Heya!

Warning: references to trauma, sap, poor Nicholas etc.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hot Fuzz. (Damn.)

Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson

oo3.

"Alright, are you ready?" Roxanne smiled, her red hair and redder lipstick the stuff of fantasies.

Nicholas smiled tightly. "Yes."

She took the needle and gently stabbed each of his fingers. His left index finger jerked, as did his right thumb, but the rest of his fingers gave no reaction. He jumped when she stabbed his right palm, but not his left. She put the needle aside, all business, and gathered a bit of cotton wool.

"Alright," she said, "I'm going to pass this along each of your fingers. Tell me if you feeling anything. Ready?"

"Yes."

She slowly dragged the cotton across his hands. The results were the same: left index finger, right thumb, and right palm. After a long moment, Roxanne put the cotton aside.

"I'm sorry, Nicholas," she said. "I can't clear you."

Nicholas shook his head. "It's fine, ma'am." He looked at his hands, at the patchwork of grafts and tight, rubbery scars that used to be his fingers. "I can see the writing on the wall."

"Don't give up, yet." Roxanne straightened. "You've done well, given the circumstances. No infections, and you're range of motion is nearly back to normal."

"Yes, well, that's more of a credit to the staff than to me." Nicholas flexed his hands. He nearly clenched them into fists. "Thank you," he said softly.

"Nonsense." She picked up his chart and started writing. "You're a smart patient, which is always nice." She laughed quietly. "I was impressed with the gloves. That was quick thinking."

"I've taken a few paramedic courses," he admitted.

Roxanne met his eyes. "Yeah," she said and smiled. "It's surprising how easy it is to hurt yourself when you can't feel pain." She wrote feverishly on the chart and finished with flare. "There, now. We've checked your knee and your hands. Are there any other complaints?"

"No, no." Nicholas slipped off the bed's edge. "I'm fine."

It was a long process replacing the bandages. The grafts were still fragile and the scars had a tendency to weep. She wrapped them tightly, her hands slender and quick. He couldn't feel whether they were hot or cold. She watched him put on his black leather gloves with a complex frown. "Alright, I'll need you to sign these forms. I have an opening the same time next week, if you're interested. After that, you're free to go."

"Thanks. I would like that." Nicholas signed his name several times, and checked off the circumstances of his stay at the burn centre. He inhaled deeply and wrote his signature a final time, and handed the clipboard back to Roxanne. She double-checked, impressed.

"You're quick! Have you been strengthening your fingers?"

"I already had a stab wound." Nicholas smiled sheepishly. "It was a habit."

Roxanne nodded amiably. "That's very good. Not many can recover their motor control so quickly, Nicholas. Keep it up." She gave him a smile that belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. "You're doing wonderfully."

Nicholas looked away. "Yes, well…." He stood up and put on his coat, eyes glued to the far wall. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Not at all, Inspector. I know you have a long run from Sandford." She winked at him. "And besides, we don't get too many heroes down here, eh?" He flushed and zipped up his jacket. "Don't be shy! You've earned it." She laughed again and turned on her heel. "Have a good day!" She pulled the curtain aside and waved over her shoulder. Her hand created a long, graceful silhouette against the sunlight.

Nicholas frowned and walked in the same direction. While Roxanne took a left, he stopped at the main desk, turned in his forms, and walked straight down the hallway. Light gleamed in prisms through the glass doors. He winced as they opened, and raised his arm to shield his eyes. The sun felt warm on his face. The smell of car exhaust and rain, the sounds of traffic and the anonymous murmur of millions of people, and the sight of shining skyscrapers eased the tension thrumming under his sternum.

London.

The cab driver had waited for him. Nicholas waved at the driver, who nodded absently, engrossed in a newspaper. He slipped into the passenger street. "Thanks," he said breathlessly.

"Think nothing of it." He was deep African black with white teeth and a jarring Londoner accent. "I recognized you from the photo." He nodded to the paper. "Can I have your autograph?"

Nicholas smiled politely. "Of course." He took the pen and paper, and scribbled his name down. "There."

"Thank you!" The cab driver thrust the taxi into reverse and drove out of the parking area and into afternoon traffic. He was cheery, polite, and sincerely interested in Nicholas' work. He had a Danny-like enthusiasm that was hard to deny, and after a protracted, one-sided conversation, Nicholas began answering questions. They spoke at length about everything: the weather, crime rates, celebrities, music, and travel. Somewhere in between, he discovered the man's name was Bem, and that he liked him. The traffic outside crawled past, unnoticed, as did time and the taxi meter.

The train station loomed so suddenly Bem had to turn sharply without indicating. Several drivers honked angrily, teeth bared like tigers, but he only laughed. "Everybody is always in a hurry," he said, amused. "In Mumbai, this is nothing."

"Were you born there?" Nicholas turned, intrigued.

Bem smiled. "Oh, no. My parents moved from Africa to India, then to England. And then I was born." He gave another booming laugh. "Don't get me wrong, Mumbai is a good city," he gave wry look, "just not for me."

"Ah." Nicholas waited for the cab to stop and fished out his wallet. "I know how you feel."

"Thirty nine pounds, please." Bem accepted several notes with gratitude. "You seem like a Londoner, if you don't mind me saying."

Nicholas waved his hand. "Not at all," he said, and opened the car door. The press of vehicles and people was something he had forgotten, and he took a moment to absorb London's thick, frantic pace. Bem got out and opened the trunk, and carried his belongings.

"Good day," he said, and handed Nicholas his things. "Travel safely."

"Thank you." Nicholas grasped the handle of his suitcase stoically, and walked down towards the pay booth. He glanced back, but either Bem had already left, or his taxi had been assimilated into the dozens of other taxis idling along the street. He shrugged and went to pay for his ticket.

The day passed by slowly. The unseasonable morning sun yielded to grey skies by the afternoon, and Nicholas went through the same motions: board the train, stare out the window, exit the train, wait for an hour and a half, then board the next one. By then it was dark, cold, and rainy. He caught the first taxi out, driven by a standoffish middle-aged woman whose name he hadn't bothered to ask. After an excruciating forty-five minute drive, the sign of Sandford emerged from the murk, and the town's hazy lights rose into view.

She left him at what had been the Crown. Nicholas had asked her not to, but he was tired and sore and fed up. She unlocked the trunk, he gathered his own things, and paid her the exact fee without a tip. She gave him an evil eye, but honestly expected no different. He watched her drive away, and walked the two blocks to their temporary headquarters, what used to be the Swan. By the time he arrived it was 7:34 PM and he was exhausted.

Sergeant Turner looked up and nodded. "How're you, then?" Nicholas only sighed, which made him laugh. "Cell three's open."

"Thanks."

Nicholas made his way down the hall and climbed up the stairs. Cell three was actually his hotel room, and he had been sleeping there since he had been discharged from the hospital. The cottage wasn't ready, and there were no indicators when it would be.

He hung up his coat and sat heavily on his bed; released a slow, shaky sigh and rested his face in his hands. A soft knock broke the spell.

"Yes?" He stood up, flushed.

Danny opened the door. "Hey! You're back."

"I am. Look, I'm not in the mood for the pub—"

"'M glad," Danny hugged him. "It was borin' without you here."

Nicholas stiffened when arms surrounded him, uninvited. "Yes, well…." He frowned, but didn't pull away. Breath by breath, inch by inch, Danny's body heat softened the tension in his muscles. He closed his eyes and hesitantly returned the gesture.

I decided to write/post this instead of doing my term paper, which is over two months late. Ahhh well.