Taking Advantage

Rating: T (sex, language)

Author: Firebird

Disclaimer: Hot Fuzz? Yeah, not mine.

Author's Note: My laptop died quite suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and as I was sifting through the backup files on various memory sticks I found this. I wrote it years ago, and when I re-read it it still seemed pretty good, so I thought I'd post it and see whether you agree.

The first time Nicholas Angel sleeps with Doris Thatcher is a few weeks after what has already come to be referred to, in Sandford at least, as The Incident.

Since being released from hospital, with miraculously minor injuries considering what he's been through, he has stayed two nights on the Fishers' sofa (two bedrooms, three kids, no thanks), three nights in the Walkers' spare room (waking to Saxon slobbering on his face no matter how firmly he shuts his door? Again, no thanks), three nights on the Turners' sofa (or, more accurately, on their sofa cushions on the floor, as they don't have a sofa long enough to accommodate even his relatively small frame. Thanks, but no), and half a night at Danny's (the sense of his friend's presence was overwhelming , even though Danny himself was miles away recuperating at Flint House, and would be for some time. Nicholas left at 2am and spent the rest of the night in his makeshift office), before finally ending up sleeping on Doris' sofa-bed in her tiny one-bedroom flat, an arrangement which has worked out surprisingly well.

It helps, Nicholas thinks, that Doris has toned down the flirtatious banter considerably both inside and outside the office, although whether her more subdued behaviour is due to his influence or, more likely, a reaction to The Incident, is unclear.

Doris' flat might be small, but his new, temporary, office is smaller. Those members of the Sandford Police Service able to return to either light or active duty are being housed in the parts of the Village Hall not currently being used by the officers of Operation Morning-Star, aka Operation work-out-just-how-many-people-the-sociopathic-police-inspector-and-his-friends-murdered-and-how-and-when (no point in asking why, though. Not in crazy-town). Not that there's much space left over for the Sandford officers. Nicholas' 'office' is more of a glorified broom-cupboard housing a rickety second-hand desk, a swivel-chair with a missing wheel and no back, and a filing cabinet which doesn't lock and occasionally opens of its own accord, with approximately one square metre of floor-space left over, assuming the filing cabinet is closed and no-one is actually in the room.

He's searching for blank requisition forms in the piles of paper which cover almost every centimetre of the room when it finally becomes too much for him. It dawns on him as he searches that not only does he have no idea where the forms are, but he also has no idea what he wanted them for, either, and that the chaotic state of his office could easily be symbolic of the chaos which has consumed his life as a whole. He needs some of those 'in' and 'out' trays, for a start, and a phone, and a computer, and a chair that doesn't keep trying to dump him on the floor, and a proper office, and a proper fucking police station, but you can't just requisition one of those, oh no. There's no little box to tick on the requisition form to order a 'police station'. Doris tried putting it under 'miscellaneous' last week, on a form which he signed when he was too busy and preoccupied and just plain exhausted to pay any attention to exactly what he was signing, and he received a nasty email from Headquarters in response. Which he didn't learn about until they phoned him to demand an explanation as to why he hadn't responded to the email. Apparently 'because all the computers were blown up' is not a satisfactory excuse.

So now he's looking for the damn requisition forms for what seems like the thousandth time that day, and he can't even think what he wants them for, and the damn filing cabinet has just whacked him in his barely-healed left arm, and his office looks like a bomb's just gone off in it – and he should know – and suddenly he's sweeping all the damn papers off his desk with a cry that's somewhere between a yell and a wail, and slamming his fist down on the desk, where it connects painfully with the head of a nail sitting slightly proud of the ancient wood, and then he just drops to the floor, sitting with his back pressed against the wall as he weeps tears that owe more to anger and frustration than grief or pain.

"Chief?" Doris calls as she pushes the door halfway open, which is as far as it will go with him in the way, and squeezes through the gap, closing it behind her and making the whole place seem more claustrophobic than ever. "You alright?"

He raises his head and glares at her, the hard-won camaraderie of the last few weeks subsumed by a tidal wave of emotion.

"No I am not bloody alright, Doris! Do I look as though I'm anywhere approaching alright? Here I am, trying to clear up a mess that I didn't create, in a place I never wanted to be, for people who mostly hate me for destroying their precious idyllic lives. How the hell is that supposed to be alright? Oh, and my hand?" He holds up his left hand, now bleeding from the nail. "My hand is now fucked – again! So tell me, please, Doris, how exactly am I supposed to be alright?"

She stands there right through his tirade, saying nothing, just nodding slightly in what might be sympathy or even understanding. There's a long silence once he's finished, and he drops his head, fiercely ashamed now on top of everything else.

"You about done?" she asks tartly, dropping to a crouch in front of him in what little space there is left. She's had sex in places smaller than this, so it isn't too much of a challenge.

He nods, head still buried in his hands.

"Christ, Doris, I'm sorry. You've been nothing but supportive... I shouldn't be taking all of this out on you."

She shrugs. "Got to take it out on someone, I guess." She stands again, and holds out her hand. "Come on. Time to go home."

He follows her numbly as she switches off lights and closes doors, leading him out past the larger, brighter, and infinitely better-equipped rooms which house Operation Morning-Star, and down the street to her flat, which is mercifully close by.

He doesn't have anything more to say as he sits down on the side of the sofa-bed, which neither of them have bothered to fold away for days now.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and she sits down next to him.

"It's okay," she replies, nudging him with her shoulder. "Reckon after all you've been through you're probably overdue for a meltdown."

That's all it takes to set him off again, shaking silently this time as he thinks of all he has been through: betrayed by his superiors; mocked and derided by his new colleagues; deceived, betrayed and damn near murdered by his new Inspector; beaten up, shot, shot at, beaten up again, blown up, and finally watching his best friend come within a hair's breadth of dying.

Doris slips her arms around him, murmuring soothing words in a soft voice. She's just trying to comfort him, but somewhere amidst the sobs he lifts his head and meets her gaze, surprised by how close her face is to his, and somehow his lips are meeting hers, and one kiss becomes two, and he knows he should stop because he's her commanding officer and it's his responsibility to put a stop to this right now, before it goes any further, but he can't seem to bring himself to break away, and it feels so good to be this close to someone again, and she certainly isn't objecting...

They tumble together onto the sofa-bed, pulling impatiently at each other's clothes, needing more, needing warm skin-on-skin to banish the chill of all they've been through, wanting to forget everything in favour of losing themselves in the moment. It's swift and passionate, and when it's over they collapse together into a brief sleep born more of emotional than physical exhaustion.

Nicholas wakes first, momentarily disorientated by the sensation of a warm female body curled against his. Then memory returns, and with it a crushing sense of guilt. 'Not Doris', he thinks despairingly. He's been the Acting Inspector for less than a month and he's already managed to take advantage of his only female officer. His superiors back in the Met had been bastards, and Frank Butterman was a sociopath, but him? He's the scum of the earth, no question.

Another thought hits him, triggering a fresh wave of guilt. He didn't wear a condom, and he has no idea whether she's on the pill or not. And regardless of that, how many other men has she slept with, and what might he potentially have caught? More guilt, for branding her a slut even in his head. It takes two to tango.

She feels him moving, and stirs. "Nicholas?"

"Doris, I'm so sorry." He sits up, unable to bring himself to look at her, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, aware that he's naked and has no immediate way of covering himself, but he has to say this now.

"Nicholas..." she tries to break in, but he cuts her off.

"I'll find somewhere else to stay: go back to the Turners' or something." He gazes at the floor, unable even to lift his head for the shame.

"Nicholas..."

"I should never have let this happen. I'm your commanding officer; it was utterly reprehensible of me to take advantage of you in such a manner."

"Trust you to be using big words five minutes after getting laid." Her tone of voice, unlike his, is light, teasing.

"I hope you can forgive me, but if you can't-"

"Nicholas Angel, will you please shut up for just one minute?"

He's never heard her use that particular tone of voice before, certainly not to him, and thinks distractedly that she would be a far more effective police officer if she were only willing to use it more often. It certainly works on him, and he obediently shuts up.

She moves to sit next to him, pulling the blanket from beneath them to wrap around herself, and grabbing a pillow which she deposits thoughtfully in his lap. His lips twist in a slight smile as he grabs it and clasps it to himself, although he keeps his eyes firmly on the floor.

"Thanks."

"First of all, you did not 'take advantage' of me," she tells him, voice clipped and precise. "If I'd wanted you to stop I'd have said so, and you would have stopped" – she knows him well enough to have no doubt of that – "and none of this would have happened." She pauses. "Did you hear me telling you to stop?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "No."

"Right, and it weren't because you're my inspector, either. I've got three older brothers, and a mean punch on me when I've a mind to, and don't you forget it, but you weren't the only one who needed this.

"Second of all, you ain't going back to the Turners', or anywhere else for that matter, 'cos you've about worn your welcome out just about anywhere you might care to go. Unless you fancy learning more about the Andys' personal lives than you'd probably be comfortable with, anyways."

He winces at the thought. He has his suspicions about those two, who are housemates as well as partners, and they dislike him enough already without his having to take action over direct evidence of fraternisation. Although that would be the pot calling the kettle black, now.

"And as for forgiving you, I figure I used you as much as you used me, so we're about even there." She changes the subject abruptly. "Now, how about you let me take a look at that hand."

Apparently the discussion is over, and he holds his hand out to her wordlessly. It's stopped bleeding but the nail has left a jagged cut and it's still a mess, and she twists and turns it a couple of times, assessing the full extent of the damage.

"First aid kit's in the bathroom," she tells him, standing up and going to get it. He uses the opportunity to pull on his briefs, and by the time she returns to clean and bandage his hand she's wearing a bathrobe.

"I'm on the pill, by the way," she tells him as she wraps the bandage around his injury, and that's the last either of them says on the subject.