FANDOM: Hot Fuzz
WORD COUNT: 1300ish
RATING: PG, for the goddamn swearing
SUMMARY: "He must be Indian, then. Like Kevin Costner. Here comes the Queen!"
WARNINGS: American spelling, spoilers, regicide. Also I spelled "horsie" wrong when I first posted this.
DISCLAIMER: Obviously not mine. Sometimes it comes over and raids the icebox. I hope to God it checks the dates on the food before it takes anything.
ARCHIVE: Please ask first.
There are times in a person's life when simple patience is rewarded with advancement. Danny Butterman, for example, had been promoted from bed and hospital gown to pajamas and a wheelchair. Nicholas Angel, ever the over-achiever, was now a free man in grown-up clothes, able to come and go as he wished. This of course meant that he got to push the chair, and had to resist the urge to thump Danny on the head when he made motorcycle engine noises.
They generally hid out in what the hospital's architect, in a moment of un-English optimism, had designated the sun room.
Nicholas offered to teach Danny chess, hoping it would help him keep boredom at bay. Danny picked up the basics quickly, if you didn't try to make him worry about notation. It had to be said, however, that his style of play was proving to be quite unlike anything Nicholas had ever encountered.
Danny sent a knight after Angel's sacrificial pawn. "Reeheheheheeeeeeee! Here comes the horsie! 'Oh no! I'll be trampled!' Stomp stomp stomp stomp. 'Aaaaagh I die'. Reeheheheheeeeeeee. He's killed your pawn. So sad, he'll never see his wife and little ones again."
"Well done," Angel said dryly.
"The horse's name is Ken. If you need to take a minute to gather yourself, write a letter to the pawn's family, that's okay. I know that sort of thing can be very hard on a commander."
What hath I wrought? Angel wondered. He fixed Danny with a look.
Danny smiled at him, unconcerned. Angel had a sudden mental picture of the inside of Danny's head as a very large bouncy castle, in a particularly manic holiday camp, the water supply of which had been liberally spiked with LSD. Sighing, he moved his own horsie--knight.
"Poor bloke, nothing to do but graze. What's his name?"
"What is your horsie's name?"
"It's a knight. It doesn't have a name."
"You're sending that poor animal out to fight and possibly die for you, and you can't be arsed to give it a name? You cold bastard."
Dear God, Nicholas thought, if you kill me now, I'll never doubt your existence again. I'll even believe the bits of the Bible that make you look like a childish psychopath.
He was not struck by lightning.
No? You smug, omnipotent bastard. "It's called...Hal."
"Hello, Hal," Danny told the knight. "Well, we'll leave Hal alone for the moment. But...what's this? Out of nowhere, it's...Pointy Stabby Bishop! He's reached ramming speed, and, oh God, he's impaled a pawn right on his hat! 'Aaaaaaaaah! My spleen!' Stab stab impale stab. 'Feel the wrath of my hat! The power of Christ compels you!' Why are there bishops in the army, anyway? That seems a bit weird, even for olden knighty times."
"I don't know. I never thought about it before." He'd had a plan at some point, but it had been rendered useless by the sheer randomness of Butterman Bag of Green Plastic Army Men Theater. Oh well. Stick to the basics, you can't go far wrong. Angel sent another pawn out into the field.
"What's his name, then?"
"Make your move, or I swear I'll kill you."
"Really? He must be Indian, then. Like Kevin Costner. Here comes the Queen! 'Helloooo.' See? She's doing that wave like she's changing a light bulb. 'Hellooooo!'" Danny demonstrated the Royal Wave.
"Are you sure you want to do that?" Nicholas asked. It seemed a bit early to be bringing out the queens.
"She's the Queen, man. She's a force of nature. Nobody tells her how to roll."
"All right, then." Angel took her out with a horsie--knight. Knight, damn it!
"Oh, Hal, what have you done? The whole world has gone into mourning. An empire weeps. Emissaries are sent from around the globe. Elton John rewrites 'Honky Cat' for the service. It's very touching."
"Honky Cat?" Nicholas tried to imagine this, and failed.
"Yes. We probably have to wear dress uniforms. Oh, look, here comes Prince Charles!" He moved a rook down the whole length of the board. "'I'm in charge now! Change the money! My face goes on the money!' Hey, I keep forgetting to ask. What did you do with my car?"
"Uh..." Oh Christ. Danny's car. The car that Danny trusted him with, and he...oh dear Christ on a kite with champagne and nibbly crackers. "I --"
"Oh, hey, check."
"I'm supposed to say check. 'Cause your king's right there lined up with the little castle."
"That can't be--good God!"
Stop being random! "It should be done in a few more days. You'll have to sign some stuff."
"Done? Oh, you mean the car."
"Well, not so much done as completely replaced. Since it was a bit destroyed."
Danny actually looked rather pleased. "A bit?"
"Essentially a bit. I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry. I keep meaning to tell you, but I think I may have hysterically blocked it out."
Danny nodded, unconcerned. "We've been busy. It happens. Are you gonna move?"
"No, I'm definitely staying here. Oh. The game." No problem. Just move something in between them and...leave his king to the mercy of Stabby Bishop. Fuck. Okay, the king can go over a space and...Evil Horsie Ken will trample him. His queen can...oh, she can't. Fuck. "Fuck."
"Did I do it wrong?"
"You're winding me up."
"What? Little castle guy goes in straight lines, right?"
"This is not your first time playing chess."
"Well, no. But you looked so bored. How was it essentially destroyed, then?"
"Oh. Well. In the course of recent events...I sort of might have rammed it into Mr Reaper's car."
"Rammed?" Danny perked up at this. If it was even possible for him to perk up more. Add baseline Butterman perkiness to various medications, his being rather chuffed about not having died, his rapidly improving condition, and, on the whole, he was really fucking perky.
"Yes." Damn it, I'm supposed to feel guilty and you look at me like I'm the best Collie ever.
"Excellent. So it's not that you're a completely crap driver, then?"
"Didn't think so. Oh, that's why you were riding Graham!"
"Mr and Mrs Reaper's horse. The white one. Graham."
"I didn't know he was called Graham."
"Graham the horse." Well, why not?
"They have another one called Tarquin. Was it really cool?"
"When you rammed Mr Reaper's car?"
"I..." To his surprise, Angel found himself grinning. "It was unbelievably fucking cool! Mr Reaper was on his radio -- he had a car radio, can you fucking believe it? -- about to call for help, so I fired up the Jetta and rammed it into his car and he was left standing there with the mic and a little dangly curly wire." He imitated the curly wire with a finger.
Danny grinned back. "Heeyeah! Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. Are you going to move?"
"No, I told you, I'm staying. What the hell are they giving you?"
"The game." Angel had been demoted to Collie whose mother had slept on him a lot.
"Oh. Well, I seem to have lost."
Danny blinked. "Really?"
"Yes. Enjoy it. It will never happen again."
Danny's expression was, for the first time in Angel's experience, quite unreadable. "Go again?"
"Oh, why not?" Nicholas set up the pieces again. "Did the car have a name?"
Danny looked appalled. "'Course not. I'm not a fucking girl."
"Oh, of course." He inclined his head at the board. "Go ahead. White goes first."
"That's discrimination, that is." Danny pondered the board for a moment, then moved a pawn. "Hey, when I'm out of here, can you teach me to swordfight?"
"Absolutely fucking not."