Hot Fuzz WIP (Twinge) Pt. II, because LJ was lame and said it was too long. -_-;
They woke bright and early - or, at least Nicholas did - his internal clock proving more reliable than any alarm. The sun hadn’t even risen over the horizon yet, the surrounding buildings dark. Nicholas poked the snoring human teddy in the face, commanding him to get up, and received a grumpy grunt in reply, before tying on his trainers and taking the elevator down for a run. It had been a very long time since he’d jogged around this part of London. He hadn’t realized how very disgusting the air in London was, but after being in Sandford, he could definitely smell the difference; the morning fog rolling off the Thames brought all sorts of nasty scents with it. He wrinkled his nose with distaste, and took a right down the next street. Everything was just as he remembered, from the scruffy hoboes sifting through dumpsters to the citywise foxes and cats they had to fight with for the good stuff. Graffiti plastered the walls in day-glo shades, their expletive-drenched messages splashed colourfully for all of London to see. He swung by the closest newsagent, but, unsurprisingly, even they weren’t open yet, the daily deluge of people still at least an hour away.
Nicholas returned, sweating, and found Danny up, showered, and already half-dressed. “Good timing. I was just about to ring you.” He pointed at a covered tray sitting next to him. “Two dippy eggs, two pieces of toast, and some chips. Catsup’s on the side, tea’s on the table.”
Nicholas wiped his brow. “Ah, lovely, thanks. How’s the shower?”
Danny fiddled with his belt. “Eh, not bad. Gotta leave it on for a bit before it gets warm enough to do anything with.”
Nicholas leaned around the doorframe and toggled on the taps before sitting down next to his breakfast, which was still warm. He set aside the cover and dipped a corner of the toast into the yolk and bit into it hungrily. “Mmmm, perfect.” Danny poured him some tea. Nicholas nodded his thanks and polished off his breakfast and the tea before heading to the shower. The temperature was perfect, and he sighed contentedly as he poured a dollop of whatever manly-smelling body wash Danny’d packed onto his loofa and scrubbed the remnants of the jog off of his skin. He followed the trails of suds with his eyes, seeing where the cool cream of his skin was streaked silver where it was marred by some scar or other. He had plenty, and most had stories to go with them. He could read his skin like Braille, and the whole thing told a tale of a dedicated, hard-fought life. He paused at the one on his upper arm, the one that stretched wide across it and felt stiff and plump to the touch. The Shootout-in-the-Square felt like it was ages ago, but he could still remember the utterly demented looks of the NWA as they shot at him while he fought for his life behind an ancient fountain, the burning, pulsing pain in his arm after that mad bitch Amanda Paver had clipped him with one of her bullets, and the determined look on Danny’s face as he opened his door at just the right moment. He remembered all of the details as if they’d happened just yesterday.
He shampooed, conditioned, cleansed, rinsed, stepped out, towelled off, hollered for some underwear because he’d stupidly forgotten to bring some in with him (Danny chucked his thoroughly boring charcoal boxer-briefs in the door and hit him square in the face), groomed, dressed, put the uniform kits in the uniform valises, double-checked, put the dress shoes in the uniform valises, triple-checked, grabbed the uniform valises, left, came back because Danny’d forgotten his cap, left again, came back again because he’d forgotten his cap, left again, hired a cab to bring them over to Peel House, and all this before seven in the bloody morning.
The constable staffing the front desk very nearly had an aneurism when he saw Nicholas. He babbled with his mouth open for a bit, looking like a bright pink cod, before Nicholas rolled his eyes and gave him one of his patented glares. That shut him up, and he paged a Sergeant to come down and get him. Nicholas protested that he knew the building better than anyone, but apparently all visitors had to be escorted, no matter how...notorious. So they waited. Nicholas stood stiffly next to the desk, looking severely unimpressed, while Danny took advantage of one of the benches set up on either side of the aisle. And they waited. Danny started a new flipbook. Nicholas frowned. And they waited some more. Danny fell asleep, and Nicholas got fed up. “Right. This is ridiculous.” He spun quickly and grabbed the phone off the desk and stuck it on the ledge before he reached over and ripped the extension directory off the side of the shelf. The desk constable squawked, and Danny woke up with a snort. Nicholas scanned the list quickly before picking up the receiver and pecking at the keypad irritably. The constable’s eyes grew wide. “But...but sir...” Nicholas told him with a sharp glance to shut up, and threw the neatly-laminated sheet back on the desk. Danny watched with great interest. The phone rang and a cheerful voice finally picked up. The constable put his head in his hands and groaned. “Good morning, Constable. What can I d-“
He cut him off fiercely. “Sergeant Milton, this is Inspector Nicholas Angel.” He could almost see the sergeant’s friendly grin fading, replaced by an uncomfortable grimace. “I’ve been waiting in the foyer for the better part of an hour for someone to come down and escort my partner and I. This is unacceptable. I expect you down here in precisely three minutes, or I’m coming up myself, and I will not be pleased.” He hung up, handed the phone back to the stricken constable (Inspector?!), and set the timer on his watch, his mouth a grim line. He was all business, and Danny found himself sitting straighter in his chair. Before long, harried footsteps could be heard trotting a brisk tattoo down the hall. Nicholas checked his watch. Two minutes and twelve seconds. Not bad. Could be a new record. That silly cunting deskjob could really move when someone lit a fire under his arse. Danny stood and handed Nicholas his valise. He took it silently, staring intently at the shape marching towards them. He could’ve easily met him halfway, but Nicholas waited for him to reach the front desk, slightly out of breath, his fringe flopping almost comically out of place. He smoothed it back absently and tugged on the bottom of his jumper.
“Hullo Nicholas. How was the train?”
Nicholas bristled. “You will address me as Inspector, Sergeant, and the train was lovely, thank you.”
Sergeant Milton looked at him awkwardly. “...Right. My apologies. Old habits die hard...sir.” He looked quite disgruntled, and perhaps a little sad.
Nicholas nodded once, indicating that they were even. Danny smirked. He loved it when Nicholas ‘pwned’ people, especially when those people were from the Met.
“Come on then.” The sergeant sighed, turned on his heel, and led them down the hall.
Their ‘escort’ turned out to be quite a capable tour guide. Nicholas didn’t need a tour, obviously, but Danny was fascinated with the place. His eyes lit up with childlike enthusiasm every time he saw something cool. Everything was just so...shiny. Nicholas just looked at him fondly whenever he did this, at one point laughing out loud when he got randomly molested by a visiting public relations German Shepherd. His handler finally pulled him off, apologizing profusely. Danny sat up, giggling like mad and covered in fur and dog slobber. “I think I know wha’ ‘ee wants!” He reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and pulled out a small box of dog biscuits, the good kind. The dog went nuts and barked excitedly, pulling at his harness. Smiling, Danny reached into the box and pulled a couple out, throwing them to the dog, who munched on them happily. He ruffled his fur, and then tried to wipe off his face with a patch of sleeve that wasn’t covered in fine brown fluff. Nicholas looked at him strangely before handing him a wet-wipe. “Why are you carrying dog biscuits around with you?” Danny shrugged and wiped at his face. “Saxon likes ‘em.” Sergeant Milton just gawked, open-mouthed, at Nicholas, who gave him a strange look as well. “You laughed,” he said in amazement.
Sergeant Milton left them in the cafeteria for an early lunch, trusting Nicholas to know what food was actually edible. Danny had found that Milton was actually quite an agreeable bloke, which surprised him. “Wha’s th’ story with ‘im, then? ‘Ee seems nice enough.” Nicholas prodded his salad with a cafeteria spork and took a breath. “Sergeant Milton - Jaimie - used to be my partner. Ages ago. We got along fairly well, at least until he got his stripes. Then he got power-happy, and I went as solo as Home Office would allow. It’s a little difficult to be someone’s partner if you feel like punching them in the face all the time, especially when they eventually have a hand in promoting you out of your own service.” Danny sensed that there was more to this story, but didn’t press. He made a noncommittal “mmph” sound, and took a bite of his bratwurst.
They’d been assigned temporary lockers, and Nicholas noted with some amusement that he’d been given his old one back, somehow still empty. Perhaps they thought it was cursed. He hung his valise on the door and stripped out of his street clothes. Danny, who’d decided that another shower was the only solution for copious amounts of fur, saliva, and dog-smell, came out of the adjoining room with a towel wrapped around his middle, another one flailing through his hair. It made it stick up insanely. Young police officers, greener than the most verdant of West Country meadows, milled about, getting similarly prepared, but steadfastly avoiding the corner where Nicholas and Danny had their things. Nicholas ignored this and sat on the bench, replacing his white cotton socks with black wool ones, and glanced at the large, oddly-shaped scar on Danny’s flank. He wasn’t the only one doing so, and he felt oddly proud. It was the one that spoke more of what Danny was really made of than anything else. People could say what they wanted, but Sergeant Danny Butterman was a good cop, a good man, and Nicholas would defend him ‘till the end. He’d earned his stripes, and no one had the right to say otherwise.
He moved onto his undershirt, deodorant, dress shirt, trousers, tie, and shoes. By the time he’d finished with his tunic, he looked every inch the commanding officer, all clean high gloss and knife-sharp lines. Danny noticed with astonishment that Nicholas had a not insubstantial amount of medals pinned to his chest above the left pocket, the bars multicoloured and magnificent. He made a note to ask about those later. Danny looked equally sharp, despite his uniform being tailored for a policeman-officer who was ten years his junior. He’d lost a lot of weight in hospital, and he looked properly resplendent in the dark wool.
Their silver glittered in the fluorescent glare of the locker room as Nicholas stepped over a stray towel and straightened Danny’s Windsor knot. Danny carefully combed his hair off to one side, white glove gripping the comb lightly. “You’re going to want to save those for later,” Nicholas said, tapping Danny’s knuckle. “If you want them to stay white, that is.” Danny shoved the comb in one of his pockets and stripped off the cloud-white gloves. Nicholas held up a Ziploc, and Danny dropped them in with a sheepish grin before slipping the plastic baggie into another pocket. Nicholas put away his things, and locked them safely behind the steel door. Danny was done faster, because of course he hadn’t bothered folding anything. Nicholas stepped out of the room, cap clasped firmly under his left arm, with Danny close behind him.
The rehearsal went surprisingly quickly, the sky was mercifully clear, and a cool breeze drifted across the parade square to counteract the decidedly un-British sun. Danny had remembered all of the drill he’d sworn he’d forgotten, and remembered to put his gloves back on before they marched onto the vast desert of pavement to do it for real an hour later, joined by the few other officers who were up for something. The real ceremony was slightly longer than the rehearsal due to the lot of them actually being given their commendations and medals this time ‘round, but still well within the realm of bearable. The Chief Inspector had been very formal with Nicholas, and he bit back a mild urge to quietly ask how the crime rate in London was. He instead returned the overstated formality in kind, and focussed on respecting the rank rather than the man wearing it. Danny did the same, because he didn’t like the Chief Inspector any more than Nicholas did.
There was a reception afterwards, and Nicholas and Danny were startled to see Doris weaving lithely through the crowd towards them, also in her dress uniform. Danny looked at her, delighted, though confused.
“Wha’ ‘choo doin’ ‘ere?”
Doris bounced over between them, her breasts coming perilously close to giving Nicholas a black eye (his eyebrows went up so high Danny thought they were going to disappear into his hairline), and snared a wedge of Camembert from the table behind them. “I couldn’t possibly let two of Sandford’s finest be so honoured without there being any photographic evidence!” She bit into her cheese daintily before waving a camera in his face. Where she had produced it from Nicholas didn’t know, and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. Danny had biscuit crumbs all down his front, and Nicholas wiped them off absently. Doris turned on the camera, and showed them some of her favourite shots. She stopped on one in particular, smirking wildly.
INSERT IMAGE HERE
It took a moment to sink in, and then they both burst out laughing hysterically. Nicholas sporfled his punch and started laughing so hard he had tears running down his face, trying desperately to keep from guffawing ridiculously. Danny started coughing on his biscuit, and stole Nicholas’ drink in a feeble attempt to wash it down. They clung to each other in an effort to stay upright and not fall backwards into the table. Doris stood off to the side, grinning madly. Several Met officers had begun to stare in shock at Nicholas. Hard-arsed Nicholas Angel didn’t laugh. A couple of the less fearful ones moved forward, curious as to what was so unbearably funny that it made Nicholas Angel laugh, of all things. Jaimie Milton got there first, and gingerly looked at the small screen. He immediately covered his mouth and bent double, shaking with repressed mirth. Nicholas and Danny had recovered sufficiently to speak again, but were still quivering, red-faced and tearful. “Oh my GOD, Doris! Tha’s fuckin’ a-may-zing!” Nicholas leaned down and looked at Jaimie’s face, mouth still twitching, and animosity temporarily forgotten. “You alright?” Jaimie shook his head, face crimson, and let out a keening giggle before he flopped helplessly onto his side, holding a stitch. “I ca...I can’t breathe!” He gasped. Nicholas grinned and offered a hand up.
It wasn’t until later at dinner in the crowded cafeteria that Jaimie leaned over conspiratorially and said “He really is a shithead, isn’t he?” The gigglefit started all over again, and he once again couldn’t breathe. Nicholas gave Doris a week’s vacation, and decided that that photo was going in his office, however inappropriate.