fic post: Faithful Departed

[phosfate]

TITLE: Faithful Departed
FANDOM: Hot Fuzz
AUTHOR: annlarimer
WORD COUNT: 1,000ish
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: A holiday story. But not one of the nice ones. "Drive safe!"
WARNINGS: Spoilers; American spelling; a heapin' helping of DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.
NOTES: c&c welcomed.
DISCLAIMER: Obviously not mine.
ARCHIVE: Please ask first.



"I want to do what you do."

"You do do what I do. And that doesn't sound any more convincing than when you said it, does it?"

Nicholas shook his head. "Not really."

They were in the Crown, over pints, and had reached the mildly silly stage of the evening.

"All right. All right. I will show you. But you got to do what I say exactly. This is tricky and dangerous."

"I promise."

"Seriously. Men have had their eyes out doing this."

"What about women?"

"Not women."

"You're telling me that no woman has ever attempted this?"

"No, I'm saying they...they're not like us."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "In what way, exactly?"

"Very small hands. Stops them putting their eyes out. Okay. You got your ketchup?"

"Er...no, actually."

Danny gave him a disappointed look, then reached into a pocket and produced two sachets. Nicholas wondered how much ketchup Danny actually kept on his person at any given moment. "I'm gonna give you one from my stash. But be prepared next time."

Nicholas took it. "Thank you. I will." He could keep them in his notebook pocket, he supposed. Or his hat.

"Got your fork?"

Nicholas brandished a fork, with a little twirl. "Here, sir."

"Okay. We're gonna do a few practice goes."

"F-A-B."

"F-A-B? Okay. You take your ketchup, and you hold it...like this. You want the skin of the sachet to be really taut so you get good burst action when you poke it."

That may be the oddest sentence I've ever heard, Nicholas thought. He held his ketchup over his left eye. "How's this?"

"Perfectly excellent. Keep it tight, but close your fingers, so your vict--audience can't see."

Nicholas did so.

"Now. You hold your fork...thusly. You want to point it upwards when you stab, so your eyebrow...ridge...thing takes the impact. But don't be too obvious."

"Like this?"

"You're choking it. You want accuracy and flexibility."

"This better?"

"Much. Okay, watch me. You bring the fork...up to the ketchup...like this. No, just watch. Eyes on me. Fork to the ketchup, fork to the ketchup, smooth and easy motion. Okay, now do it with me. Fork to the ketchup."

Nicholas followed his action. "Fork..."

"Very good."

"...ketchup."

In unison: "Fork to the ketchup. Fork to the ketchup. Fork to the ketchup."

Mary Porter was looking at them oddly from behind the bar.

Danny nodded approvingly. "Lovely. Okay. I think...I think you're ready."

"I won't let you down."

"Make me proud, son. Okay. On three."

"Right."

"One. Two. Three!"

Nicholas brought the fork up and stabbed himself right in the sachet. Ketchup spurted everywhere. "AAAAAAAGH! AGH! OH JESUS!"

Danny grinned and applauded. "Heeyeah!"

"OH GOD! MY EYE!"

"Nicholas."

"AAAAGH!"

"Okay. Don't overdo"

"Pardon me. Hihi." Tim Messenger was at the table, doing that hovering thing he always did. "I'm sorry, but people are trying to enjoy themselves, and they really can't do that with you bleeding and screaming."

"It's only ketchup," Nicholas said, and waved the empty sachet.

"Ta-da," Danny offered.

"Sorry. Sorry. Splitting headache."

"I bet," said Nicholas.

"Danny, Merch just folded. You're in." He wandered back to his own table, where a card game was in progress. Leslie Tiller was dealer, looking cross as she tried to work around the enormous pair of shears protruding from her throat.

"Oh. Be right there."

Nicholas felt strangely cold. "Danny..."

"I got to go."

He put a hand on Danny's arm. "You don't."

"You know I do. Can't be helped." He stood, and there was blood coursing from the shotgun wound in his side.

"Danny..." This isn't right, he thought.

Danny's smile was sad and kind, and hurt to see. "We'll see each other later."

I wish I believed that, Nicholas thought. He watched mutely as Danny went off to join the game.

He was distracted when Mary called out, "Irene!"

"Yes?" Older woman, bright-eyed, for some reason dressed as Pocahontas.

"Forgot your keys, love." She tossed them, and they arced alarmingly close to Nicholas' head.

"Ta!" Irene caught them one-handed.

"Drive safe, Mum!" Danny called from the table.

"Jesus," Nicholas muttered.

Then he was sitting upright, blinking in darkness. He was in his own bed. Well, Danny's, which amounted to the same thing, barring the odd Spider-Man pillowcase.

"Did you yell just now?" Danny's voice.

Yes. "I...don't really know. Possibly. Did I? Sorry."

"S'all right. You did me a favor. Jesus." He could practically hear how wide Danny's eyes were.

"You too?"

"Yeah." Half a second later, they were doing the Scooby and Shaggy cling. Two seconds after that, they were snorting at their own foolishness, but didn't quite let go.

"Hate that shit," said Danny. "It's like having angry brain monkeys with sticks."

"It's this foul weather," Nicholas said. "It's like being shut in a jar." The air was thick and heavy lately, stifling despite the cold November wind. The whole squad were feeling the effects. The Andies had resorted to flinging bins at each other. Doris ignored double entendres. Even Saxon was stroppy.

"Time of year, man. But it's nearly Bonfire Night. That gets rid of 'em."

"Good. Wait. Them?"

"You know. The--"

"It's the weather," Nicholas said flatly.

"But the weather's not always--"

"It's the weather."

Danny muttered something that Nicholas couldn't quite catch, and thocked him on the head with one finger.

"Ow." The wind gusted again. Leaves pecked at the windows. At least, Nicholas hoped they were leaves. Though, he thought, it might actually make him feel better to pretend they were some species of mutant bat. Or angry monkeys with sticks. In jars. "Bonfire Night?"

"Yeah."

"I wonder if I could just stay awake until then."

"I've tried. After a couple of days you just see shite while you're awake."

"Damn."

They settled under the covers again, and were quiet for a moment.

"Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever play poker?"

"Nah. I'm rubbish at it."

"Good."

Comments

[annlarimer.livejournal.com]

Yayay! The ketchup schtick was written back in June, with one of the Andies (much angrier) in Tim's place, and just kind of lay there in my notebook, flopping and refusing to turn into anything, because it made no sense. This makes no sense, I thought. Then I thought, heyyyyy...