fic post: The Silent Partner (hot fuzz)

[phosfate]

TITLE: The Silent Partner
FANDOM: Hot Fuzz
AUTHOR: annlarimer
WORD COUNT: Oh, call it 600.
RATING: PG for (all together now) the cussin'!
WARNINGS: Movie spoilers, American spelling
SUMMARY: Woad is a funny word.
NOTES: Crit is love.
DISCLAIMER: Hot Fuzz belongs to Rogue and Universal and all those guys.

Like some avenging...angel, the swan appeared in the rear-view mirror, looking very, very shirty.

The swan hissed -- and, Frank Butterman could have sworn, laughed -- and made a lunge for his face.

Frank was too busy being trying to keep his eyes beak-free. He couldn't steer the car, and never so much as noticed the tree. There was an awful, jarring metallic crumple (was that what Irene had felt at the last?), while something went BWOOF! right into his face.

At least the car had stopped.

"Oh, God," Frank murmured to himself. He was hurt, possibly badly, but the airbag had saved his life. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

I should...what should I do? Frank thought. Check myself for injuries. Yes. I should do that. How do I do that exactly? There's a fucking great balloon in my face.

"Looks like you're for it, Frank," said the swan, from somewhere.

Frank sighed, resigned. Something was wrong in his head. The noise of what must have been a completely imaginary helicopter made it difficult to hear his own voice, let alone the swan's. "This was all your fault. I should never have listened to you."

The swan clambered up from behind the seat, feathers ruffled. "My plan was perfect. Your execution -- forgive the pun -- was flawed."

"Dad!" Danny's voice came from somewhere far off. "Hang on!"

"You're caught as well," Frank pointed out.

"Frank, Frank, Frank. Who're they gonna believe? A psychotic, murdering copper, or one of the Bishop's mute swans? Think about it, Frank. The best you'd get is the bin instead of prison."

"Dad! You all right?" Danny's face appeared in the side window, Nicholas Angel behind him. Danny looked awful. No, wait -- Danny had the head of a pantomime bear. Then Frank blinked, and he only looked like Danny again. But awful.

I ought to feel bad about that, Frank thought, But I'm not sure I feel anything right now.

"You know what happens to rats in Sandford, Frank," the swan muttered in his ear. "So, schtum."

Frank managed, with a twitch of his hand, to click the button that rolled down the side window. It was only polite.

"Don't move," Angel warned. He was wearing an old-fashioned, ruffled clown collar, with big puffballs. Wait. No he wasn't.

"This isn't over," Frank growled.

The swan hissed softly, then winked at him.

"Oh, Frank, it is over," Angel said. There was a note of pity in his voice, which only made Frank hate him more than ever. Angel carefully reached in and took Frank's gun.

"Not you," Frank told him.

"Did you hit your head, Dad?" Danny asked.

"Who can say, son?"

"Well, you could," Danny said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which, now Frank thought about it, Danny specialized in.

Betrayed by my own son. My own son, who is, god bless him, thicker than a tub of jelly with thickening agent added for extra thickness. "I wish you'd shot me, you young idiot."

Danny actually smiled at him. It was a disconcerting smile, what with the Zorro mask. "Now, now, none of that."

"Please take that off." There were sirens in the distance now, as well as the helicopter.

"He definitely hit his head," Danny told Angel. Angel nodded. They were back to themselves, now, apart from the woad. "Stay still, okay, Dad?"

Woad is a funny word, Frank thought. Woad. Woaaaad. "Woad."

"What?" said Danny.

"Woad," agreed the swan.

"Frank Butterman, you are argle boingy boingy throggle," said Angel. "If you flink margarine dustmite underpants coingle mashmarsh harpy bin. Bismuth Hampstead glyph tiny things."

Someone will pay for this, Frank thought.

"SMERSH wrangle flarg later in court."

"Woad?" said Danny.

"Woad," said the swan.

I do hope it's not me.



Thanks to: viedma for the swell betage.