed, wondering if Roy had some hitherto undiscovered pyromaniacal tendencies.

Across the table Rusty blinked, frowned and licked whipped cream off his fingers thoughtfully.

"Yes!" Roy agreed eagerly. "Full dress is mandatory, obviously."

"I'm not certain if we have anything suitable," Danny managed, honestly not sure of anything at all.

"Doesn't matter," Roy dismissed."Go to Archie's. He's the best in town. He'll sort you out if you tell him I sent you. I've got the number here somewhere..."

A few minutes later and Danny had a phone number, a promise that if they showed up tonight the exchange of stone for cash was guaranteed, and absolutely no clue what he'd just let them in for.

Archie's. Oh, he had to be kidding...

Roy's Burns Supper – which, it transpired, was a celebration to commemorate the birth of an extremely dead poet - was being held in a private room at the Lagranda. They'd managed to get a room in the hotel. Thankfully. Because there was no way on this, or any other world, that Danny was going to walk through the streets dressed in this.

He stared down at himself unhappily. "Why?" he demanded to an uncaring world and an even more uncaring Rusty.

"Looks good on you," Rusty assured him helpfully and untruthfully.

"There's so much of it," Danny complained further, pulling at the folds of material around his waist. "And I keep thinking it's going to fall down. And it's a skirt!"

"Kilt," Rusty corrected him, lounging on the bed and apparently trying to get his enormous woolly socks straight. Danny wasn't sure why the enormous woolly socks were necessary. But Archie had assured them they were always worn with a kilt. Along with the ruffled shirt and the seemingly entirely pointless pin. Rusty frowned at his knees. "Got to say, I keep feeling like I should've shaved my legs."

Danny blinked innocently. "You mean you didn't?"

Rusty looked up at him quickly. "I'm naturally fair."

"Right," Danny nodded.

"Just because my legs don't look like they've been knitted doesn't mean anything." Rusty said firmly.

Huh. Danny stared down at himself again. "My legs look like they've been knitted?"

Rusty sighed. "Forget about it."

"Maybe I should've shaved my legs," Danny mused.

"Don't forget your sporran," Rusty told him, throwing something that looked like a small, dead animal at him.

"What the hell is it?" Danny asked, revolted.

"Fits to the front of the kilt," Rusty explained. "Think of it like a purse to go with the skirt."

Right...Danny managed to get it attached and grimaced at himself in the mirror. "Oh, this has never been a good look for anyone."

"Samuel L Jackson," Rusty said immediately and without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Annoying thing was, he was right. "Okay," Danny conceded. "What can I say? Samuel L Jackson wears this better than me." He frowned. "As do you, actually," he added, questioningly.

Rusty shrugged. "'s a question of confidence. Me and Samuel are more comfortable in our masculinity than you are."

What... He stared.

Rusty grinned widely. "It's okay to have doubts, you know."

"I would remind you that there's a knife in my sock," Danny told him through gritted teeth. He paused. "Why is there a knife in my sock?"

"They call it a sgian dubh," Rusty said happily. "And if you're planning on going outside wearing a skirt, wouldn't you want to be carrying a weapon of some kind?"

Fair point. He sighed. "Least everyone else will look just as stupid," he said hopefully.

That was probably true at the party. Unfortunately it wasn't true in the elevator, where a woman who'd probably normally smile at them giggled instead. "I hope you're true Scotsmen," she said, leaning forwards and giggling some more, just before she stepped out the doors.

Danny stared blankly as the doors closed behind her. Then he looked to Rusty for an explanation.

Rusty didn't disappoint. "Traditionally, true Scotsmen don't wear anything under the kilt."

Oh. Danny blinked. "You mean no - "

" - right."

"Or - "

" - exactly," Rusty nodded.

"Oh." Danny thought some more. And a thought gradually occurred. He turned his head slowly.

Rusty shrugged. "Well, it occurred to me there might be spot checks on the door."

"Right," Danny said. He shook his head. "I'm going to be thinking about that for the rest of the night."

"I understand," Rusty nodded. "Sometimes I have that effect."

The room was tartan. Entirely tartan. It looked like someone had got the Bay City Rollers drunk and asked them to decorate.

Before Danny could fully recover from the décor, they were shown to a couple of seats on the edge of a long table. It was set for dinner. Except there were no wine glasses. Frowning, he picked up the tumbler and examined it carefully. In a second, a waiter was at an elbow.

"Would sir like to see the malt menu?" the waiter asked.

Danny blinked. "The malt menu?" he echoed, incredulously.

"Certainly, sir," the waiter nodded, and a moment later they were staring down at a dizzying variety of names and ages.

"We have died and gone to heaven," Danny announced in a low voice.

"We're working," Rusty pointed out, with a certain amount of reluctance.

Danny sighed and they confined themselves to a couple of doubles of eighteen -year-old Glenlivet. Tasted a little like sunshine on a rainy day.

"So where's Roy?" Danny asked presently.

In response, Rusty nodded towards the head of the table where there was a significant gap. "Guess he's going for the big entrance."

"Fashionably late," Danny said understandingly. Just then there was a roll of drums and an unholy wailing noise. Alarmed, Danny glanced at Rusty who looked equally baffled and not a little perturbed. "Are we under attack?" he hissed.

Rusty shrugged and started to answer but then Roy Bruce stepped into the room and the noise got significantly louder.

Roy – bekilted, bejewelled and quite possibly bedevilled – was frantically blowing into a frighteningly large set of bagpipes. Danny had to admit he didn't know much about bagpipe music, but it had to be said that there was no sign of anything approaching a tune. He marched around the table twice, blowing furiously, face gradually darkening until Danny was sure he was going to turn himself inside out.

Finally – finally – he reached his seat again and carefully laid the bagpipes down. They made a rather unpleasant deflating noise. "Thank you," he said, to a scattering of polite applause. "I'm delighted to see so many of you here to celebrate our culture, our heritage, in defiance of all the 'sassenachs' who want to take it away from us. And, of course, to honour the master bard himself, Rabbie Burns. Scots wha' hae!" He raised his glass high in the air. "Slanj!"

Danny raised his glass along with the rest and carefully didn't look at Rusty. Separately, and the laughter was invisible and inaudible. Together and they might just lose it.

"And now..." Roy went on, pausing dramatically. "To the main event!"

There was a further drum roll and a couple of waitresses carefully carried in a large silver dish and laid it in front of Roy. On the dish was...

"What's that?" Rusty hissed, wide-eyed.

Danny stared grimly straight ahead of him. "Think that's dinner," he whispered back. It was huge and oval and brown-ish grey. More than that, Danny wasn't prepared to say.

The rest of the room 'Ooohed' appreciatively. Roy smiled and took a large knife in hand.

"Fair fa your honest sonsie face,

Great chieftain of the pudding race," he declaimed.

Rusty leaned in close to Danny. "He's talking to his dinner. In gibberish."

Danny shrugged. He had no real answers.

The poem went on for some time. It didn't get any better. Eventually, Roy plunged his knife into what they figured was a haggis. Plates were passed round. Conversation resumed. Whisky was drunk.

"Thank you," Rusty said as a waiter laid a plate of haggis, mashed potato and mashed turnip in front of him. Danny was the only one in the world capable of hearing the irony.

As the waiter stepped closer to Danny he smiled charmingly and apologetically. "Ah, I'm afraid I'm a vegetarian..."

"That's no problem, sir," the waiter smiled back. "One portion of vegetarian haggis coming right up."

Fuck. That wasn't exactly what he'd wanted. And, a second later, a plate of greenish-brownish-greyish something was being laid in front of him. If anything it looked even less appetising than Rusty's.

"Serves you right, Willy," Rusty told him.

Danny glanced over at Rusty's plate with interest. "Think there's sheep's eyeballs in that? Or baby snakes?"

Rusty glanced down apprehensively. Then he sighed and raised a forkful towards his mouth. "What I know is that we want to keep in with Roy and he can see us right now." As Danny watched, he took a bite and his face was completely relaxed and smiling.

"What does it taste like?" he wondered.

"Believe me, you don't want to know," Rusty said swallowing quickly. "Dig in," he added.

Pasting a smile on his face, Danny started eating.

It seemed like an eternity before their plates were empty. And, several times, Danny caught sight of Roy staring round the room anxiously, obviously needing to know that all his guests were enjoying themselves. Well, they could fake joy and appreciation with the best of them. And they did.

Once the plates were cleared away Roy stood up and began to make a speech. It went on about the rolling hills of Ayreshire, the sparkling heather, the purple lochs, and the great romantic insight afforded by a lifetime spent ploughing. Danny didn't think that was a euphemism, but he wouldn't lay any bets on it.

The speech finally rambled to a conclusion and they raised their glasses – twelve year old Tobermory – to the allegedly immortal memory of Robert Burns.

"And now the entertainment!" Roy said enthusiastically, just as Danny was hoping that they might be able to grab a couple of moments of his time.

Instead, they sat and watched vacantly as, one after the other, people got up and recited poems and sang songs.

"Don't think it counts as a rhyme if you have to make up half the words," Rusty commented in an undertone and Danny agreed.

The waiters brought round little cake-stands of shortbread and something that looked almost like fudge, just as a rotund man wearing an unlikely hat was assuring them that he was very sorry to say that ninety seven lives had been taken away on the last Sabbath day of 1879, which would be remembered for a very long time.

"Ooh, tablet!" the woman next to Rusty exclaimed happily, seizing a piece of the something eagerly.

Tablet? Danny took a piece and inspected it carefully. Didn't look dangerous. Didn't look like a tablet either. Felt...sugary. With a shrug, he bit in. And winced immediately. Fuck, that might just be the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. His teeth were itching. And how the hell did it manage to be so sticky and dry at the same time?

Beside him there was a soft and more-than-appreciative noise. With the dread of inevitability, he looked round. Rusty's eyes were closed and he was licking the last of his piece of tablet off his fingers.

"Think I'm beginning to like this Burns night thing," Rusty said dreamily.

"Uh huh." Danny nodded patiently. "Well, people are staring and it's not the kilt." Not just the kilt, anyway. He was pretty certain the kilt wasn't helping.

Rusty's eyes flew open. "Sorry," he said, taking a drink instead.

They looked back to the front of the room where an extremely wavery soprano was busy informing them that her love was like a red, red rose and further, and without the slightest hint of irony, that her love was like a melody that's sweetly played in tune.

After a second, Danny became conscious of Rusty shifting uneasily. "What?" he whispered.

"My skirt itches!" Rusty hissed back plaintively.

Danny blinked, downed the last of his Tobermory and signalled the waiter that they were ready to try the Laphroaig.

Eventually the songs and poems came to an underwhelming end and, glasses in hand and by and large well on their way to being drunk, the party broke up into mingling.

All-but-sober, Danny and Rusty went off to find Roy Bruce. Predictably, he was in the centre of the room, holding forth on the beauty of his unnative land. "...the unspoiled countryside, the lonely mountains, the deserted beaches. And the people. So friendly and innocent. None of the pace and triviality of the modern world." He spied them suddenly. "Benjamin! Nick! How good to see you. Tell me," he went on, looking anxious. "Are you having a good time?"

"The best," Danny assured him.

Roy still looked uncertain. "What did you think of dinner? Was the haggis okay?"

"Among the best haggises I've ever tasted," Rusty told him gravely.

"Oh, good," Roy said, relief in his voice. "Well, what can I do for you?"

"I'm afraid we need to be leaving shortly," Danny began, his voice regretful. "Our little business deal, is there any chance...?"

"Of course, of course," Roy nodded expansively. "Just come through here for a moment."

They followed him into a little office off the main room. Roy's bagpipes were lying in their open case. "They let me use this room to get ready in," Roy explained. "I left the briefcase with the money here," he added, pulling it out from behind the desk and checking it. Inside, Danny was smiling at the sight of the cash. Roy chuckled. "I have to admit, I was terrified of thieves."

"It's a dishonest world we live in," Rusty agreed.

"Now, you've seen the cash," Roy went on, briskly. "Let's see the stone."

A hushed silence fell as Danny reached into his sporran and pulled out the little box. "The Stone of Scone," he said dramatically, handing it over.

"Destiny," Roy breathed, opening the box reverently. "The weight of history. Centuries of meaning and significance. Thank you, gentlemen," he said, looking up quickly, his eyes shining. "There can be no doubt that this is indeed a piece of the genuine stone."

"Of course," Danny said, sounding like there could never have been any doubt.

"And here," Roy added, hardly looking up from his stone, pushing the briefcase of cash towards them.

Rusty examined the money quickly and nodded. All there. Good.

"We really must be going," Danny said again, sounding even more regretful.

Roy looked up, as if suddenly remembering he was supposed to be hosting a party. "So soon? We're going to have a ceilidh in a little while. Now, I know what you're thinking," he went on, apparently catching something in Danny's expression. "You're thinking that there isn't room." Danny had actually more been wondering what Roy was talking about. "Well, we're going to push the chairs back. Should be enough room for the Gay Gordons. Maybe even a couple sets of Strip the Willow."

What? Absolutely baffled, and a little uncomfortable, Danny smiled at Roy. "No, no, we really need to leave," he said firmly. "But it was a wonderful evening."

"Perhaps if you're in town you could come along next year," Roy said, wistfully. "I'm planning on making this an annual tradition. There really is no one like Burns, you know. 'Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha' will fill a coward's grave? Wha' so base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee.' I think that's my favourite passage. What about you?"

There was nothing in Danny's head. Nothing at all.

"'The best laid plans of mice and men aft gang agley," Rusty cut in quickly. "That's mine. Always makes me think of a friend of mine," he added, looking nowhere near Danny.

Roy smiled and shook both their hands, and they were out of there not a moment too soon.

"What does 'agley' mean?" Danny asked after a moment.

"Wrong," Rusty told him. "The best laid plans of mice and men often go wrong."

Huh. Danny frowned. "We've got the money, Roy doesn't suspect a thing, we just enjoyed quite a lot of very expensive malt for free and you discovered a new sweet. There is no problem."

They walked out into reception just in time to see Roger Bruce step through the glass doors. He stopped dead on seeing them. "You!" he yelled, and the two large men walking just behind him loomed menacingly.

Right. Time to run. Time to run outside. Wearing kilts.

Oh, life was well and truly agley now.

Thanks for reading, hope you liked. ;)