FIC: Got No Deeds to Do
Got No Deeds to Do
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Rating: PG (only for language)
Pairing: You know, like in the movie.
Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to their respective owners, none of which are me.
Summary: Follow-up to 'Another Saturday Night'.
It's this: the faint, bubbly sound of water just beginning to boil in the kettle.
It's this: the crisp fresh smell of tea leaves as he prises open the tin.
It's this: translucent silver skyscrapers rising silently into frame, gunfire and closeups, and the words 'Launch mission', 'Set up', 'Special features', and 'Scene selection' forlornly replaying over and over again; as they have been, he suspects, for at least the last two hours.
It's this: Danny's slightly-befuddled running report on the contents of his own fridge, as though he's never seen the inside of it before: '...some bread I think, it's hardly a week past the sell-by date...some lemon curd in the back...a tomato...oh fuck, it was a tomato...'
It's this: himself eyeing the remains of last night's snack on the coffee table, and ruefully wondering just how much of an affront it is to the natural order of the universe to put lemon curd on chocolate-covered HobNobs.
It's this: a vain search through cupboards for a clean mug or two, or indeed for anything clean at all.
It's this: navy-blue curtains still drawn against pale morning sunlight, because neither of them has made a move to let the outside world in just yet.
It's this: a wicked crick in his neck, a stiff back, and pins and needles finally working themselves out in his shoulder, and himself not minding in the least.
It's this: Danny grinning at him over the door of the fridge, and sheepishly holding up a nearly-empty yellow jar.
It's this, Angel thinks.
His perfect Sunday.
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Rating: PG (only for language)
Pairing: You know, like in the movie.
Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to their respective owners, none of which are me.
Summary: Follow-up to 'Another Saturday Night'.
It's this: the faint, bubbly sound of water just beginning to boil in the kettle.
It's this: the crisp fresh smell of tea leaves as he prises open the tin.
It's this: translucent silver skyscrapers rising silently into frame, gunfire and closeups, and the words 'Launch mission', 'Set up', 'Special features', and 'Scene selection' forlornly replaying over and over again; as they have been, he suspects, for at least the last two hours.
It's this: Danny's slightly-befuddled running report on the contents of his own fridge, as though he's never seen the inside of it before: '...some bread I think, it's hardly a week past the sell-by date...some lemon curd in the back...a tomato...oh fuck, it was a tomato...'
It's this: himself eyeing the remains of last night's snack on the coffee table, and ruefully wondering just how much of an affront it is to the natural order of the universe to put lemon curd on chocolate-covered HobNobs.
It's this: a vain search through cupboards for a clean mug or two, or indeed for anything clean at all.
It's this: navy-blue curtains still drawn against pale morning sunlight, because neither of them has made a move to let the outside world in just yet.
It's this: a wicked crick in his neck, a stiff back, and pins and needles finally working themselves out in his shoulder, and himself not minding in the least.
It's this: Danny grinning at him over the door of the fridge, and sheepishly holding up a nearly-empty yellow jar.
It's this, Angel thinks.
His perfect Sunday.