A Copper's Instinct: Chapter 6
Title: A Copper's Instinct
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Characters/Pairings: Nicholas/Danny, Nicholas/OC, Doris, Bob, Andes, Saxon, Turners, OC
Rating: PG-15
Chapter 5
Nicholas didn't care that technically he was still on duty. Technically, he was in uniform. Technically, he was a role model for the community, and if he'd ever even considered this in London he'd be out of the Force faster than Uncle Derek. But after the third or fourth whisky on the rocks, leaning heavily on the Crown bar, he was able to quash that little arsehole running around in the pit of his empty stomach telling him what a terrible idea this was, to get bladdered before 5, and replace it with warm fuzzy liquor-enhanced anger.
Anger was a lot more comfortable to think in than to contemplate how fucking terrified he was, after all.
How fucking stupid was Danny, going around like that behind his back? He'd probably thought it was a laugh, to share something of that magnitude with Doris. And Doris, of course, had reacted like any normal intelligent human being (i.e. not Danny Butterman), like Nicholas's father had, only instead of outright hatred and abrupt social disengagement, she'd retaliated from within her own ranks, hating him in secret until the opportune moment. Nicholas's reaction, which he'd been unable to control, especially in front of them all- so obviously smothered- would only go on to prove her point. Also, bitch. She'd put salt in his tea.
The Crown was barely a quarter-full at this time of day. There was barely a trickle of late-lunchers left, sharing a few tables with the mid-afternoon hangers-on who'd turned up to get some serious drinking in before the evening crowds arrived. Gwen Richards, the Crown's new owner, was no newcomer to bartending, and although neither she nor any of the bar staff had ever seen the Chief Inspector behave anything like this, she knew better than to do anything other than keep quiet, serve drinks and stay the hell away from the aura of unpleasantness which was coming off Nicholas in waves.
The other patrons avoided him, too, on the same principle, and so he remained in his own little bubble of personal space until, finally and cautiously, someone approached.
“Sir? Are you alright?”
Nicholas swayed as he swivelled the stool around.
"Nuh. Alecks."
The look on Kinnell's face seemed suddenly hilarious in a not-really way. So he threw back his head and laughed, which was a mistake, because it sounded more like loud, unhappy barking.
"Nah. N'really. An'body else tag along?"
Kinnell slid onto the stool next to him. He shook his head, eyeing Nicholas's nearly-empty glass.
“What can I get you?”
"More'v'the same'd be nice." A hand clapped Kinnell on the shoulder. "You know? Yeragoodfriend. A really, goodfriend. Unlike therestoffum fuckers. Go for the throat, they do, when they get haffa chance."
Kinnell got Frannie's attention and ordered a Chivas on the rocks, which as it happened was exactly more of the same, right down to the brand. With three to choose from, it might have been a lucky guess, but might also have had something to do with the way his nostrils flared as he leaned over Nicholas's glass to order.
He smiled. “Thanks, Nick.”
"We're... like, th'same," murmured Nicholas into his next glass. "Know what it's like to be different. Just... wanna do the job, not, not get caught up in emotional soulsucking, yunno?"
“Absolutely,” agreed Kinnell. “And you've been having a rough time of it, lately. I mean, all you can do is try'n set a good example, right? You feel like it's your fault, when they're the ones not listening."
Nicholas waved a finger, eyes wide. Kinnell had hit the matter straight on the nail. God, was he smart.
"Yeah, yeah, n'sometimes you just want them to keep their mouths shut."
“I know how it is,” sighed Kinnell. “Some people, they find something you just don't want everyone knowing- everyone's got something, right?- they swear hand-on-heart they'll never tell a soul, how could they, you're their boss, you're their friend, and you just know they're dying of fucking glee counting the seconds before they can get to the nearest water-cooler.”
Nicholas gaped, stupidly. He nearly fell over, Kinnell was so right.
"'Zactly. Exactly."
“And of course it's ten times worse in a little place like this,” mused Kinnell, stacking beermats into little tents on the bar. “You think office politics are bad in the city, Christ, just wait till you get to a place where everyone seems to be everyone else's half-cousin and still pissed off about what happened to the spoons at the wedding, and they all think acumen is the name of a Pokemon. Can I get you another?”
*
"'Nanks," slurred Nicholas into his epilep- epollit- shoulder-thingy. It felt like his legs were melting into the pavement, but that was okay because Kinnell had him under the other arm, helping him along. Danny could carry Nicholas, sure, but he was a bloody betrayer and a backstabber and sides, he was twice Nick's weight, not like Alex who had barely any more meat on his trim body than Nick did. S' damn impressive, is what it was.
"S', s' uppisway. Think."
Over Sandford, a bleary, dancing red sun was setting, which meant that most of the regulars at the Crown would be arriving off their work hours, and he was quite glad he'd been getting his drinking in before he'd have to share the room with anyone of consequence. Smart. Very smart of himself, really.
“Yeah, I know, mate, I've been there,” said Kinnell, gently, hefting Nicholas's trailing arm into a slightly better position on his shoulder. Together, they were slowly but surely conquering the length of Spencer Hill, wobbling gently towards the wide sweep of rudimentary road on the corner, towards the clean, well-maintained curve of Nicholas's garden fence.
“Nearly there now. Have you got your keys?”
"Back trouser pocket," mumbled Nicholas, swinging backwards like a little kid on the best tire swing in the world. "You're a good friend, you know that? R'liable. Bes' fren I got right now, you lookin' affer me."
“It's a pleasure, Nick. Just hang in there a second, okay?”
With all the care of someone playing a funfair wire-loop game, he extracted Nicholas's housekeys from his back pocket, and unlocked the door, pushing it open while helping Nicholas stay upright with the other arm.
“There you go.”
"C'min, c'min," said Nicholas, too eagerly, slapping inside for the lightswitch. "Or, or'm gonna be a baddog. Host."
With various encouragemensts and a fair bit of nifty steering, Kinnell helped him through the front hall and into the living room, looking for a place to deposit him safely. On the way, he glanced sharply across to the clock on the hall table. It was just after half-past six.
The warm light from the front hall didn't penetrate far beyond the living room door, and in the gathering twilight the room was grainy grey and full of strange shadows. Kinnell, who hadn't seen the living room at all the last time he'd been in Nicholas's house, moved carefully, trying not to fall over anything before he could find the light switch.
"Y'like me, Alex, right?" said Nicholas, plaintively, as they stumbled into his coffee table. His expression was suddenly quite like an owned dog contemplating being taken back to the pound.
“Course I do,” said Kinnell, hefting him onto the sofa. He sounded a little surprised. “You're a good bloke, Nick. A good friend. Anyone can see that.”
For someone so fantastically drunk, it was startling how fast Nicholas could move, turning Kinnell's steadying grip into something with which to pull him down onto the sofa, and in the dark there really was no more warning than a hand ghosting across Kinnell's jaw and a whisky-flavored murmur of-
"God you're gorgeous."
-before Nicholas was leaning forward and devouring his mouth.
“Whmf?!”
Kinnel's eyes widened, his body tensing up like Nicholas had delivered an electric shock directly to an extremely sensitive part of his anatomy. His only free hand flailed, dug into the arm of the couch. Nicholas was startlingly strong for someone so far gone, as well, clearly much more than he'd anticipated, and it was another few seconds before he managed to break away, pushing up off the couch and Nicholas's chest to get his balance back. He stumbled, finding the coffee table behind the back of his legs, and sat down on it with a jolt.
“Uh- Nick- I- look,” he stammered, “I'm- I'm sorry- I don't go that way.”
Nicholas stayed where he'd been shoved against the back of the couch. He sounded confused. "Neither d'I."
"Uh...” Kinnell took a moment, breathed, ran his hands through his hair, reassembling himself. “Alright, don't worry. Don't worry about it, we're both a bit out of it, right? Uhm... shit. Okay.”
"'Kay," mumbled Nicholas, obediently. "Wusrong?"
Another deep breath, another half-run through his hair. Then, Kinnell looked up and smiled. It was still a slightly shaken smile, but it had all the right components, at least.
“Nothing. I'm fine if you are, mate. Take it easy.”
"Y'sure y'don't hate me?"
"Positive,” said Kinnell. “Trust me.”
"Yeah, yeah," said Nicholas, head flopping back against the headrest, eyes shut. "Kay."
Kinnell closed his own eyes for a moment, hard-blinking. Then he opened them again and fixed a wide-eyed, unfocused look of whew-mixed-with-what-the-fuck on the opposite wall for a moment, then slid off the coffee table. He moved cautiously around the sofa, lowering himself without making a sound onto the arm of the opposite chair. This positioned, he settled back to wait. This, by his relaxed body language and complete lack of fidgeting, was something he was very good at.
"Nicholas?" he said, after about ten minutes.
No answer. By the sound of it, Nicholas was settling into the worst alcohol coma of his life.
Kinnell moved towards him, still as quiet as a panther in bedsocks. Checked his breathing, his colour, carefully thumbed an eyelid to observe one dilated, black-hole pupil. All fine; the definition of 'fine' here being 'fucked up beyond belief and likely to stay comatose for the next ten or twelve hours, but not actually in need of an ambulance.'
At last he stood, stretched. Took a long, unhurried time about it, shoulders and back and arms and neck. Finally, he breathed out briskly, and loosened his tie.
“Right, then, Nick,” he said, softly, to the unconscious Inspector. “Let's see what you've got for me.”
Chapter 7
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Characters/Pairings: Nicholas/Danny, Nicholas/OC, Doris, Bob, Andes, Saxon, Turners, OC
Rating: PG-15
Chapter 5
Nicholas didn't care that technically he was still on duty. Technically, he was in uniform. Technically, he was a role model for the community, and if he'd ever even considered this in London he'd be out of the Force faster than Uncle Derek. But after the third or fourth whisky on the rocks, leaning heavily on the Crown bar, he was able to quash that little arsehole running around in the pit of his empty stomach telling him what a terrible idea this was, to get bladdered before 5, and replace it with warm fuzzy liquor-enhanced anger.
Anger was a lot more comfortable to think in than to contemplate how fucking terrified he was, after all.
How fucking stupid was Danny, going around like that behind his back? He'd probably thought it was a laugh, to share something of that magnitude with Doris. And Doris, of course, had reacted like any normal intelligent human being (i.e. not Danny Butterman), like Nicholas's father had, only instead of outright hatred and abrupt social disengagement, she'd retaliated from within her own ranks, hating him in secret until the opportune moment. Nicholas's reaction, which he'd been unable to control, especially in front of them all- so obviously smothered- would only go on to prove her point. Also, bitch. She'd put salt in his tea.
The Crown was barely a quarter-full at this time of day. There was barely a trickle of late-lunchers left, sharing a few tables with the mid-afternoon hangers-on who'd turned up to get some serious drinking in before the evening crowds arrived. Gwen Richards, the Crown's new owner, was no newcomer to bartending, and although neither she nor any of the bar staff had ever seen the Chief Inspector behave anything like this, she knew better than to do anything other than keep quiet, serve drinks and stay the hell away from the aura of unpleasantness which was coming off Nicholas in waves.
The other patrons avoided him, too, on the same principle, and so he remained in his own little bubble of personal space until, finally and cautiously, someone approached.
“Sir? Are you alright?”
Nicholas swayed as he swivelled the stool around.
"Nuh. Alecks."
The look on Kinnell's face seemed suddenly hilarious in a not-really way. So he threw back his head and laughed, which was a mistake, because it sounded more like loud, unhappy barking.
"Nah. N'really. An'body else tag along?"
Kinnell slid onto the stool next to him. He shook his head, eyeing Nicholas's nearly-empty glass.
“What can I get you?”
"More'v'the same'd be nice." A hand clapped Kinnell on the shoulder. "You know? Yeragoodfriend. A really, goodfriend. Unlike therestoffum fuckers. Go for the throat, they do, when they get haffa chance."
Kinnell got Frannie's attention and ordered a Chivas on the rocks, which as it happened was exactly more of the same, right down to the brand. With three to choose from, it might have been a lucky guess, but might also have had something to do with the way his nostrils flared as he leaned over Nicholas's glass to order.
He smiled. “Thanks, Nick.”
"We're... like, th'same," murmured Nicholas into his next glass. "Know what it's like to be different. Just... wanna do the job, not, not get caught up in emotional soulsucking, yunno?"
“Absolutely,” agreed Kinnell. “And you've been having a rough time of it, lately. I mean, all you can do is try'n set a good example, right? You feel like it's your fault, when they're the ones not listening."
Nicholas waved a finger, eyes wide. Kinnell had hit the matter straight on the nail. God, was he smart.
"Yeah, yeah, n'sometimes you just want them to keep their mouths shut."
“I know how it is,” sighed Kinnell. “Some people, they find something you just don't want everyone knowing- everyone's got something, right?- they swear hand-on-heart they'll never tell a soul, how could they, you're their boss, you're their friend, and you just know they're dying of fucking glee counting the seconds before they can get to the nearest water-cooler.”
Nicholas gaped, stupidly. He nearly fell over, Kinnell was so right.
"'Zactly. Exactly."
“And of course it's ten times worse in a little place like this,” mused Kinnell, stacking beermats into little tents on the bar. “You think office politics are bad in the city, Christ, just wait till you get to a place where everyone seems to be everyone else's half-cousin and still pissed off about what happened to the spoons at the wedding, and they all think acumen is the name of a Pokemon. Can I get you another?”
*
"'Nanks," slurred Nicholas into his epilep- epollit- shoulder-thingy. It felt like his legs were melting into the pavement, but that was okay because Kinnell had him under the other arm, helping him along. Danny could carry Nicholas, sure, but he was a bloody betrayer and a backstabber and sides, he was twice Nick's weight, not like Alex who had barely any more meat on his trim body than Nick did. S' damn impressive, is what it was.
"S', s' uppisway. Think."
Over Sandford, a bleary, dancing red sun was setting, which meant that most of the regulars at the Crown would be arriving off their work hours, and he was quite glad he'd been getting his drinking in before he'd have to share the room with anyone of consequence. Smart. Very smart of himself, really.
“Yeah, I know, mate, I've been there,” said Kinnell, gently, hefting Nicholas's trailing arm into a slightly better position on his shoulder. Together, they were slowly but surely conquering the length of Spencer Hill, wobbling gently towards the wide sweep of rudimentary road on the corner, towards the clean, well-maintained curve of Nicholas's garden fence.
“Nearly there now. Have you got your keys?”
"Back trouser pocket," mumbled Nicholas, swinging backwards like a little kid on the best tire swing in the world. "You're a good friend, you know that? R'liable. Bes' fren I got right now, you lookin' affer me."
“It's a pleasure, Nick. Just hang in there a second, okay?”
With all the care of someone playing a funfair wire-loop game, he extracted Nicholas's housekeys from his back pocket, and unlocked the door, pushing it open while helping Nicholas stay upright with the other arm.
“There you go.”
"C'min, c'min," said Nicholas, too eagerly, slapping inside for the lightswitch. "Or, or'm gonna be a baddog. Host."
With various encouragemensts and a fair bit of nifty steering, Kinnell helped him through the front hall and into the living room, looking for a place to deposit him safely. On the way, he glanced sharply across to the clock on the hall table. It was just after half-past six.
The warm light from the front hall didn't penetrate far beyond the living room door, and in the gathering twilight the room was grainy grey and full of strange shadows. Kinnell, who hadn't seen the living room at all the last time he'd been in Nicholas's house, moved carefully, trying not to fall over anything before he could find the light switch.
"Y'like me, Alex, right?" said Nicholas, plaintively, as they stumbled into his coffee table. His expression was suddenly quite like an owned dog contemplating being taken back to the pound.
“Course I do,” said Kinnell, hefting him onto the sofa. He sounded a little surprised. “You're a good bloke, Nick. A good friend. Anyone can see that.”
For someone so fantastically drunk, it was startling how fast Nicholas could move, turning Kinnell's steadying grip into something with which to pull him down onto the sofa, and in the dark there really was no more warning than a hand ghosting across Kinnell's jaw and a whisky-flavored murmur of-
"God you're gorgeous."
-before Nicholas was leaning forward and devouring his mouth.
“Whmf?!”
Kinnel's eyes widened, his body tensing up like Nicholas had delivered an electric shock directly to an extremely sensitive part of his anatomy. His only free hand flailed, dug into the arm of the couch. Nicholas was startlingly strong for someone so far gone, as well, clearly much more than he'd anticipated, and it was another few seconds before he managed to break away, pushing up off the couch and Nicholas's chest to get his balance back. He stumbled, finding the coffee table behind the back of his legs, and sat down on it with a jolt.
“Uh- Nick- I- look,” he stammered, “I'm- I'm sorry- I don't go that way.”
Nicholas stayed where he'd been shoved against the back of the couch. He sounded confused. "Neither d'I."
"Uh...” Kinnell took a moment, breathed, ran his hands through his hair, reassembling himself. “Alright, don't worry. Don't worry about it, we're both a bit out of it, right? Uhm... shit. Okay.”
"'Kay," mumbled Nicholas, obediently. "Wusrong?"
Another deep breath, another half-run through his hair. Then, Kinnell looked up and smiled. It was still a slightly shaken smile, but it had all the right components, at least.
“Nothing. I'm fine if you are, mate. Take it easy.”
"Y'sure y'don't hate me?"
"Positive,” said Kinnell. “Trust me.”
"Yeah, yeah," said Nicholas, head flopping back against the headrest, eyes shut. "Kay."
Kinnell closed his own eyes for a moment, hard-blinking. Then he opened them again and fixed a wide-eyed, unfocused look of whew-mixed-with-what-the-fuck on the opposite wall for a moment, then slid off the coffee table. He moved cautiously around the sofa, lowering himself without making a sound onto the arm of the opposite chair. This positioned, he settled back to wait. This, by his relaxed body language and complete lack of fidgeting, was something he was very good at.
"Nicholas?" he said, after about ten minutes.
No answer. By the sound of it, Nicholas was settling into the worst alcohol coma of his life.
Kinnell moved towards him, still as quiet as a panther in bedsocks. Checked his breathing, his colour, carefully thumbed an eyelid to observe one dilated, black-hole pupil. All fine; the definition of 'fine' here being 'fucked up beyond belief and likely to stay comatose for the next ten or twelve hours, but not actually in need of an ambulance.'
At last he stood, stretched. Took a long, unhurried time about it, shoulders and back and arms and neck. Finally, he breathed out briskly, and loosened his tie.
“Right, then, Nick,” he said, softly, to the unconscious Inspector. “Let's see what you've got for me.”
Chapter 7