Let Slip the Dogs of War - Part 5

[marshwiggledyke]

Title: Let Slip the Dogs of War
Authors: waffleguppies and marshwiggledyke
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Rating: R for war and language, 1940's attitudes, mild PTSD
Characters/Pairings: Eventual Nicholas/Danny, Frank Butterman.

Author's Notes: Ratlines (escaping Nazi Party members from Europe to South America) did really exist. So did Churchill's undeployed Operation Unthinkable against the Soviets. Dude hated communists. Even though his country really couldn't afford an all-out nuclear war against the army that just shouldered off Operation Barbarossa and stormed Berlin like an angry termite nest (which is why his advisors neatly vetoed it and didn't talk about it for ages). Really puts this photograph into perspective.



Operation Terrier, though I don't remember making it up and seem to remember doing a good deal of research on exactly a year ago, does not turn up in when Googled, so I will have to say that my use of it being a British counterintelligence monitoring the ratlines is a completely made-up thing that compliments a universe where werewolves exist and a public that vaguely know about them.

*

Part 4

Nicholas still couldn't believe how perfect this little village was. How untouched the houses were, as if it were some miniature train display made enormous for museum visitors. How untouched the people were, ignoring the upright houses and the lack of bricks in the street or dust in the air. They were excited about VE day. There was no shellshock shellacked over with everyday living and stiff upper lip. They just were.

He also couldn't believe Danny had guilt-tripped him into another pint of lager before leaving the pub, despite the knowledge that he was hungry, probably with an empty stomach. It was a little difficult to walk normally.

“This is me,” said Danny, cheerfully.

There wasn't a lot to be said for the outside of Danny's house. It was one half of an older brick house that had evidently been built by an architect with a love of right angles and not much in the way of imagination. There was a smallish front garden, patchy grass warring with a heap of rocks that had probably once been a rockery, and a clematis struggling up around the front door.

“It looks lovely,” said Nicholas, and meant it.

“Well, I came back, an' thought it was prob'ly time to move out, yunno?” said Danny, unlatching the little gate and wandering down the path. The sincerity of Nicholas's reaction made him feel a bit warm in the face, and he was glad Nicholas couldn't see him as he led him through the front door, which hadn't been locked, and into the narrow hall. “Get my own space an' that. An' Mrs. Kershaw- teacher, she was, at th' school- moved to Bath an' she knew I was lookin' for somewhere, so I took it.”

Danny paused in the small junction created by the doorways of the kitchen and the front room, and grinned at him. “I'll sort out your room in a bit. You go sit down an' I'll get us some lunch.” He glanced at the clock. “Dinner.”

There wasn't much of the feeling that Danny had lived in this house for very long. There wasn't much of anything hung on the walls. The coathook rack lay on the floor, and Danny's winter coat lay draped over it. In the den, there was a couch in the middle of the room, pointed at a big, blank wall. Nicholas didn't understand. Danny had lived here for a little under a year, but it looked like he'd just moved in that week.

The thought of food was making him salivate.

“Are you going back out for the celebrations after?”

“Could do,” said Danny, from the kitchen. Knife in hand, he collected a jar of pickled onions from a cupboard, hesitated, and dug out a jar of special chutney as well. He'd run out of butter, but the pie didn't really need it. “Might be fun, when it cools down a bit. There'll be some fireworks down on Potter's Field later, too.”

“If you've got some earplugs handy,” said Nicholas, trying to keep himself from poking through a crate. “That might be interesting.”

Danny reappeared, handing Nicholas a plate. The generous wodge of pie on it had a fork stuck upright in it.

“Pickled onion?” he offered, unloading his own plate and a number of jars onto the magazine-littered table and dropping himself heavily onto one side of the couch.

Nicholas wrinkled his nose at the smell, and shook his head. “Cold pie is fine, thanks.” He inhaled about half of it, barely tasting any of the vegetables or pheasant, before he felt himself able to slow down and ask a question.

“Why isn't the couch up against the wall?”

Danny forked a good quantity of chutney onto his plate. It smelt apple-y, spicy, like a cider press in summer, and his own mouth watered in response. He was quite peckish, himself.

“'Cause that's the only proper flat wall over there, an' I couldn't watch stuff on it, 'f the couch was anywhere else.”

Nicholas looked at the wall, idly filling his own mouth again. There wasn't much to look at. “'Wash stuff ah'it'?”

“Y'know. For showin' films on,” said Danny, around a mouthful of onion.

Nicholas forgot to put the next forkful of pie in his mouth. “Films. In a flat.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, with great pride. “I got a bloody great big projector under the stairs. One of them Ampro-Arc sixteen-millimetres they had t'show newsreels on up at the Army base. Regional CRC knew my dad fr'm France, see- knew I like that sort'f thing, an' it was either gettin' it off their hands or it sittin' in 'is shed 'til doomsday stoppin' him from parkin' his bicycle. Talk about a bargain. You could drive a tank over that thing an' it'd bounce off, prolly.”

Nicholas was gawping. “You can't be serious.”

Danny grinned, delighted by Nicholas's awe. “We c'n dig it out at the weekend. It's hard to get decent films, proper ones, anyhow, but I got my sources.”

“Films and a telly in a house,” said Nicholas, as if this was a little difficult to process. For all he knew, Danny's father kept an Enigma Machine in his cellar. People in this town were unreal, and this was from someone who could sprout fur in a moment.

“I en't got a telly,” said Danny, a little anxiously. He cut him another slice of pie, ostensibly to make up for the lack of telly.

“Yet,” said Nicholas. “You said you were gagging for one. Thank you.” He dug into it, hungrily.

“We could give that werewolf one a go,” said Danny. “I'm sure I got it somewhere.”

It was the first time he'd more-or-less directly referenced Nicholas's condition, but it wasn't as if he seemed to think he was hazarding anything by doing so, either. He just leaned back, contentedly, eating pie.

Nicholas forced himself to relax. This wasn't meant to be interrogative, or rude, or outright ridiculous. He might as well get round to discussing his needs. “Er. Perhaps not right now, Danny. Would you mind if I installed a large dog flap in the back door, and a lock on my room?”

“'Course not. When d'you usually go f'r a run?”

“Mornings, mostly. Oh, urm, you mean- Well, I usually don't have the opportunity.”

Danny frowned, thinking hard. The dogs he had been around growing up, his friend's dogs, the farm dogs, the collies and the pointers and the gundogs, had had centuries of hard-muscled vitality bred into their bones. They worked, and you gave them a good long run, or they went a bit loony and chewed up the kitchen.

Nicholas, although definitely not a dog, gave off the same vibes.

“I s'pose you'd want to be careful, stay away from the sheep fields an' that- unless you went with me, that'd be all right.” That's right, Danny. Good and casual. You're being practical. “What d'you need a lock for?”

“Just... privacy.” Nick was going a bit red, and helped himself to another slice of pie to cover it. “I mean, nobody wants to see all that. Don't worry, I'll rig it so it's openable without thumbs.”

“I never saw you as a... wolf, anyway,” said Danny, curiously. “You was off that quick.”

“It was a three-day run,” said Nicholas. “And I'd had to run with the taste of BacoFoil in my mouth the whole way. I had to hurry.”

“You're off th' flippin' planet,” said Danny, admiringly. “Even last year I wouldn't've bin able to run for three hours, let alone three days. D'they give you special training in the- the- in your squad?”

“I napped on the second day,” said Nicholas. “For a few hours. Wolves are designed for loping long distances. I couldn't run the entire way.”

This clearly didn't make all that much difference to Danny. When you tend to get out of breath jogging down to the shops, multiple-day marathons were in another league entirely, regardless of whether or not you took a sneaky kip in the middle.

“What did you do after?” he said. “You said it took longer.”

“Operation Terrier,” said Nicholas, settling back on the couch and closing his eyes, but still steadily eating the pie. He looked tired and worn. “Monitoring the ratlines and surveillance work. They tried to force me into the Soviet Union for some preliminary observance, but I could tell it was for a long haul and something much, much bigger. I told them no. I'd stick out like a sore thumb. They sent me home.”

Danny watched him for a little bit. The tiredness wasn't new; back then he'd looked tired once he'd wound down, once the danger had passed. What was new was the way he looked weary, tired in an enduring way, the sort of tired that doesn't necessarily go away with a good night's sleep.

Danny hesitated.

“How's it feel, bein' home?”

Nicholas put his fork down and covered his face with both hands.

“Nic'las?” asked Danny, setting his own plate down, alarmed.

“Sorry,” mumbled Nicholas, voice hitching a little. He didn't move his hands away. “I'm making you miss all the excitement in town.”

“Nahh,” said Danny, reassuringly, and, in being reassuring, said more than he'd started out intending to. “It's nothin' special. Folks round 'ere'll get the bunting out for th' opening of a letter. S'not like anything better's gonna happen today anyway, after you poppin' up out the blue like that. Fuck, Nic'las- I'm just glad you're all in one piece.”

One of Nicholas's eyes peered out at him through the fingers, wet and red and disbelieving, and then he barked a bitter laugh. “I suppose I'm lucky that way. The Schutzstaffel took to shooting us through the ear if we were caught. Half-deaf and marked for life. Not that they didn't mark me where it matters, anyway.”

“'They'?”

Danny angled his neck sideways, getting a good look at Nicholas's ears. They looked all right to him. Increasingly, they were the only bit that did.

He put a solid, very-slightly-chutney-sticky hand on Nicholas's shoulder. He felt frightened, almost, mostly at his own intensity of feeling. Something was hurting his friend- sure, they'd only known each other a short time, with long months between then and now, but Danny didn't care about that- and he recognised it, sort of. He just hoped he knew how to help, because there was endless, endless opportunity to stuff this sort of thing up.

“C'mon,” he said, dropping his voice a bit. “Get it out, 'ey?”

The folds around Nicholas's eye crinkled somewhat, as if Nicholas were trying to smile. “You sure you're actually British?”

Danny looked a bit confused. “Er... My great-grandma was Welsh. I think. Dad doesn't really talk 'bout family. We got enough of it to be goin' on with anyway.”

“Oh... nevermind,” said Nicholas, and seemed to relax a little, scrubbing at his face with a sleeve, blinking hard. “Christ. Sorry about that.”

“It's fine,” said Danny, simply.

Nicholas let out a long breath. “I don't know if you know anyone who'd hire a, a, I don't know, a farm hand, or something, under the table?”

“You're lookin' f'r a job?” A hesitant half-grin. “I dunno, I mean, what sort'f thing you up for?”

“Something where they won't look too closely at your papers. Preferably, not at all.”

Danny's mouth formed an 'O'. “You didn't go AWOL.”

“No.”

“Did you nick summat?”

“No.”

“Did you... ac'dentl'y shoot Field Marshal Montgomery.”

“Tempting, but no.”

“Did you... get snowed in somewhere on the French alps durin' a vital reconnaissance mission, an' enter into a torrid love affair with the daughter of the Hungarian count what offered you shelter f'r the winter, an' then find out she was actually 'is son, maskeradin' as a lady to avoid the draft, an' 'is dad was so incensed on account of family honour an' that 'e 'ad you blacklisted an' you had to leave Europe under a cloud, knowin' your love could never be?”

“I... what? No! Anyway, how could I miss that? Blokes have a smell. When they're not covered in mud. Where on earth did you pull that one from?”

Danny was beaming. “Alright, so she was a lady.”

“Yes,” said Nicholas, slowly, “and her name was Janine.”

“Whor. Talk about a coincidence.”

“I had Janine in London, Danny.”

Danny's attention, however, had wandered somewhat away from the main thrust of the conversation, which was only to be expected, considering how the main thrust of the conversation had also wandered more than a little away from the point.

“What sort of smell?” he said, curiously.

“Well, it varies from man to man, obviously. Diet and family and the last time they had a shower, that sort of thing.”

“Do I have a smell? What do I smell of?”

“Urm.” Nicholas hauled in a breath through his nose. “Lager, mostly. Grass and rained-on dirt... sweat. Honesty.”

“Honesty's got a smell?” Danny looked incredibly impressed. “C'n you smell when people're lying?”

“Sometimes. Usually people get more nervous. They sweat more. Their body language shuts down. I can't tell the good liars, though, or people who are flat-out scared. It's just not reliable. People send out too many signals as it is.”

Danny breathed out, enviously. “No wonder they wanted you workin' on the Russkies.”

Nicholas shuddered. “They tried very hard to make me change my mind on that count.”

Evidently giving the matter serious consideration, Danny stole a forkful of pie off his own plate without retrieving it from the table, scattering crumbs. “S'not harvest time yet,” he said. “Won't really kick off till August, September...”

He thought about the dog thing again.

“'sides, it's not 'zactly what I'd've called brainwork...”

“Yes, well, it's not ideal..”

“Nah. You want something like... something like...”

Unfortunately, the idea that dawned on Danny at that point was so unexpectedly golden that it removed his power of speech. Instead, he settled for simply staring at Nicholas, grinning like an idiot.

“What?” said Nicholas, unnerved again.

“You could do what I do!”

“I don't even know what you do.”

“I'm a policeman,” explained Danny, eagerly, waving his fork. If the idea was to conduct his own words with it, it wasn't very successful, because he kept on falling over them with excitement. “You'd be brilliant at it, Nic'las! An'- well, it's a bit borin' sometimes but- but you get a proper smart uniform, an' when it's wet you c'n do stuff in the station if you want, usually- an' you'd be really good, I bet, you could use your nose if there's any crimes an' everything.”

“You're... mad. What about training? And background checks- I know they're going to do the paperwork- Danny, there's not a chance I'd be let into a high-profile job like that, my own non-existent skills not-withstanding!”

“You learn on the job, that's what I did,” wheedled Danny, “an' if I c'n manage, you're not gonna have any problem with any of it. It's only rememberin' rules an' regulations an' that, an' you get a little book to learn out of. I bet you'd be amazin'.”

His face fell a bit. “'Less you don't really fancy it.”

“Danny,” said Nicholas, very seriously, “apart from you, who, pardon, is quite clearly cracked, what police force is going to want a werewolf in their department?”

“My dad's,” said Danny.

“And your father isn't a homicidal loony, is he?”

Danny laughed. “Y'wot? Nah, he's the inspector. We'll go an' have a word, he'll see you all right. We're short anyway, 'specially with Evan on disability an' Tony on thingy leave... 'e keeps moaning about not havin' enough bodies. You'll be just what he's lookin' for.”

“It's just,” said Nicholas, carefully, “the last few people who wanted me specifically for any advantages I possess would be classified as homicidal loonies in other professions.”

“Well,” said Danny, “have a word with 'im at least, 'ey? Then if you don't like the sound of it, I c'n prob'ly set you up with Andy's dad. They sell apples. Can't hurt, can it?”

He was trying very hard not to sound pleading.

“I suppose not,” sighed Nicholas.

Off in the distance, out of the dimming curtains, came a long, thin noise, a sort of fweeeeeeeeeeeep followed shortly by a crack. It was an early, experimental sort of noise, followed by a lot of silence.

Nicholas's ears twitched and flattened.

Danny got up, stretching the creak out of his spine and landing an encouraging hand on Nicholas's shoulder. “We'd better get down there if you're still up f'r seeing the fireworks,” he said, digging through a pile of winter clothing and folded sheets that sat, laundered and totally homeless, on top of a large box near the window. “'Ere, catch.”

A pair of knitted woolly earmuffs arced gently through the air.

*

A homemade rocket shrieked upwards through the smoke and the dark, lost its upward movement and began to fall sideways with the breeze, and cracked open before the treeline, spraying the cheering audience with the smell of sulphur and blue smoke.

Nicholas, in a more casual jumper, folded his arms, nose wrinkling. “At least it's a bit ch---.”

Danny poked his elbow with a mug of hot cider from the WI's table, having sneaked briefly into the refreshments tent and risked matronly glares of disapproval to get them both one before the table was besieged by the rest of the crowd. He raised his voice, rather pointlessly, as red stars scattered overhead.

“Not bad, are they? I h--- the lads got a crate of black powder off'v a spiv f--- Buford Abbey.”

“What?” said Nicholas, knowing it was equally pointless. He took the mug and picked his way through the crowds and running children, flailing sparklers like magic wands, looking for seating in a standing mob. He made his way up a bit of a rise, found a spot, and sat down carefully in the grass. “My feet h----nough fro---- Abbey.”

A yelp to his right indicated that Danny had severely underestimated the lava-like properties of the freshly-heated cider. Luckily, considering the small children in the vicinity, the word he said at that point was obliterated by a series of smoky white-and-blue explosions overhead.

“---” said Nicholas, reprovingly. He patted the ground next to him, indicating that the space next to him was available.

Danny sat, obediently, and for a while they watched the show in comfortable silence.

“--ty,” he said, after a minute or two. “'F you'd've called ahead or ---grammed we coulda sent ---one to pick you --. UP. From the station at Ciren--- maybe. Saved y'r feet.”

“Di---ow your ---mber,” explained Nicholas. “--n't know if you still ---- here. I didn't know whether -u'd ---- -- - me.” Someone had got hold of a whole string of lady's fingers, and the pops and bangs took out most of the end of this statement.

Danny heard very little of the second part. He frowned, leaning closer, raising his voice. “Come ag---n?”

“Wasn't sure if you'd want to see me,” said Nicholas, loudly, into a sudden silence, and flushed when people turned round to stare at the shouting stranger. The first act was over; the fireworkers puttered around their fires, setting up the next series of recycled munitions. It was around the duck pond, which, if not entirely fire-proofed, at least had the right idea, and a spot of hope that if a firework did attack someone or a nearby house, there was a good deal of pond scum that could be dumped on he/she/it.

Danny looked bewildered, his forehead scrunching down as he turned towards Nicholas, away from the faint, ruddy glow of the fires.

“What? Why not?”

Nicholas turned his face away, suddenly unable to answer that. Any sort of answers he could come up with sounded weak. How could he put the raw fear of hearing that Danny, safe from any minefields, had found a girl and settled down and didn't really want to see him? That sort of information pre-departure could have prevented him leaving London in the first place, everything and every hope stripped from him.

“Nevermind,” he said, sipping at the cider. “Thank you. For everything.”

Danny found himself at a bit of a loss at this. What had he done? Nicholas had saved his life, and had had enough faith in him to put him in charge of his friends. Nicholas had saved a town. Danny had sorted him a room and... well, that was about it, unless you counted the pie. Pie was pretty good, granted, but it didn't really compare to stopping someone getting their insides laminated all over the countryside by a dick-exploding mine.

“Y'r welcome,” he said, and meant it sincerely, even if he didn't know exactly why it was merited.

“Danny?”

On first glance, there was nothing unusual about the man making his way through the crowd towards the bank. He looked like an unremarkable, elderly man, tall and bespectacled but no different in his coat and quiet tartan scarf than any of the other dozens of elderly men in the crowd.

...And then you might notice the way that he wasn't having as much trouble getting through the crowd as other people, because people were making instinctive way for him. And you might notice their deferential murmurs and smiles, although with the second rally just starting to kick off overhead you wouldn't be able to pick out any words. You might even notice his smile in response, which had a touch of avuncular humour about it.

If you were to label Sandford a small pond, then you could say the big fish had just arrived.

Danny looked up, and elbowed Nicholas in the ribs.

“Your aunt's on the warpath, son,” said the elderly gentleman, mildly, between explosions. “Something about half a mile of bunting and your responsibilities.”

“That'd be my fault, then,” said Nicholas, coming to Danny's defense. “To be fair, he hadn't been given a proper spotting partner, which is a grave oversight for any fête decoration installation.”

News spreads fast in a small town. The elderly gent regarded Nicholas keenly over his glasses, then smiled.

“Sergeant Angel, I presume? Frank Butterman.” He extended a hand. “I've heard a lot about you from my boy here since he came back, you know.”

“Dad,” whined Danny, cringing.

“There oughtn't to have been that much to tell,” said Nicholas, who only had a moment's hesitation before taking the offered hand and firmly shaking it. “I just ran across Danny's battalion, and left it in very capable hands.”

“Er, yeah, just leavin' out the bit where he got us across a minefield like the Pie Piper of Hamlin.” Danny, spurred into recalling certain recent and important facts out of sheer embarrassment, waved his free hand in the air like a kid who's just remembered the capital of Spain. “An', an', Dad, he's gonna be stayin' with me. I got that spare room, an' he's gonna stay in Sandford on account of there not bein' an East End any more an' his lady friend goin' off with some Canuck.”

Nicholas closed his eyes hard, mouth tightening, because it really shouldn't be that easy to sum up two major and rather recent tragedies in your personal life in one sentence. “Yes, well, it was only my fair share. I hadn't considered that bunting was another requirement of war service, but I'll not let that escape me a second time.”

“Word to the wise, Sergeant,” said Frank, dryly. “Whenever my cousin Jackie gets involved, it's bunting all the way.”

He clapped a friendly hand on Nicholas's shoulder. “Welcome to Sandford. If there's anything you need, settling down, don't hesitate to ask.”

“Nic'las needs a job, Dad,” Danny butted in, cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Nicholas, suddenly acutely aware of the people seated around them, ignoring him in favour of the fireworks. A policeman wouldn't be a bad job, as Danny pointed out, but he had no desire to omit information from Frank Butterman, if Danny hadn't already told him. Neither did he want to cause a panic right here, in the green of this ridiculously sheltered little town. “We could discuss it later, if you like. If you're still interested in recruits.”

“Of course,” agreed Frank, heartily. He said something else, but a shower of Roman candles drowned him out. “---down to the station tomorrow. Always a place on my force for a fine young man with good sense in his head.”

“Ey! Told you!” crowed Danny, clapping.

“I'll... wait for the interview,” said Nicholas, diplomatically. “Before we finalize anything.”

A sharp gasp from the crowd around them drew their gazes upwards, just catching the brightest point of a white, red, and blue explosion that- for half a second- spread utterly soundlessly across the smoky sky, until-

THOOOOM.

Nicholas's eyes flicked up to meet it, and, unseen in the crowd, his eyes reflected the light back, just as brightly.

Part 6