Work Text:
Title: The Spot
Fandom: Hot Fuzz
Author: dr-tectonic
Word Count: 1200? Seriously? It was supposed to be a drabble, I swear.
Rating: PG for reference to buttocks
Warnings: Biology, ew.
Summary: "Is it the intercostals again?" "No."
It was not a story that he would ever tell anyone, because it was intensely unromantic and embarrassing, not to mention a little bit gross and disgusting, but Danny Butterman knew the exact moment when he realized that Nicholas Angel loved him just as much as he loved Nick. Maybe more.
It would have been immensely easier to figure out if either of them had worked themselves around to saying "I love you" or something straightforward like that, but then again, it would also have been easier if they had met in a gay bar in Soho, wouldn't it? (Not that Danny had ever been to a gay bar in Soho, or anywhere else for that matter, though he had looked with secret interest at the back pages of some of those free newspapers that made their way even to a place like Sandford.)
Instead, it was a moment when Nicholas said, simply, "sorry".
This moment wasn't one that happened at any time during The Incident, as it came to be called. There had been some instances of... emotion when things were Getting Real and Going Down (Danny couldn't help but think about it in capitalized phrases), but they could all be chalked up to adrenaline, to fear, to the heat of the moment and the general madness that had filled the air like a thousand burning scraps of paper floating down after a sea-mine explosion in a police station. Danny had duly chalked up, excused away, and written off all of those moments, putting checkmarks in the appropriate mental boxes on imaginary form XB-15-NA, "Reasons Not To Read Too Much Into It When He Looks At You Like That". Because... superior officer, baton of honor, an' all that. Not getting hopes up inappropriately.
Nor was it a moment in the immediate aftermath. While he was in hospital, there were more than moments, there were hours, days, even, when Nicholas was kind and solicitous and ever-present and worried and just... everything. But that could have been any number of things. Guilt. Gratitude. Getting hit in the head with a chunk of brick. Being doped to the gills for his own injuries. More mental checkboxes, details provided in the space below, sign and date on the dotted line before filing.
No, it was much later, when Danny was finally well enough to wear normal clothes and walk a little — with a cane, but still, walking — and go home and sleep in his own bed. Despite Danny's protests, Nicholas stopped by every morning on his way in to work, "just to say hello", but more often than not he ended up tending to Danny. There was a nurse, a woman in her 40s named Agnes who was nice enough that Danny didn't even care she was from Buford Abbey, whose job it was to do the tending, but Nicholas didn't care, and in fact seemed to take delight in the prospect of making her attentions wholly superfluous. He dispensed pills, and checked sutures that hadn't yet finished healing, and helped with shirts. And that last was truly a god-send, because as it turns out, there's something about taking a shot from a blunderbuss in the stomach that messes up one's ability to raise one's arms without significant discomfort something fierce.
"Are you all right?" asked Nicholas, after they had gingerly wrestled Danny into one of his five Bristol Rovers jerseys. (He used to only have the one, but they were loose and comfortable and anyway, two of them had been get-well presents.)
"'M fine," responded Danny from where he sat on the edge of the bed.
"No you're not, you're shifting about like you can't get comfortable and your eyebrows are all scrunched up the way they get when you're in pain," said Nicholas. "Is it the intercostals again?"
"No. It's just— I've got a spot."
"A spot?"
"Ingrown hair or something. On my arse."
"Well, let's have a look at it, then."
"Nick!" protested Danny.
"What?" countered Nicholas, "It could be an incipient bedsore. It could get infected, Danny. You have to take good care of yourself. You're still injured. Recovery takes time."
Danny knew that tone of voice by now. You could try to argue with it, but it was no use, barring some minor entertainment value as a way to pass the time. He'd end up examined in the end. Might as well give in and get it over with now, while the nurse still wasn't due for another two hours.
"Gah. Fine." He rolled face-down onto the bed, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down just halfway, no more than necessary. "There." He pointed at the bump of discomfort.
"Mmm," said Nicholas. "Yup, I see it. That is an ugly one. Probably just a pimple, though. Do you want me to lance it, or—"
"Don't talk about it, just deal with it!" said Danny, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Bad enough I'm lyin' here half-naked without you yammering on about it." His ears were hot with embarrassment.
"All right, all right. Hold tight." He placed his thumbs on either side of the spot, and Danny blushed even more at the feel of his hands down there, but the blush was quickly washed away by pain as Nicholas began to squeeze.
"Ow. Ow!" said Danny.
"Sorry," said Nick. "Almost got it..." And then he did get it, and the pain stopped, but Danny's brain raced right on, because the way that he'd said 'sorry'...
It wasn't just a little social sorry, it was a serious sorry. It was genuine regret for causing pain but caring enough to do it anyway, and worry for Danny's well-being, and just wanting him to be happy and not hurting anymore, all bundled up into that little hiss of indrawn breath through his teeth right before he said the word itself with that very Angel brand of sincerity.
There was love laced all through that 'sorry', raw and sweet like chunks of cookie dough in a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and suddenly Danny looked back with new eyes on everything that had happened since the first time he ever heard someone say "cranberry juice" in the pub. It was like realizing that the picture of the ugly old lady in a babushka was actually a picture of a pretty young woman with a necklace and a hat, cor, would you look at that! Amazing! Mentally, he pulled out all those forms he'd filed away explaining and excusing Sergeant Angel's behavior and tore them into tiny little bits. Then he threw the bits into the air and they rained down like confetti in his brain.
"Euch," said Nicholas, grabbing a tissue from the box on the nightstand to wipe his fingers and the remnants of the spot. "There, that better?"
"Yeah, much," said Danny, hitching his pants back up. "Thanks." He smiled.
Hell of a thing. Not something you could ever explain to someone else. "How did I know he loved me? 'Cos he squeezed a zit on me arse for me."
But still he smiled, because he knew exactly what that 'sorry' had meant. It meant that "I love you" would be coming, soon enough.