fiction post: Turkey with Fireworks
Oh, God, I went and did it.
TITLE: Turkey with Fireworks
FANDOM: Hot Fuzz
AUTHOR: annlarimer
WORD COUNT: 5,000. Wait. What?!?
RATING: R, for the writer’s consarned filthy mouth.
SUMMARY: "I'm a bit confused about pudding. Events."
WARNINGS: Massive spoilers, American spelling, rusty writer, crap title
DISCLAIMER: Well, of course.
NOTES: Author likes c&c. Be vicious.
ARCHIVE: Please ask first. Also, you're mad.
TURKEY WITH FIREWORKS
YOU KNOW THIS BIT
Once, in primary school, Katie Aaronson (Aaron A.'s dad's stepsister, who married Jimmy from the newsagent's) had put a large saucepan over Danny Butterman's head and banged on it with a wooden block. The world had sounded like bells for the rest of the day, which had been kind of cool, and he'd been given a biscuit. Katie had been made to stand in the corner, which he'd always thought a bit unfair. She hadn't meant any harm and had curly hair.
The world sounded much the same to Danny now. And smelled and tasted like burning paper (burning everything, really), and dust and, for some reason, pennies. Blood, his brain prompted. Oh right, he replied.
In contrast, the world looked like sky with added fluttery things. Blue, said his brain, and he couldn't disagree.
Then Nicholas Angel hove into view, shouting at him, but he couldn't hear it over the bells. Did something happen? Danny asked his brain.
Possibly, it replied. Did I mention blue? Is that helpful at all? Also, Nicholas? Not dead.
Cheers, Danny told it. Hello, Nicholas.
Angel looked very upset, and not a little filthy. Danny felt he ought to say something. "You've got bits of brick sticking out of you." Or, "We should call someone about the ceiling."
What he actually said, though he couldn't hear his own voice, was, "This really fucking hurts." Then he was distracted by a floating bit of paper, which made the world go white, and then no color at all.
HOODIES RULE O.K.
The Hoodies' mobile pictures of Simon Skinner impaled on the miniature church were on the World Wide Web even before that unfortunate man was detached from the offending structure and bundled into an ambulance.
Their various MySpace pages were deleted in just a few hours, for clogging the servers as much as for violating that fine company's terms of service. None of them felt the loss too keenly, however, when they learned how much commercial television networks and worldwide news syndicates are willing to pay for fresh photographs of impaled grocers -- and, they soon found out, demolished police stations, wounded vicars, and traumatized swans.
You can still see Mr. Skinner's image on message boards and in forwarded emails, often with extra added pornography or felinity, or with inscrutable captions such as "I NEEDZ A ICE CREEMZ." Because you never know what people on the Internet will find funny, or why.
eBay.uk suspended several attempts by various Hoodies to auction pieces of the demolished police station, though they swore it was in aid of the church roof fund.
BIGGLES DEFIES THE EUROPEAN UNION
Danny might've been awake, but it was hard to be sure. His eyelids refused to work. He was too tired, or there was something on them.
This time the world tasted like plastic -- something of a connoisseur, he'd eaten enough of it as a child to know -- smelled like new stereo equipment and baby bottles, and somehow seemed to have been inserted up his face. It also beeped faintly, and made something like words.
"...ohhh Goddddddd. I thought this was quality literature when I was little, I swear."
Exactly like words, then. I know that voice. Wossname? Shit. Blond fella. Has a hat.
"Moving on. 'Ginger's eyes, roving round the room, had come to rest on a small mirror over the mantelpiece. It may have been that a movement had attracted them. At all events, his glance was arrested by a movement--' If I had the legal authority I'd arrest you for crimes against the English language -- 'And he noticed that the door, which had been left open not more than a few inches, was ajar.'"
Nicholas, his brain prompted.
Oh, yeah. Partner. Not dead. Wa-hey. Does it really hurt in here, or is it just me?
Don't think about it, his brain said. It's only after attention.
Okay then.
"'And that was not all. Something -- he could not at first make out what it was -- was being projected into the room.' God, will you get on with it? 'It stopped, and at that instant he understood. With a shout of "Look out!" he flung himself against Biggles with such violence that they both reeled across the room. Simultaneously there--' Jesus Christ, now you're just mocking me."
There was a sound not unlike that of a page being torn from a book, then balled up. "Fucker."
Am I dead? thought Danny. Is being dead really really weird?
I think your eyes are taped shut, his brain said. Like on television. Stops insects nesting.
I think you're just making shit up, Danny accused it.
"All right. Fine." Danny heard impatient, flipping pages. "Germans Germans North Africa blah blah 'no need for both of us to stay here on the aerodrome. You stick around and watch for the Swan to come back--' oh for FUCK'S SAKE." There was a sound very like that of a paperback book being ripped in half down the spine and tossed into a bin. "There. How do you like that?"
And then a new voice. "Sergeant Angel, for heaven's sake, what are you doing?" Don't tell me don't tell me, I know this one...sideboards, specs...Fisher? Fisher.
"Told you," said another voice. Sergeant Turner. The older one (by two minutes), if Danny was any judge. Grand. I'm getting good at this. Do somebody else! Do Clint Eastwood!
"You need to go back to your own bed," said Fisher.
"How'd you even get down here?" Turner asked.
"Sir," Nicholas said, "With respect, this officer is clearly in need of entertainment."
"This officer is clearly under sedation. Look, Nicholas, right now, I'm the highest-ranking officer we have who's on both feet and not in prison, but please don't make me order you. I'm not very good at it."
There was a long pause, then: "Oh, all right."
"C'mon, Nick, you can play with your friends tomorrow." Turner Major said, not unkindly. And there were no more voices after that.
After a time, the quiet got a bit scary, or the drugs kicked in again, or Danny just forgot how to stay awake.
A DISAPPOINTING LACK OF TITS
The British press, always up for mayhem, more than rose to the challenge of presenting what became known as the Sandford Incident (also Horror, Conspiracy, Massacre, Atrocity, Event, Trouble, and Unpleasantness) in as entertaining a manner as possible. Though disappointingly free of bare tits, the story offered extreme violence, children in peril, assorted animals, some lovely gore, and picturesque scenery. The Daily Mail's headlines screamed for days: TOWN OF NO RETURN. MURDERSVILLE. LEGACY OF DEATH. CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE. When several hundred people pointed out that these were in fact cribbed episode titles from The Avengers, the Mail made a show of putting the editor responsible on administrative leave for trivializing a great tragedy, then quietly gave her a substantial pay rise, because the offending issues had sold like hotcakes, even without tits.
Sandford itself was briefly the news helicopter capital of Great Britain, though a few encounters with angry farmers' mums' shotguns made for too many unwilling pilots.
A NEW SET OF HOLES
This time, Danny woke in a sudden panic, had absolutely no idea where he was, found he couldn't move, panicked more, tried to shout, couldn't, finally got his eyes open -- with panic - realized he was alive, and had a nice, quiet panic.
Eyes I can see okay breathing white white white I! Can! Move! My! Eyes! Breathing it's fine you're fine aaaaaaaaaaaagh my mouth is glued shut! Mum! Mum! Fine. Okay. Fine. Okay. One thing at a time. After a moment he found he could in fact move. Not a lot, and not well. But still. Okay. Let's have a look round.
Ceiling. Curtains. Tubes (not up his face anymore thank you Jesus) feet - hello feet - ceiling Nicholas door baggie things window wait back up Nicholas. Nicholas Angel, still not dead, dressed in pajamas and dressing gown, dozing in a chair next to his bed. I'm in a bed. I'm getting the hang of this. Calm down.
Danny made a heroic effort to work his jaw and un-stick his tongue. "It's you thank God what's going on hey there," he said. It came out as, "Nrn?" But the sentiment was there.
Nicholas started, blinked, and then gave him a grin like Christmas, with commentary tracks, special features, extra puppies, and beer. "Morning," he said. His face was decorated with an assortment of sticking plasters, and the area under his eyes was a greeny-violet mask, giving the overall impression that a reverse Dalmatian and a raccoon had been having it off and given birth to his head.
He also had a stick in his mouth. "Minty sponge?"
"Er?"
Nicholas reached somewhere out of view, and produced a stick with a green sponge on the end, wrapped in cellophane. "Minty sponge. Takes the edge off. I can't offer you water, in case you drink it and it goes spraying out of you like--" with one hand, he described a cartoon arc from his midsection to the floor. "I've seen it happen, Danny, and it's really funny. Terrifying. There's something I'm supposed to do now." he trailed off, looking puzzled. "Never mind." He nipped the wrapper off the sponge pop. "Open."
Danny opened his mouth obediently, and Nicholas popped it in.
"Nrgh." It tasted like a wet sponge with mint on it. Which was nonetheless an improvement on the current state of the inside of his mouth, and even cut through the glue. "Ta." Then, "Eugh. Tastes like sponge with mint on it." Words. Excellent.
"You think so, too? I was worried I was mad."
They grinned at each other for a moment, two happy idiots.
"What's with the head?"
"Mine? Oh. Glass, I think. And Cousin Sissy's thumbs."
"Fucker," Danny said.
"Fucker," Nicholas agreed, nodding. For a moment, Danny glimpsed a yellow Post-It just behind Nicholas' left ear that had TWAT scrawled on it, but chose not to see it. If I laugh, it will probably hurt. A lot. The world was muted and dry enough to make him realize that he was likely on some serious painkillers, but you don't tempt fate.
"Brick," Danny said with some assurance. It made something in his brain niggle, but he couldn't quite remember. Blue?
"Possibly. I don't really remember. I'm a bit confused about pudding. Events."
"Okay." I'm just doped. But you are stoned off your fucking nut. "'s'all right."
Angel leaned in and whispered conspiratorially into Danny's ear. "I think they're giving us drugs."
"Really?" Do not laugh. Don't do it.
"I'm not sure what." He slid into default RoboNick mode, though under the circumstances, it didn't quite take. "I did a course once, but the syllabus wasn't always clear as to the actual effects of particular narcotics as perceived by the user. Instead - understandably in a course designed to enhance police work - it concentrated on measurable physical effects. Mind you, I have a personal but as yet untested hypothesis that the effect of particular drugs is often subjective, so what am I talking about?"
"Narcotics?"
"Don't be silly. It probably isn't fully lined. Important. Oh. Wait. I remember. I'm remembering. It's coming back. You were shot! How are you feeling? Does it hurt? Are you okay? I'm supposed to push the button!"
Danny blinked. "You what?"
"That was it! If you...do anything, I am supposed to push ... this button!" He lifted up a cable that ran down the side of Danny's bed, revealing a lumpy bit in the middle with, indeed, an entirely pushable button attached.
"Do anything?"
"Wake up. Die. Spew blood. Head turn 360 degrees. Parasitical life form out your thorax. Sort of thing."
"Got it. And now..."
"You woke up. And, Danny, I'm going to push it."
"You should push it."
"I will push it."
"Punch that motherfucker."
Nicholas pushed the button.
Buford Abbey Hospital exploded.
NOT REALLY
Actually it didn't.
"I feel a bit let down," Danny said after a moment.
Nicholas nodded soberly. "Yeah." Then he switched gears once again and carried on manicking. "Did you know," he said brightly, "that the shockwave from an explosion can pulp your insides like a fruit smoothie but not leave a mark on you? It makes an X-ray image that looks like a butterfly and is actually rather pretty except that it absolutely shouldn't be there. And then, the vacuum that comes after the shock wave can suck your lungs right out of your mouth so that they're..." He gestured at chest level. If they'd been playing charades, Danny would've guessed Raquel Welch. Danny liked the classics. "...dangling inside-out like balloons. Sticky. I did a course on...stuff that blows up. It had an exam and everything. The instructor looked like a Schnauzer. Am I digressing?"
"I honestly don't know."
"I may be. But I think I'm building up to something."
"You're building up to a good thwacking, Sergeant." New voice. Wait. I know this one, too.
"That weren't me," Danny said.
Nicholas' face was pained. "Oh, God, it's her," he told Danny, then put on his formal dress half-smile and turned to the door. "Dr. Weatherall. Good morning."
"Sergeant Angel. Still heavily medicated I hope."
The voice belonged to a neat, white-coated woman who looked a bit familiar. She was accompanied by two efficient figures who came in, did things with trays and cups, handed her a clipboard and file from the end of Danny's bed, and generally checked connections, switched on lamps, and adjusted things. Danny had a vague idea that they might be service droids, mimes, or replicants.
"Hullo, Daniel. Nice to see you awake."
Danny finally twigged. "May! I haven't seen you since --"
"Eric Milk's grandad's birthday do."
"May is Andy's cousin's Missus," Danny told Nicholas.
"Ah," Nicholas said.
"And Joanie from the shop's friend Louise's auntie."
"Ah. Seriously, has no one ever talked to you people about inbreeding?"
"We do keep charts, Sergeant Angel. Do you remember the terms of our agreement?"
Nicholas looked sullen, and schoolboyish. "Yes, ma'am."
"Refresh my memory."
He sighed, and recited, "I'm to do what I'm told and stop arseing about, sit quietly, and not make trouble."
She looked at him meaningfully. He sat back in his chair.
"In exchange for which, as far as anyone knows, I am resting in my own room, you can't think where I could have got to, and there's obviously been some sort of error for which the junior staff, under pressure of recent events, is almost certainly responsible."
One of the mime droids gave Dr. Weatherall a poisonous look.
"Very good. Drink this." She handed him one of the cups. The contents were red, and it had a curly straw sticking out of it.
"What is it?"
"PCP and Red Bull. It's juice, you ridiculous man. Keeps your fluids up. Gets the fun pills out of your system. Stops your mouth."
"He likes cranberry," Danny offered.
"Yes, well, we all like things. Drink it or I'll have you put down."
"Fascist," Nicholas muttered.
"Twat."
Nicholas blinked. "Excuse me?"
Dr. Weatherall reached behind his ear, pulled off the Post-It, and handed it to him. "According to this. Pardon us a moment." She drew the curtain around Danny's bed.
Nicholas drank his juice, which was, as it happened, cranberry. But he removed the curly straw. Defiantly.
AND ALSO CURTAINS
"All right," May said exactly two seconds later, "I see you've had a minty sponge. I hope you haven't swallowed any of it - you can get rabies."
"Really?"
"No. Don't be silly." She held up another cup. "Would you like some water?"
Nod.
"He's got holes!"
"Sergeant, we've had this discussion. Genuine post-imbibition fountaining can only be caused via impalement by cartoon characters' pitchforks." She found another button somewhere, and the head-end of the bed rose a touch.
For a moment Danny felt the edge of the world rise up and threaten him, but it went away. May helped him hold the cup.
"Ta," Danny said. Water. Amazing.
"You're welcome. Now. Has anyone bothered to tell you where you are?"
Danny lived in dread of trick questions. "...hospital?"
"Exactly right. In Buford Abbey. Do you remember why?"
"That fucking buggery cunt bastard Tom Weaver shot me," was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
From outside the curtain came the sound of Nicholas Angel choking on juice.
May nodded, "Again, exactly right."
Danny inclined his head, indicating that May should come closer.
"Sorry about him," said Danny softly. "He's usually very polite."
"I'm right here." Nicholas said from behind the curtain.
"Yes, well, perhaps now you're awake he'll stop chewing through his straps and behave. And the staff can stop chasing after him and turn their attention to finding out who keeps smuggling that bloody dog in here."
"It's not Andy!"
Danny couldn't stand it. "Keh. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow." Oh fuck. Ow.
"Don't laugh, Daniel, you won't enjoy it. And Sergeant Angel, you are making me very cross."
"Seriously, is he all right?" Danny asked softly.
"He'll be fine. Stress. Went a bit what we in the medical profession call apeshit. Little shocky, and somebody seems to have beaten the tar out of him. Nothing rest and some pharmaceuticals can't clear up. You,on the other hand, have acquired a rather remarkable set of extra holes, so let's have a look at you."
"Hey! I wanna see."
"They are yours. Careful now." Some confusion with his gown and blanket followed, and May swatted his hand to stop him trying to help. "Oh, that's lovely. We do such good work." Danny looked. Inclining his head hurt, but -- O brave new world! His side was a symphony in puffy flesh, stitches, bandages, and...oh, excellent, staples! Maybe there was some superglue in there, too. He'd heard they used superglue on people.
"Brilliant," he declared. "Nicholas, you gotta see this! Ow."
"And don't raise your voice."
"No, thank you," Angel said. "I saw the original."
Some things in this world simply have to be shared. "It's got staples and all. It's wicked! C'mon, have a look."
"All right, all right." A few moments' fumbling as he worked his way around the curtain, then his head appeared over Dr. Weatherall's shoulder. "Oh, God!"
Danny grinned. "Am I hardcore? You can poke it if you want."
"No, Cop Jesus, I don't want to poke your wound. Yes, you are hardcore. I would go so far as to say that you are, by any reasonable standard of measurement, completely off the chain. Is it all right if I'm sick in the bin?"
"You don't even need to use the bin. Because I am absolutely hardcore enough to take a little sick."
"I am not," said May. "And there is to be no poking by anyone other than qualified health professionals. You really should sit down, Sergeant, you don't look well."
Nicholas retreated, greenishly.
DORIS AND THE PIRATE TWINS
Andy Cartwright was distressed. "Andy, man, you don't have to do this."
Andy Wainwright was determined. He looked his partner hard in the eye.
"Andy...we're CID. This is how we roll."
"If you don't keep still," said Doris Thatcher, "I am going to have your eye out, and then I'll have to do his, and you can wear matching pirate patches." There was a brief pause, as Doris and the Andies each considered this mental picture.
"Heh," said Bob Walker from behind his copy of Falconry for Beginners. "Gay."
A Turner coughed gently.
"Right. Hold still. I'm going in. Hur."
Dead silence in Turner’s room. They might have been watching a diamond cutter. All eyes darted from one Andy to the other as she worked.
"How's that?" She asked.
"Little more," said a Turner.
"That dangly bit," said another.
"Ooo, good eye. Heh. Dangly." One last snip of her scissors. "Annnnd done. You match again."
Andy Wainwright's moustache now boasted a half-inch divot, identical in size and shape to the wicked singeing that Andy Cartwright's had received in the destruction of Sandford Police Station.
And if Andy Cartwright's eyes were seen to well visibly as he embraced his partner manfully, and if a Turner quietly blew his nose into a handkerchief, you and I must not judge. There are some emotions that only those who cultivate facial hair can understand.
GRAND PIANO
Quiet now, in Danny's room. Nicholas had run out of steam for the moment, feet propped up on Danny's bed, playing with his third minty sponge. Danny blew bubbles in his water cup with the curly straw. Even that much exertion hurt a bit, but...bubbles.
He tried not to dwell on May's description of exactly what had happened to his internal organs, what had gone into putting them back together again and wrapping them up, and the amount of work it was going to take to make sure they stayed where they belonged so he didn't slosh when he walked. She was the sort of doctor who enjoyed going into vivid and lengthy detail. Doubtless she would have been disappointed that the best mental picture he could summon was one of fireworks let off inside a turkey.
Still. Bright side. "I think I've figured out why you hate guns," he told Nicholas.
Angel barked with laughter and dropped the sponge on the floor. "Damn!" He took another from the bedside table and shucked the wrapper.
"I keep remembering stuff. You read to me. Or did I dream it?"
Angel's shifty look, and the extra seconds he took forming a reply, gave Danny his answer.
"You can lie if you want," Danny offered, and filed his friend's embarrassment away for future torture and blackmail purposes.
"I might have done," Nicholas said.
"Nah, it was --" don't say sweet don't say sweet do not say sweet "--sweet." Shit.
"Oh, God, I have to replace that poor old man's book."
"Keh. Ow."
“It’s not funny.”
“It is. It’s completely funny.”
WE’LL JUST LEAVE THEM TO ARGUE OVER THAT…AND WE’RE BACK
"Long day, eh?"
"Very. It's 11:30 in the morning. You've been awake fifty-two minutes." Nicholas put the sponge in his teeth, and worked his jaw so that the stick end whacked him on the nose a few times.
“I forgot. I remember now,” Danny said. “There’s something else I was going to tell you.”
“My ears are yours.”
"Oh, thanks. Now that picture's in my head and you've driven it completely out."
"Sorry."
"Oh. That was it, actually. I just...I never said. I meant to, but we got busy, what with all the…"
"Getting busy."
"The shit going down."
"The balloon going up."
"The Day We Took Back Sandford."
"The bad craziness."
"Ooo, nice one." Just say it! "I'm sorry I scared you and stabbed you with ketchup and shoved you in the boot of my car."
Nicholas nearly choked on his sponge.
"Careful now."
"Hgh. Jesus. Are you mad? Danny, you ridiculous crafty bastard, that was the most fucking brilliant bit of...I can't think of a word, thinginess that I've ever seen in my life! You played those lunatics like a grand piano. You played me, for God's sake! You're a bloody genius."
"I am?"
"Fuck yeah you are!"
"All right. Still. Sorry and all." The expression on Nicholas Angel's face when he'd thought Danny had turned on him had been nine kinds of painful.
"So am I."
"What have you got to be sorry for?"
It took Nicholas a moment to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry I doubted you for even a moment."
He was full of holes, heavily drugged, in a world of trouble, and his dad had been recently revealed as a homicidal maniac. Still, just for a moment, in Danny Butterman's heart, it was Christmas. With commentary tracks, bonus features, extra puppies, and beer.
MORE CUTE ANIMALS -- STILL NO TITS
Police dog Saxon, who really ought to have known better, was treated for several hedgehog quill wounds to his nose. Before returning to active duty, he was given a short course of Prozac, because even a well-trained and courageous animal has its limits when made to live in close quarters with primates and high explosives.
Aaron A. Aaronson (not actually first in the phone directory - that was his dad) found the hedgehog outside the remains of the station, sheltering in a melted pint of Chunky Monkey, and took it to Peter Staker. Mr. Staker put the it into a shoebox and sent it off to St. Tiggywinkle's, where it was treated, released, and lived a long and happy life. For a hedgehog. They're nervous little fuckers and don't live that long.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?
"Wait. I remember what's been bothering me." Blue. Paper. "Explosion."
"Pardon?"
"You definitely said explosion before. With butterflies."
"Yes."
"Okay."
"The explosion."
"George Merchant's place."
"No, the-" puzzlement crept across Nicholas' face, drove in a stake or two, and set up camp. "You don't remember?"
"What don't I remember?"
"When that fucking buggery cunt bastard Tom Weaver shot you - which we are going to discuss in detail at some future point over a great deal of alcohol, because you need a damned good talking to, you stupid bastard -- and I kicked the bin at him and he fell back into the evidence room and the sea mine rolled over on him and detonated. As they do. The entire station was destroyed."
Danny could only stare. "You what?"
Nicholas patiently repeated himself. Bin. Sea mine. Destroyed.
"What?"
"What do you mean, what? Stop saying what. You were right there."
"I mean what, is what I mean. I were fucking shot, weren't I?"
"Oh. Oh. Well. It's what I was talking about before. With the butterflies and the lungs and..."
This is it. I am having a stroke. I've lived through a gunfight and being shot and all, and now my own partner is giving me a massive stroke. My brain is going to explode and I will never find out what the fuck is going on. "Nick."
"Sorry. Sorry. Everybody's fine. Well, ringing ears for all. Turner took a chunk of station to the head. Minor burns. Shrapnel. Cracked ribs. Unspecified personnel are alleged to have experienced certain degrees of shock and emotional trauma at certain points. So I've heard. Doris cocked up her leg -- her words -- and had a piece of glass the size of a banana stuck in her hair. Tony had a job convincing Casualty that Walker was perfectly fine and not brain damaged. But as for fucking buggery cunt bastard Tom Weaver, we may very well be inhaling him as we speak."
Shame. Also, eugh. "Everybody’s really okay?"
"Again, yes. As these things go. Which is what I was getting at before."
"Okay. Okay." Deep -- ow wait not too deep -- deepish breath. "What were you getting at before?"
"Pudding?"
"No!"
"No! I remember now! We should all be dead." He seemed terribly happy about this.
"Oh good."
"We should all have gone up with the station. But we're all more or less safe and sound. And -- this is the thing -- I don't know what's going to happen next, Danny. We've got dead and wounded civilians, any number of bodies going back God knows how long, including children and a police officer. One publicly-owned building destroyed, along with all its records and contents, and I don't even want to think about what sort of paperwork is going to have to be done because of that. Misuse of evidence, horse theft, vandalism, endangering minors, insubordination... Old ladies were kicked in the face, clergyman and doctors may have been shot..."
"It happens, man."
"Yes. But we're all of us in for a grilling. We could be demoted, charged with any number of procedural or even criminal offenses, reassigned, or outright sacked. We could be promoted, or made into heroes, or this whole thing could just quietly go away. My point is--"
"Everything is going to be fine," said Danny.
Nicholas goggled at him mutely.
"We knew all that when we were going in. We fucking saved Sandford, and we're not dead, and we did the right thing. Whatever happens next doesn't matter. Everything is going to be fine."
Nicholas' smile was positively radiant. "That's what I've been trying to tell you!"
Danny nodded. Then his face was grave. For him. "Except."
"What?"
"There was an explosion and I fucking missed it."
"I'm very sorry," Nicholas said, straightfaced.
"Oh well. Next one."
"I'll make sure of it." Then, "Ssst!"
There was an efficient shadow moving along one of the inside windows. Were we loud? How could we have been loud, apart from the shouting?
"Shit!" said Nicholas.
"Hide!" said Danny.
"Hide?"
"Um--" Thinking fast, Danny lay his head back on his pillow shut his eyes.
"Good!" Nick followed suit in his chair.
Quiet. Behaving. Nothing to see here.
Danny swore he could feel narrow eyes on them from the doorway - not May, the footsteps were wrong, the shadow too short, but one of the replicants - and knew perfectly well that their sham sleep wouldn't fool a…really easily fooled...sort of thing.
Both were sound asleep within two minutes.
It had, after all, been a long day.
Thanks to:
susanmgarrett for hooking me up with Biggles, Flying Detective. (Also Biggles Goes to War, Biggles Delivers the Goods, Biggles "Fails to Return," Biggles of the Special Air Police, Biggles Sweeps the Desert*, Biggles: The Camels are Coming, and Biggles and the Black Peril, which I'm scared to open.
*Seriously. Dude. Seriously. He sweeps the desert. Biggles is that hardcore.
crantz for reading it and letting me witter at him. And some of the better lines. And for these:
(Screengrabs by the incomparable gypsyjr)
cybertardis for her loving support:
Me: I had half a story written and deleted it by accident. Now i long for death.
Cybertardis: Sucks to be you!
kannaophelia for emergency vocab help.
TITLE: Turkey with Fireworks
FANDOM: Hot Fuzz
AUTHOR: annlarimer
WORD COUNT: 5,000. Wait. What?!?
RATING: R, for the writer’s consarned filthy mouth.
SUMMARY: "I'm a bit confused about pudding. Events."
WARNINGS: Massive spoilers, American spelling, rusty writer, crap title
DISCLAIMER: Well, of course.
NOTES: Author likes c&c. Be vicious.
ARCHIVE: Please ask first. Also, you're mad.
TURKEY WITH FIREWORKS
YOU KNOW THIS BIT
Once, in primary school, Katie Aaronson (Aaron A.'s dad's stepsister, who married Jimmy from the newsagent's) had put a large saucepan over Danny Butterman's head and banged on it with a wooden block. The world had sounded like bells for the rest of the day, which had been kind of cool, and he'd been given a biscuit. Katie had been made to stand in the corner, which he'd always thought a bit unfair. She hadn't meant any harm and had curly hair.
The world sounded much the same to Danny now. And smelled and tasted like burning paper (burning everything, really), and dust and, for some reason, pennies. Blood, his brain prompted. Oh right, he replied.
In contrast, the world looked like sky with added fluttery things. Blue, said his brain, and he couldn't disagree.
Then Nicholas Angel hove into view, shouting at him, but he couldn't hear it over the bells. Did something happen? Danny asked his brain.
Possibly, it replied. Did I mention blue? Is that helpful at all? Also, Nicholas? Not dead.
Cheers, Danny told it. Hello, Nicholas.
Angel looked very upset, and not a little filthy. Danny felt he ought to say something. "You've got bits of brick sticking out of you." Or, "We should call someone about the ceiling."
What he actually said, though he couldn't hear his own voice, was, "This really fucking hurts." Then he was distracted by a floating bit of paper, which made the world go white, and then no color at all.
HOODIES RULE O.K.
The Hoodies' mobile pictures of Simon Skinner impaled on the miniature church were on the World Wide Web even before that unfortunate man was detached from the offending structure and bundled into an ambulance.
Their various MySpace pages were deleted in just a few hours, for clogging the servers as much as for violating that fine company's terms of service. None of them felt the loss too keenly, however, when they learned how much commercial television networks and worldwide news syndicates are willing to pay for fresh photographs of impaled grocers -- and, they soon found out, demolished police stations, wounded vicars, and traumatized swans.
You can still see Mr. Skinner's image on message boards and in forwarded emails, often with extra added pornography or felinity, or with inscrutable captions such as "I NEEDZ A ICE CREEMZ." Because you never know what people on the Internet will find funny, or why.
eBay.uk suspended several attempts by various Hoodies to auction pieces of the demolished police station, though they swore it was in aid of the church roof fund.
BIGGLES DEFIES THE EUROPEAN UNION
Danny might've been awake, but it was hard to be sure. His eyelids refused to work. He was too tired, or there was something on them.
This time the world tasted like plastic -- something of a connoisseur, he'd eaten enough of it as a child to know -- smelled like new stereo equipment and baby bottles, and somehow seemed to have been inserted up his face. It also beeped faintly, and made something like words.
"...ohhh Goddddddd. I thought this was quality literature when I was little, I swear."
Exactly like words, then. I know that voice. Wossname? Shit. Blond fella. Has a hat.
"Moving on. 'Ginger's eyes, roving round the room, had come to rest on a small mirror over the mantelpiece. It may have been that a movement had attracted them. At all events, his glance was arrested by a movement--' If I had the legal authority I'd arrest you for crimes against the English language -- 'And he noticed that the door, which had been left open not more than a few inches, was ajar.'"
Nicholas, his brain prompted.
Oh, yeah. Partner. Not dead. Wa-hey. Does it really hurt in here, or is it just me?
Don't think about it, his brain said. It's only after attention.
Okay then.
"'And that was not all. Something -- he could not at first make out what it was -- was being projected into the room.' God, will you get on with it? 'It stopped, and at that instant he understood. With a shout of "Look out!" he flung himself against Biggles with such violence that they both reeled across the room. Simultaneously there--' Jesus Christ, now you're just mocking me."
There was a sound not unlike that of a page being torn from a book, then balled up. "Fucker."
Am I dead? thought Danny. Is being dead really really weird?
I think your eyes are taped shut, his brain said. Like on television. Stops insects nesting.
I think you're just making shit up, Danny accused it.
"All right. Fine." Danny heard impatient, flipping pages. "Germans Germans North Africa blah blah 'no need for both of us to stay here on the aerodrome. You stick around and watch for the Swan to come back--' oh for FUCK'S SAKE." There was a sound very like that of a paperback book being ripped in half down the spine and tossed into a bin. "There. How do you like that?"
And then a new voice. "Sergeant Angel, for heaven's sake, what are you doing?" Don't tell me don't tell me, I know this one...sideboards, specs...Fisher? Fisher.
"Told you," said another voice. Sergeant Turner. The older one (by two minutes), if Danny was any judge. Grand. I'm getting good at this. Do somebody else! Do Clint Eastwood!
"You need to go back to your own bed," said Fisher.
"How'd you even get down here?" Turner asked.
"Sir," Nicholas said, "With respect, this officer is clearly in need of entertainment."
"This officer is clearly under sedation. Look, Nicholas, right now, I'm the highest-ranking officer we have who's on both feet and not in prison, but please don't make me order you. I'm not very good at it."
There was a long pause, then: "Oh, all right."
"C'mon, Nick, you can play with your friends tomorrow." Turner Major said, not unkindly. And there were no more voices after that.
After a time, the quiet got a bit scary, or the drugs kicked in again, or Danny just forgot how to stay awake.
A DISAPPOINTING LACK OF TITS
The British press, always up for mayhem, more than rose to the challenge of presenting what became known as the Sandford Incident (also Horror, Conspiracy, Massacre, Atrocity, Event, Trouble, and Unpleasantness) in as entertaining a manner as possible. Though disappointingly free of bare tits, the story offered extreme violence, children in peril, assorted animals, some lovely gore, and picturesque scenery. The Daily Mail's headlines screamed for days: TOWN OF NO RETURN. MURDERSVILLE. LEGACY OF DEATH. CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE. When several hundred people pointed out that these were in fact cribbed episode titles from The Avengers, the Mail made a show of putting the editor responsible on administrative leave for trivializing a great tragedy, then quietly gave her a substantial pay rise, because the offending issues had sold like hotcakes, even without tits.
Sandford itself was briefly the news helicopter capital of Great Britain, though a few encounters with angry farmers' mums' shotguns made for too many unwilling pilots.
A NEW SET OF HOLES
This time, Danny woke in a sudden panic, had absolutely no idea where he was, found he couldn't move, panicked more, tried to shout, couldn't, finally got his eyes open -- with panic - realized he was alive, and had a nice, quiet panic.
Eyes I can see okay breathing white white white I! Can! Move! My! Eyes! Breathing it's fine you're fine aaaaaaaaaaaagh my mouth is glued shut! Mum! Mum! Fine. Okay. Fine. Okay. One thing at a time. After a moment he found he could in fact move. Not a lot, and not well. But still. Okay. Let's have a look round.
Ceiling. Curtains. Tubes (not up his face anymore thank you Jesus) feet - hello feet - ceiling Nicholas door baggie things window wait back up Nicholas. Nicholas Angel, still not dead, dressed in pajamas and dressing gown, dozing in a chair next to his bed. I'm in a bed. I'm getting the hang of this. Calm down.
Danny made a heroic effort to work his jaw and un-stick his tongue. "It's you thank God what's going on hey there," he said. It came out as, "Nrn?" But the sentiment was there.
Nicholas started, blinked, and then gave him a grin like Christmas, with commentary tracks, special features, extra puppies, and beer. "Morning," he said. His face was decorated with an assortment of sticking plasters, and the area under his eyes was a greeny-violet mask, giving the overall impression that a reverse Dalmatian and a raccoon had been having it off and given birth to his head.
He also had a stick in his mouth. "Minty sponge?"
"Er?"
Nicholas reached somewhere out of view, and produced a stick with a green sponge on the end, wrapped in cellophane. "Minty sponge. Takes the edge off. I can't offer you water, in case you drink it and it goes spraying out of you like--" with one hand, he described a cartoon arc from his midsection to the floor. "I've seen it happen, Danny, and it's really funny. Terrifying. There's something I'm supposed to do now." he trailed off, looking puzzled. "Never mind." He nipped the wrapper off the sponge pop. "Open."
Danny opened his mouth obediently, and Nicholas popped it in.
"Nrgh." It tasted like a wet sponge with mint on it. Which was nonetheless an improvement on the current state of the inside of his mouth, and even cut through the glue. "Ta." Then, "Eugh. Tastes like sponge with mint on it." Words. Excellent.
"You think so, too? I was worried I was mad."
They grinned at each other for a moment, two happy idiots.
"What's with the head?"
"Mine? Oh. Glass, I think. And Cousin Sissy's thumbs."
"Fucker," Danny said.
"Fucker," Nicholas agreed, nodding. For a moment, Danny glimpsed a yellow Post-It just behind Nicholas' left ear that had TWAT scrawled on it, but chose not to see it. If I laugh, it will probably hurt. A lot. The world was muted and dry enough to make him realize that he was likely on some serious painkillers, but you don't tempt fate.
"Brick," Danny said with some assurance. It made something in his brain niggle, but he couldn't quite remember. Blue?
"Possibly. I don't really remember. I'm a bit confused about pudding. Events."
"Okay." I'm just doped. But you are stoned off your fucking nut. "'s'all right."
Angel leaned in and whispered conspiratorially into Danny's ear. "I think they're giving us drugs."
"Really?" Do not laugh. Don't do it.
"I'm not sure what." He slid into default RoboNick mode, though under the circumstances, it didn't quite take. "I did a course once, but the syllabus wasn't always clear as to the actual effects of particular narcotics as perceived by the user. Instead - understandably in a course designed to enhance police work - it concentrated on measurable physical effects. Mind you, I have a personal but as yet untested hypothesis that the effect of particular drugs is often subjective, so what am I talking about?"
"Narcotics?"
"Don't be silly. It probably isn't fully lined. Important. Oh. Wait. I remember. I'm remembering. It's coming back. You were shot! How are you feeling? Does it hurt? Are you okay? I'm supposed to push the button!"
Danny blinked. "You what?"
"That was it! If you...do anything, I am supposed to push ... this button!" He lifted up a cable that ran down the side of Danny's bed, revealing a lumpy bit in the middle with, indeed, an entirely pushable button attached.
"Do anything?"
"Wake up. Die. Spew blood. Head turn 360 degrees. Parasitical life form out your thorax. Sort of thing."
"Got it. And now..."
"You woke up. And, Danny, I'm going to push it."
"You should push it."
"I will push it."
"Punch that motherfucker."
Nicholas pushed the button.
Buford Abbey Hospital exploded.
NOT REALLY
Actually it didn't.
"I feel a bit let down," Danny said after a moment.
Nicholas nodded soberly. "Yeah." Then he switched gears once again and carried on manicking. "Did you know," he said brightly, "that the shockwave from an explosion can pulp your insides like a fruit smoothie but not leave a mark on you? It makes an X-ray image that looks like a butterfly and is actually rather pretty except that it absolutely shouldn't be there. And then, the vacuum that comes after the shock wave can suck your lungs right out of your mouth so that they're..." He gestured at chest level. If they'd been playing charades, Danny would've guessed Raquel Welch. Danny liked the classics. "...dangling inside-out like balloons. Sticky. I did a course on...stuff that blows up. It had an exam and everything. The instructor looked like a Schnauzer. Am I digressing?"
"I honestly don't know."
"I may be. But I think I'm building up to something."
"You're building up to a good thwacking, Sergeant." New voice. Wait. I know this one, too.
"That weren't me," Danny said.
Nicholas' face was pained. "Oh, God, it's her," he told Danny, then put on his formal dress half-smile and turned to the door. "Dr. Weatherall. Good morning."
"Sergeant Angel. Still heavily medicated I hope."
The voice belonged to a neat, white-coated woman who looked a bit familiar. She was accompanied by two efficient figures who came in, did things with trays and cups, handed her a clipboard and file from the end of Danny's bed, and generally checked connections, switched on lamps, and adjusted things. Danny had a vague idea that they might be service droids, mimes, or replicants.
"Hullo, Daniel. Nice to see you awake."
Danny finally twigged. "May! I haven't seen you since --"
"Eric Milk's grandad's birthday do."
"May is Andy's cousin's Missus," Danny told Nicholas.
"Ah," Nicholas said.
"And Joanie from the shop's friend Louise's auntie."
"Ah. Seriously, has no one ever talked to you people about inbreeding?"
"We do keep charts, Sergeant Angel. Do you remember the terms of our agreement?"
Nicholas looked sullen, and schoolboyish. "Yes, ma'am."
"Refresh my memory."
He sighed, and recited, "I'm to do what I'm told and stop arseing about, sit quietly, and not make trouble."
She looked at him meaningfully. He sat back in his chair.
"In exchange for which, as far as anyone knows, I am resting in my own room, you can't think where I could have got to, and there's obviously been some sort of error for which the junior staff, under pressure of recent events, is almost certainly responsible."
One of the mime droids gave Dr. Weatherall a poisonous look.
"Very good. Drink this." She handed him one of the cups. The contents were red, and it had a curly straw sticking out of it.
"What is it?"
"PCP and Red Bull. It's juice, you ridiculous man. Keeps your fluids up. Gets the fun pills out of your system. Stops your mouth."
"He likes cranberry," Danny offered.
"Yes, well, we all like things. Drink it or I'll have you put down."
"Fascist," Nicholas muttered.
"Twat."
Nicholas blinked. "Excuse me?"
Dr. Weatherall reached behind his ear, pulled off the Post-It, and handed it to him. "According to this. Pardon us a moment." She drew the curtain around Danny's bed.
Nicholas drank his juice, which was, as it happened, cranberry. But he removed the curly straw. Defiantly.
AND ALSO CURTAINS
"All right," May said exactly two seconds later, "I see you've had a minty sponge. I hope you haven't swallowed any of it - you can get rabies."
"Really?"
"No. Don't be silly." She held up another cup. "Would you like some water?"
Nod.
"He's got holes!"
"Sergeant, we've had this discussion. Genuine post-imbibition fountaining can only be caused via impalement by cartoon characters' pitchforks." She found another button somewhere, and the head-end of the bed rose a touch.
For a moment Danny felt the edge of the world rise up and threaten him, but it went away. May helped him hold the cup.
"Ta," Danny said. Water. Amazing.
"You're welcome. Now. Has anyone bothered to tell you where you are?"
Danny lived in dread of trick questions. "...hospital?"
"Exactly right. In Buford Abbey. Do you remember why?"
"That fucking buggery cunt bastard Tom Weaver shot me," was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
From outside the curtain came the sound of Nicholas Angel choking on juice.
May nodded, "Again, exactly right."
Danny inclined his head, indicating that May should come closer.
"Sorry about him," said Danny softly. "He's usually very polite."
"I'm right here." Nicholas said from behind the curtain.
"Yes, well, perhaps now you're awake he'll stop chewing through his straps and behave. And the staff can stop chasing after him and turn their attention to finding out who keeps smuggling that bloody dog in here."
"It's not Andy!"
Danny couldn't stand it. "Keh. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow." Oh fuck. Ow.
"Don't laugh, Daniel, you won't enjoy it. And Sergeant Angel, you are making me very cross."
"Seriously, is he all right?" Danny asked softly.
"He'll be fine. Stress. Went a bit what we in the medical profession call apeshit. Little shocky, and somebody seems to have beaten the tar out of him. Nothing rest and some pharmaceuticals can't clear up. You,on the other hand, have acquired a rather remarkable set of extra holes, so let's have a look at you."
"Hey! I wanna see."
"They are yours. Careful now." Some confusion with his gown and blanket followed, and May swatted his hand to stop him trying to help. "Oh, that's lovely. We do such good work." Danny looked. Inclining his head hurt, but -- O brave new world! His side was a symphony in puffy flesh, stitches, bandages, and...oh, excellent, staples! Maybe there was some superglue in there, too. He'd heard they used superglue on people.
"Brilliant," he declared. "Nicholas, you gotta see this! Ow."
"And don't raise your voice."
"No, thank you," Angel said. "I saw the original."
Some things in this world simply have to be shared. "It's got staples and all. It's wicked! C'mon, have a look."
"All right, all right." A few moments' fumbling as he worked his way around the curtain, then his head appeared over Dr. Weatherall's shoulder. "Oh, God!"
Danny grinned. "Am I hardcore? You can poke it if you want."
"No, Cop Jesus, I don't want to poke your wound. Yes, you are hardcore. I would go so far as to say that you are, by any reasonable standard of measurement, completely off the chain. Is it all right if I'm sick in the bin?"
"You don't even need to use the bin. Because I am absolutely hardcore enough to take a little sick."
"I am not," said May. "And there is to be no poking by anyone other than qualified health professionals. You really should sit down, Sergeant, you don't look well."
Nicholas retreated, greenishly.
DORIS AND THE PIRATE TWINS
Andy Cartwright was distressed. "Andy, man, you don't have to do this."
Andy Wainwright was determined. He looked his partner hard in the eye.
"Andy...we're CID. This is how we roll."
"If you don't keep still," said Doris Thatcher, "I am going to have your eye out, and then I'll have to do his, and you can wear matching pirate patches." There was a brief pause, as Doris and the Andies each considered this mental picture.
"Heh," said Bob Walker from behind his copy of Falconry for Beginners. "Gay."
A Turner coughed gently.
"Right. Hold still. I'm going in. Hur."
Dead silence in Turner’s room. They might have been watching a diamond cutter. All eyes darted from one Andy to the other as she worked.
"How's that?" She asked.
"Little more," said a Turner.
"That dangly bit," said another.
"Ooo, good eye. Heh. Dangly." One last snip of her scissors. "Annnnd done. You match again."
Andy Wainwright's moustache now boasted a half-inch divot, identical in size and shape to the wicked singeing that Andy Cartwright's had received in the destruction of Sandford Police Station.
And if Andy Cartwright's eyes were seen to well visibly as he embraced his partner manfully, and if a Turner quietly blew his nose into a handkerchief, you and I must not judge. There are some emotions that only those who cultivate facial hair can understand.
GRAND PIANO
Quiet now, in Danny's room. Nicholas had run out of steam for the moment, feet propped up on Danny's bed, playing with his third minty sponge. Danny blew bubbles in his water cup with the curly straw. Even that much exertion hurt a bit, but...bubbles.
He tried not to dwell on May's description of exactly what had happened to his internal organs, what had gone into putting them back together again and wrapping them up, and the amount of work it was going to take to make sure they stayed where they belonged so he didn't slosh when he walked. She was the sort of doctor who enjoyed going into vivid and lengthy detail. Doubtless she would have been disappointed that the best mental picture he could summon was one of fireworks let off inside a turkey.
Still. Bright side. "I think I've figured out why you hate guns," he told Nicholas.
Angel barked with laughter and dropped the sponge on the floor. "Damn!" He took another from the bedside table and shucked the wrapper.
"I keep remembering stuff. You read to me. Or did I dream it?"
Angel's shifty look, and the extra seconds he took forming a reply, gave Danny his answer.
"You can lie if you want," Danny offered, and filed his friend's embarrassment away for future torture and blackmail purposes.
"I might have done," Nicholas said.
"Nah, it was --" don't say sweet don't say sweet do not say sweet "--sweet." Shit.
"Oh, God, I have to replace that poor old man's book."
"Keh. Ow."
“It’s not funny.”
“It is. It’s completely funny.”
WE’LL JUST LEAVE THEM TO ARGUE OVER THAT…AND WE’RE BACK
"Long day, eh?"
"Very. It's 11:30 in the morning. You've been awake fifty-two minutes." Nicholas put the sponge in his teeth, and worked his jaw so that the stick end whacked him on the nose a few times.
“I forgot. I remember now,” Danny said. “There’s something else I was going to tell you.”
“My ears are yours.”
"Oh, thanks. Now that picture's in my head and you've driven it completely out."
"Sorry."
"Oh. That was it, actually. I just...I never said. I meant to, but we got busy, what with all the…"
"Getting busy."
"The shit going down."
"The balloon going up."
"The Day We Took Back Sandford."
"The bad craziness."
"Ooo, nice one." Just say it! "I'm sorry I scared you and stabbed you with ketchup and shoved you in the boot of my car."
Nicholas nearly choked on his sponge.
"Careful now."
"Hgh. Jesus. Are you mad? Danny, you ridiculous crafty bastard, that was the most fucking brilliant bit of...I can't think of a word, thinginess that I've ever seen in my life! You played those lunatics like a grand piano. You played me, for God's sake! You're a bloody genius."
"I am?"
"Fuck yeah you are!"
"All right. Still. Sorry and all." The expression on Nicholas Angel's face when he'd thought Danny had turned on him had been nine kinds of painful.
"So am I."
"What have you got to be sorry for?"
It took Nicholas a moment to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry I doubted you for even a moment."
He was full of holes, heavily drugged, in a world of trouble, and his dad had been recently revealed as a homicidal maniac. Still, just for a moment, in Danny Butterman's heart, it was Christmas. With commentary tracks, bonus features, extra puppies, and beer.
MORE CUTE ANIMALS -- STILL NO TITS
Police dog Saxon, who really ought to have known better, was treated for several hedgehog quill wounds to his nose. Before returning to active duty, he was given a short course of Prozac, because even a well-trained and courageous animal has its limits when made to live in close quarters with primates and high explosives.
Aaron A. Aaronson (not actually first in the phone directory - that was his dad) found the hedgehog outside the remains of the station, sheltering in a melted pint of Chunky Monkey, and took it to Peter Staker. Mr. Staker put the it into a shoebox and sent it off to St. Tiggywinkle's, where it was treated, released, and lived a long and happy life. For a hedgehog. They're nervous little fuckers and don't live that long.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?
"Wait. I remember what's been bothering me." Blue. Paper. "Explosion."
"Pardon?"
"You definitely said explosion before. With butterflies."
"Yes."
"Okay."
"The explosion."
"George Merchant's place."
"No, the-" puzzlement crept across Nicholas' face, drove in a stake or two, and set up camp. "You don't remember?"
"What don't I remember?"
"When that fucking buggery cunt bastard Tom Weaver shot you - which we are going to discuss in detail at some future point over a great deal of alcohol, because you need a damned good talking to, you stupid bastard -- and I kicked the bin at him and he fell back into the evidence room and the sea mine rolled over on him and detonated. As they do. The entire station was destroyed."
Danny could only stare. "You what?"
Nicholas patiently repeated himself. Bin. Sea mine. Destroyed.
"What?"
"What do you mean, what? Stop saying what. You were right there."
"I mean what, is what I mean. I were fucking shot, weren't I?"
"Oh. Oh. Well. It's what I was talking about before. With the butterflies and the lungs and..."
This is it. I am having a stroke. I've lived through a gunfight and being shot and all, and now my own partner is giving me a massive stroke. My brain is going to explode and I will never find out what the fuck is going on. "Nick."
"Sorry. Sorry. Everybody's fine. Well, ringing ears for all. Turner took a chunk of station to the head. Minor burns. Shrapnel. Cracked ribs. Unspecified personnel are alleged to have experienced certain degrees of shock and emotional trauma at certain points. So I've heard. Doris cocked up her leg -- her words -- and had a piece of glass the size of a banana stuck in her hair. Tony had a job convincing Casualty that Walker was perfectly fine and not brain damaged. But as for fucking buggery cunt bastard Tom Weaver, we may very well be inhaling him as we speak."
Shame. Also, eugh. "Everybody’s really okay?"
"Again, yes. As these things go. Which is what I was getting at before."
"Okay. Okay." Deep -- ow wait not too deep -- deepish breath. "What were you getting at before?"
"Pudding?"
"No!"
"No! I remember now! We should all be dead." He seemed terribly happy about this.
"Oh good."
"We should all have gone up with the station. But we're all more or less safe and sound. And -- this is the thing -- I don't know what's going to happen next, Danny. We've got dead and wounded civilians, any number of bodies going back God knows how long, including children and a police officer. One publicly-owned building destroyed, along with all its records and contents, and I don't even want to think about what sort of paperwork is going to have to be done because of that. Misuse of evidence, horse theft, vandalism, endangering minors, insubordination... Old ladies were kicked in the face, clergyman and doctors may have been shot..."
"It happens, man."
"Yes. But we're all of us in for a grilling. We could be demoted, charged with any number of procedural or even criminal offenses, reassigned, or outright sacked. We could be promoted, or made into heroes, or this whole thing could just quietly go away. My point is--"
"Everything is going to be fine," said Danny.
Nicholas goggled at him mutely.
"We knew all that when we were going in. We fucking saved Sandford, and we're not dead, and we did the right thing. Whatever happens next doesn't matter. Everything is going to be fine."
Nicholas' smile was positively radiant. "That's what I've been trying to tell you!"
Danny nodded. Then his face was grave. For him. "Except."
"What?"
"There was an explosion and I fucking missed it."
"I'm very sorry," Nicholas said, straightfaced.
"Oh well. Next one."
"I'll make sure of it." Then, "Ssst!"
There was an efficient shadow moving along one of the inside windows. Were we loud? How could we have been loud, apart from the shouting?
"Shit!" said Nicholas.
"Hide!" said Danny.
"Hide?"
"Um--" Thinking fast, Danny lay his head back on his pillow shut his eyes.
"Good!" Nick followed suit in his chair.
Quiet. Behaving. Nothing to see here.
Danny swore he could feel narrow eyes on them from the doorway - not May, the footsteps were wrong, the shadow too short, but one of the replicants - and knew perfectly well that their sham sleep wouldn't fool a…really easily fooled...sort of thing.
Both were sound asleep within two minutes.
It had, after all, been a long day.
Thanks to:
susanmgarrett for hooking me up with Biggles, Flying Detective. (Also Biggles Goes to War, Biggles Delivers the Goods, Biggles "Fails to Return," Biggles of the Special Air Police, Biggles Sweeps the Desert*, Biggles: The Camels are Coming, and Biggles and the Black Peril, which I'm scared to open.
*Seriously. Dude. Seriously. He sweeps the desert. Biggles is that hardcore.
crantz for reading it and letting me witter at him. And some of the better lines. And for these:
(Screengrabs by the incomparable gypsyjr)
cybertardis for her loving support:
Me: I had half a story written and deleted it by accident. Now i long for death.
Cybertardis: Sucks to be you!
kannaophelia for emergency vocab help.