Notes: A Hot Fuzz/Psych crossover story. Picks up where "Brought to You by Murder" left off. Does not exactly pick up where "Hot Fuzz" left off.
Summary: The Pirate Festival is back in Santa Barbara.
Warnings: Swearing, lots of it.
Pairings: SS/CL, BG/JoH, NA/DB
Length: TBD (WIP)

-x-

"The Angels cursed me blind/
with straight and crooked thinking"

(Above and Beyond, "Alone Tonight")

-x-

April, 2006
London, England

Celebrated actor Callum Quain looked at the email he'd just received on his mobile. Emails were rare for him, anyway, unless it was one of his industry friends letting him know about an event, with a link to a website, or a ha-ha joke of the day that'd somehow missed Quain beforehand. But this email was an email to stop all emails. Quain actually stopped himself, right in the middle of exiting his trailer on the set of an independent motion picture. He stopped to read the message once, feeling his blood get cold. Then, seconds later, he felt his blood get hot, as if he'd fallen into something sweet and forbidden and alluring. In a way, he kind of had.

"Cal," called the assistant director, drawing the heartthrob actor's attention away from the tiny mobile screen long enough to realize that there was a filming schedule to stick to. "Come on, let's go. Just put the mobile down."

The two of them shared an understanding smirk. Cal could put the mobile down, leaving it in the designated chair off-set that had his name painted on the back. He could go on with his work. There were only two days left of filming, anyway. Two days was nothing. And in a few short, short hours, filming would wrap up, and he'd be sitting down at a favored coffee house in Primrose Hill. He'd be with his favorite person in the whole of London, though, perhaps, not exactly the whole world. But to have a person that he liked more than he liked anyone else, more than he liked his exes and he liked his lovers—it still astounded him. He loved his selfishness, loved that he thought the whole of the world revolved around him—and loved that there were a few people—oh so few people—who continued to challenge that imperial belief of his.

He wondered what Nicholas wanted to talk to him about. Maybe Nicholas had finally come to his senses and left Janine—they'd been having difficulties for months, and the end was obviously in sight. Nicholas wasn't the type to air his romantic woes, not with anyone, and certainly not with Britain's hottest tabloid artifact. No doubt the Met's shining constable of a knight would know he was taking a risk meeting with Callum Quain in a public place. Meeting with Callum Quain anywhere was the only seriously wrong thing Nicholas Angel did. So, what was the meaning of it? Why did Angel want to see him?

Callum thought he'd never get to Primrose Hill in time to keep his appointment with Nicholas. He was seven minutes late, thanks to traffic, but was rewarded by the sight of Nicholas in the café. Living up to his surname, Angel was dressed in a white officer's shirt, minus the tie, and the black trousers replaced by well-worn blue jeans. Callum, as usual, was in a state of shock at the sight of Nicholas, a kind of sublimity that seeped from the constable, a toughness and a softness and all the contradictions that Quain had found hopelessly endearing and atrociously formidable throughout their fourteen months as friends. Quain had no delusions, aware that the friendship would've petered out had he not been so persistent, had he not rung Nicholas up repeatedly, had he not insisted that the two of them meet occasionally, often at that same coffeehouse. Nicholas Angel could take and leave his friendships. Callum had an entirely different approach to those he trusted, preferring to yank them in and tie them together, and not do as the pragmatic Angel did by pushing them away to keep his independent strength from melting into a perfectly respectful and altogether human vulnerability.

The belief deepened as Quain took a seat across from Nicholas at their "usual" table by the back window. The place was not crowded, but it was loud with the sounds of industry, with chatter that blended into a roar-like cacophony and melded into bland singer-songwriter music blasted down from strategically-placed speakers. All Callum wanted was for Angel to reach the point.

"Something's wrong with you," Quain observed after they'd imparted the typical grumbled greetings with the typical smack of gripping hands. "I know when there's something wrong with you, Nicholas, try as you do to hide everything."

"I can't hide this," Nicholas started, tore up again by frustration and disgust. To whom was the disgust directed? At the police for their accusations and power? No, that was off the mark. He was still part of them, would always be part of them: to dislike them was to dislike himself, and he couldn't do that. To keep occupied, he moved his almost-empty takeaway cup around on the tabletop, his eyes on it rather than Cal. "I had a meeting today with—with, well—with everybody at the station."

"Finally get your promotion?" He thought there was something else, but perhaps Nicholas was just not as glad about making sergeant as he thought he'd be. Dreams, when finally grasped, were sometimes bitter and gory at first taste. "Good! About damn time. You deserve it."

Nicholas fanned him with a hard gaze. "Yeah, I did get my promotion—in bloody Gloucestershire." Hearing it aloud again, Nicholas skimmed a palm across his face, over his pate of short, gold hair, and left his hand as a fist upon the table. "In Gloucestershire," he repeated at a low tone. He sensed Callum's disbelief. That was exactly where Nicholas had been five hours ago. In a way, he was just rising from the surprise. He'd been stunned. He'd been backstabbed. His thoughts of fitting in with his peers had been completely erroneous. The whole team had wanted him to go away. Hell, the superintendent wanted him to go away. Right then, the manipulative, sardonic and sneaky bastard sitting across from him was probably the only being in all of London that wanted him, Nicholas Angel, around.

Callum landed a hand briefly over Nicholas's fist, but in his imagination he could hear camera lenses of paparazzi snapping, and tucked his arm into his lap. He analyzed Nicholas for a moment, ruminating on wild notions. "Gloucestershire, right? What the fuck's in Gloucestershire?"

"An opening for sergeant at some shit town named Sandford."

Callum's gray-brown eyes, large and soulful and often described as emotional, narrowed in a calculating wince. "Sandford. I've heard of it. Something about it being the best village in the country. It's won that award multiple times."

"There's an award for that?"

They paused in their uniform uncertainty to smirk and snicker.

"Apparently, yeah, there is. Sounds boring as shit, Nicholas. Are you really going to take the job?"

"I haven't got a choice, actually. It's all been decided. It's all been done."

"Oh." Callum ran fingers through the swoop in his thick molasses hair. His eyes scanned Regent's Park Road visible outside the window, knowing that this was going to be one of the worst days of his life. He'd certainly remember it. "I guess that's good, though. You'll get what you wanted. You'll get to be a sergeant. What's better than that?"

"Staying in London and being a sergeant."

"Did they tell you why? Why Gloucestershire?"

"Yeah, they were very upfront about their notion that I'm a saint in a stab-vest making the rest of them look like they can't do their fucking jobs."

Callum tried not to show the amusement he felt. That was very like the Met. "I always said you were aptly named, my dear Angel. If they would get off their lazy asses, and open their eyes to how great you are, they could learn a thing or two. What did Janine say when you told her?"

"I haven't told her yet." Nicholas looked into the takeaway cup, keeping calm. He could be calm now he knew what would happen. He'd known all along that something would come along to snuff out the last embers of his relationship with Janine. If it hadn't been their verbal agreement to see other people—Janine had, but Nicholas had abstained, not intentionally, from pursuing anyone else—it would be an act that twisted up their world, like him getting his promotion in the bloody Cotswolds. He folded his arms as he leaned into the tabletop. "She's processing a scene over in Slough. I'll go over and see her there. Might be easier to talk to her at work rather than—" He cut himself off. Callum picked up where he'd left off.

"Rather than in a coffeehouse that's ironically not that far from a street called Gloucester Avenue."

Nicholas noted the sad side-tilt to Cal's reluctant half-smile.

"Well," started Callum, pausing to breathe, to read nothing into Nicholas deciding to meet with him in person, in relatively intimacy—it was as intimate as Angel got, "I'll continue to be a persistent bastard, Nicholas, and not let our friendship end just because you've left the general vicinity of civilization. Unlike, one must suppose, your relationship with Janine. If she cared about you, she would've never agreed—"

"Yeah, I know," Nicholas ended Callum's insight, "and don't bother, Cal."

"I'm hardly the one to be lecturing you about relationships, or having any kind of closeness with another human being. I'm not that smashing at it myself. I think that's what's drawn me to you all these months. You're a loner, in love with his work. I'd like to be more like that."

"It's not difficult if you find something you love enough."

"Truth is, I love sex more than just about anything. And I very much enjoy doing that with someone else. So—" Cal discontinued, pleased with Nicholas's small chuckles. He sighed, knowing he'd have to say what he wanted to say; he rarely held back anything. "So you'll have to go, but I'll miss you and it'll be painful."

"You'll survive." Nicholas knew what Cal's retort would be. "The Rose Family Curse doesn't exist, and, regardless of how we met, I'm fairly sure you'll be safe here in London without me around." It seemed to really hit him then that he was leaving. He'd been in London for years, and, prior to that, had had no compunctions, no regrets, leaving Kent when finished with university. Why, then, was this turning out to be one of the most painful experiences of his adult life? Was it the betrayal he'd felt on behalf of all at the Met? Was it the finality it would bring his distended end with Janine? What was it, exactly, that was scratching at his soul and making him ache? "With the petulance of a small child, Cal, I do not want to go and I want to hang on to that feeling of not wanting to go. I don't want to go."

"Of course you don't. Who'd want to? With someone of your talent, you should be running the entire Metropolitan Police."

"Yeah, probably. I didn't think the service would be rife with all this back-stabbing and political shit, though. That's not why I became an officer."

"I know," answered Cal softly. He'd heard the tale of Nicholas's history with justice. "You only want to make the world a fair and beautiful place."

"Which makes me wonder what the fuck I'll be able to do in a place like Sandford, Gloucestershire."

"You might be surprised."

And how those four word would haunt Nicholas over the next month, over the next six and a half years. But no more, really, than the last moments he spent with one of his few friends in London, the well-known actor Callum Quain. At least they had something in common: both disliked the Metropolitan Police for personal reasons.

-x-

"You do realize that window was broken from the inside," Nicholas pointed out. In fact, he was entirely unable to help pointing it out to the CSI team buzzing around the crime scene like white plastic bees. He knew he shouldn't have said something the moment Janine tilted her head in that show of exasperation he'd grown familiar with over the last few months. He heard a collective groan from the team, muffled behind their masks. So, Janine was right, after all: Nicholas Angel couldn't switch off. He'd never be able to until he found something or someone that he loved more than he loved his work. He loved his Spathiphyllum, cared for it and kept it alive, loving it only because it depended on him. Janine didn't. Neither did the Met.

In fact, pretty much no one depended on him.

It was as though the last fifteen years of his life, his devotion to reaching his goals and fulfilling his unquenchable desire to bring justice into the aching world, seemed to completely disintegrate.

Pointing out the window was just something he did to stabilize himself. There was always a crime to solve. There was always something going on. Even in Sandford, there'd be something going on.

Janine shoved him out the door and pulled her mask down. Nicholas realized afresh how pretty she was, like the way he would recognize the beauty of a silver screen goddess. A woman untouchable, not for mere mortal fools to adore. He thought again what he'd thought when he first saw her: She'd never love a guy like me.

"Honestly, Nicholas, what do you mean by coming out here and telling me this, now, while I'm at work?"

He felt like saying something childish: At least you have your job, and someone to shag, and life's all fine and good for you, and you're not being sent to conduct your business in bloody Gloucestershire!

But he didn't. He held his tongue firmly to the roof of his mouth. He'd be fine in Gloucestershire. He'd be just fine. As long as he had his work.

Janine was blasted with a moment's pity. "I'm sure you thought it'd be easier than telling me in private, and perhaps you're right about that. I hope you'll find some contentment at your new position. I'm sure they'll find a use for you. Gloucestershire has good LPAs. A little less modern, I suppose, but you'll modernize it. And there are a couple of female superintendents, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're not. It has. I did some research when I was waiting for—" He stopped, gulped, and watched Janine tilt her head again.

"Meet up with him, did you?"

"I thought he should be told. He relies on me being in London."

"He's a cocky shithead that's in love with your power, Nicholas."

"At least someone out there recognizes what I'm capable of—and noticing me for me. As if there is such a difference between the two things, anyway: me and my position. If your theory is to be believed, that is."

"You are your work. You will always be your work. Tell me, at least, was he heartbroken, losing the object of his affection to the sheep and peasants?"

"I am not always my work," he grumbled, now getting angrier, and the angrier he got the more his eyes sparkled, and the more his eyes sparkled the pinker his face turned. Janine was enjoying the show. Talking about Callum Quain lit fireworks in Nicholas like nothing else could. "And he took it fine, thanks. He was grownup about it. Supportive, even."

"Well, what a refreshing change of pace! I'm surprised he didn't throw a tantrum and offer to pay off someone at the Met to keep you at your station for all eternity."

Nicholas opened and closed his mouth, unable to form a witty riposte. He couldn't even form a dull riposte. He couldn't form anything at all.

"He'll probably follow you out there in a little while, you know," Janine went on to say. "I could see him taking to a campestral life for the sake of following after you like a devoted puppy dog. He is madly in love with you, after all. But, unlike me, Callum Quain has the myopic belief that he'll be able to change you, that he'll be able to make you fall in love with something besides work, id est: him."

"He's an idiot," Nicholas clarified. "And he won't follow me to Gloucestershire. At all. Ever. And he's not in love with me."

Janine put her mask back in place, ready to finish up the job inside the broken home. It carried a strange synonym to her life with Nicholas: shattered, smashed, irreparable, a bloody mess. "You might be surprised, Nicholas."

-x-

April, 2006
Cleveland, Ohio

Shawn Spencer knew what would happen when he opened his eyes to face the morning. He'd have to understand the responsibilities that'd fallen upon him. He'd have to find some way to repair everything. Exactly how that was going to happen, he wasn't sure. But everyone in the High Niagara Theater Company was depending on him. Not that they were going to say that, of course. It was just a sensation in the air. It was even more than that: it was a hot miasma.

In the big, cushiony bed of his temporary digs, Shawn rolled over to his back, being sure that his eyes stayed shut. The act was helped along by the remainders of a sinus infection so awful that mucus had infiltrated his eyeballs, it having nowhere else to go. It left his eyes snotty overnight, practically glued shut by sunrise. If he hadn't been moved to the chorus for the last three days, thanks to that illness, he wouldn't have had the time to look into the accusations against Shannon Ross, their beloved director.

There was just no way that Shannon Ross had killed Tansy Corrigan.

The whole problem was trying to convince the Cleveland Police Department of Shannon's innocence. Detectives Spilsbury and O'Donnell were hard-edge cops. They didn't want to listen to the opinions of outsiders, someone like Shawn Spencer—a mere actor (among other things). The truth was, Spilsbury and O'Donnell reminded Shawn of his own father. So much so that Shawn had resisted all temptations to call his dad and gather crime-solving advice. But the last thing Henry Spencer would want is his son poking his overlarge nose were it didn't belong.

So Shawn forwent outside assistance and paternal guidance. He was on the verge of cracking the case. All that was missing was that one final clue that would draw everything together.

He was pretty sure it had something to do with that red hoodie found in the women's dressing room, the scene of the homicide. Too large for Tansy's slight frame. Too small for the rotund Shannon. Whose was it? No one in the company had ever worn a red hoodie, not against the unpredictable and cheeky spring weather of east-side Cleveland. The police insisted that the hoodie had been there for ages, probably left behind by the previous company that'd passed through the Skylark Theater. The hoodie wasn't of interest to them. In fact, given that Tansy had no family that cared about her, only the company, they didn't seem particularly interested in solving the case.

Well, Shawn was sure they were interested in solving the case. Just not with the expediency one would wish. Tansy was still someone's daughter, someone's friend.

While Shawn might lack the dashing good looks and ease of cinematic heartthrobs, he had charisma, he had charm, and he had a nearly eidetic memory which made learning his lines a piece of cake. And he had an eye for the mysterious, the playful; he unlocked the possibilities of every situation. He was thirty years old, free from restraints and existing exactly as he'd always meant to: living each day as if it was the only one he'd ever get. Fellow cast-mate and chum Tansy Corrigan hadn't needed to die to remind him of life's uncertainties. Getting the most out of a situation was something Shawn Spencer did best. Opportunities were seized. Chances grabbed. Moments made.

Despite a repertoire of fine personal achievements and a Wunderkammer of tools to obtain exactly what he wanted, Shawn's efforts to get close to the detectives had failed.

Except the one avenue that opened up to him. Almost, you know, literally. But putting it that way was kind of gross, once in context.

"Hey, Shawn, are you sleeping?"

Shawn's eyebrows twitched in response. He refused to lift the lids off his eyes. Anyway, his left one was all gummy and vile, and he was pretty sure it would refuse to open without first being rinsed. "No, I quit sleeping a while ago. It got boring."

The warm chuckle ended in a brush of lips against Shawn's cool shoulder. "Good. How are you feeling?"

For the most part, Shawn felt all right. He felt a little cheap, if he analyzed himself too much, but that was what happened when he (repeatedly) tumbled into bed with someone to get what he wanted. But what was he supposed to do when faced with O'Donnell's adorable brother-in-law? Who just happened to be in a production of The Music Man at the Regent, down the road from the Skylark? And both companies frequented the same bar, smack dab in the middle of both theaters. It was kismet. Better than, because the twenty-two-year-old Riley Rack made the first of many moves toward Shawn Spencer. Riley had first seen Shawn at the police station, and, like magic, that same evening he locked eyes on him across the crowded bar. It was the stuff of Cole Porter songs. Shawn considered it good luck. He almost considered it spiritual interference from Tansy Corrigan that he should meet the boy wonder known as "the Regent's Riley." Riley, who was Shawn's "in" at the station. Riley, who was going off to London next month to begin filming a romantic comedy, such as the British could do. Riley acted with exquisite naturalness, and kissed like an angel, and loved like a great fool—which is exactly how one should love.

Shawn huffed and patted the arm that wrapped around his chest. He kind of liked Riley Rack. (Real name: Jackson Riley Raccagnelli.) Then again, he "kind of liked" the people he went to bed with. Riley was different. He was made of talent, spice and sense. A welcome combination.

"Shawn?"

"H'mm?"

"Is your eye all glued up with eye snot again this morning?"

"That it is, my lovely inamorato. That it is. Which is a shame. I'd like to actually look at you again. But that would mean getting out bed, going to the sink—and I need to prioritize."

"I'll get you a damp washcloth. Don't want you to pull out eyelashes or anything."

Shawn dared open his good, less-gooey eye to glance at Riley's form in the steely morning light. It was a solid reminder that it was all very real, very dimensional. Riley rushed back, flopped upon the bed and started running the warm washcloth over Shawn's eye with a gentle touch. The cloth smelled clean. Riley smelled human. Shawn caught the scent of a city morning: dew-drenched weeds in craggy alleys, diesel engines, wet concrete.

"Did I get it all? Can you see now, Amazing Grace?"

Shawn tested his eye, blinking it, pulling off a couple eye boogers from his lashes. He beheld Riley, his sky-blue eyes and full head of dark brown hair. It was a sight to wake up to.

"Hi, gorgeous," Riley said, smiling. He wiped the rest of Shawn's face. He used a fingertip to remove a particularly stubborn eye booger that kept sticking to Shawn's cheek, and raced in to bless the spot with a lick and kiss.

"Thank you," Shawn said, cuddling close to him, "I feel way more like me now. And thank you for not being grossed out by my grossness."

"It's not an issue. If your pores oozed snot, I'd take care of you then, too. I like taking care of you."

"Then we should probably take care of each other this morning and get a good breakfast before we mosey off to our respective rehearsals. It's your last performance as Harold Hill. And I'm almost done with Frederic in Penzance. It'll be weird, all this moving-on."

Shawn recognized the stillness that came between them. It was one of those profound moments that people stumbled into without knowing it. Tingles exploded in Shawn's hands, whipped up the rate of his heart.

"Oh, God, what? What are you thinking?"

Because they might've known one another only a week, but they could read one another as easily as they read Our Town. There wasn't much to it. It was simple. Layered, but simple. Shawn threaded his fingers through Riley's, waiting for the moment Riley would tell him.

"I know you love the company," started Riley, looking once at Shawn, looking away again. It wasn't as though he hadn't rehearsed this in his head before. He felt like he had a hundred times, but, practically speaking, it couldn't have been more than a dozen. But as an actor since the age of seven, Riley liked to have his lines known by rote, and some he learned by heart. "And I like the fact that you have this seriously aloof attachment to the theater and everything, and that's made me wonder, and kind of hope—and of course you can say no if you want, I mean, I'd expect you to since it's last-minute and we haven't known each other that long, but I thought that—if you wanted to—you could … come with me."

Shawn stared at him. Definitely one of those profound moments in life worth waiting for. There was a phrase he'd read in an article recently, "a place of sombre shadows…" that described the sensations enveloping him, filling the gap between them. "You want me to go to London with you?"

"Yeah," Riley tugged at their hands, "I want you to come to London with me. You can think about it."

What was to think about? Aside from a few jokes he could make to keep the mood light. "Well, I'm not sure anyone's going to let me out of the country, first of all. And I'm not sure I can handle all the love and attention you'll be getting when English lads get a taste of you."

"Taste?" Riley repeated the tricky word.

"Look," amended Shawn. "Did I say taste? I meant look. I really need to learn how to use my words. And of course I'll go with you."

Shawn saw then one of the things he liked best, and would always love best, about Riley Rack: he lit up within, exploding with the essence of light and happiness.

It was snuffed a bit when Riley's phone rang. Shawn could tell a serious conversation went on, the way Riley became subdued, the way his eyes snapped. Riley ended the call and wasted no time filling Shawn in.

"That was my sister."

Shawn nodded. Detective O'Donnell's wife. "What'd she say?"

"The D.A. told them that they have enough evidence to bring charges against Shannon—and make them stick."

This was startling news. Sure, Shannon lacked a decent alibi, and there witnesses who placed him near the theater at the time of Tansy's death. But he was the director: all his time was spent at the theater. How was that evidence of his guilt?

Riley's hand coasted down Shawn's face. "I told you it'd be bad. You know the D.A.'s cousin is one of the investors in the Skylark. Without him, it would've been rubble under the wrecking ball in 1988. He wants a conviction. That's all he wants. I'm sure if there's a way to convince them that Shannon's innocent, you'll find a way. You're good at this sort of thing. You said your dad was a cop, right? That he used to train you when you were a kid so you'd know how to solve crimes. Well—solve this one. And, when you do, we'll get out of here. We'll be off to merry old England, land of Shakespeare, Colin Firth's shield of chest hair, Tony Blair's bland ties, and food with funny names, like spotted dick."

"I think Colin Firth actually lives in Rome, honey. And spotted dick is a pudding with currants. I had it once."

"Just once, huh? With your worldly expertise, darling, I rather doubt it was just once," countered Riley. "And I love that you know stupid shit like that. Now, what do you say? Want to scrounge up some bangers and mash for breakfast, and catch a killer as a dessert?"

Riley pulled out his posh Oxford accent. It needed a good airing, anyway. He wanted to have it as second-nature by the time they landed at Heathrow. He drew in a deep breath, watching Shawn tug on his clothes. It sounded nicer in his head to say "when we land at Heathrow" rather than "when I land at Heathrow." It seemed almost too good to be true that Shawn was going with him. Whether Shawn liked it or not, and Riley guessed that he didn't, Shawn really was the kind of person a man wanted to find waiting for him at home. Riley spooned his clothes off the floor—he wasn't tidy and neither was Shawn—and started for the bathroom to rinse his body off quickly. He stopped when Shawn spoke.

"You know, I think Elliot Ness had to put up with this kind of political interference, too, when he was here in the 1930s. I think there was something awkward and nepotistic about the whole Torso Murders that made a conviction of the killer impossible."

Riley stalled, considering this. Shawn was right. There was a lot of politics in the police service. "I love you, Shawn, and you know that I mean it when I tell you that it's a damn good thing you never became a cop. It would've driven you bonkers, and not in a good way."

"Huh!" Shawn attacked the naked Riley with hugging arms and playful, little bites that ended in a long kiss. Shawn finally forced them apart. He rubbed his goopy eye, looking for the box of tissues rather than considering the deepness of his next statement. "You might be surprised, my inamorato. You might be plenty surprised."