fic post: Lambs (Hot Fuzz)
TITLE: Lambs
FANDOM: Hot Fuzz
AUTHOR: annlarimer
WORD COUNT: 1,300ish
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: For the sandfordpolice Valentine's Day Hot Fuzz Challenge: _{"1. As per usual, any pairing allowed. / 2. In the spirit of the holiday, fic must include chocolate syrup! / 3. In the spirit of Sandford, fic MUST be set at 1) the Castle; 2) the pub; or 3) a sheep farm (pick one of the three). / 4. FINALLY: Fic MUST include Danny as CUPID -- acting as cupid, dressing as cupid, whatever. Danny = cupid."}
WARNINGS: American spelling, mild spoilers.
NOTES: Annie aka thebirdmachine posted a lovely story a few days back called "Love Hearts," which pretty much cemented the Andys and candy hearts together in my head forever. I've never eaten one of the things, what with living in the wrong country, but they sound better than Necco Conversation Hearts. Pleh, pleh, I say to Necco Conversation Hearts. Pleh.
DISCLAIMER: The Fuzz don't belong to me, as you know.
ARCHIVE: Please ask first.


"I fuckin' hate fuckin' sheep so fuckin' much," said Andy Wainwright.

"Sheep are all right." Andy Cartwright only ever disagreed with Andy Wainwright in private, apart from the occasional blow to the head. In this way, they presented a united front, and -- more importantly -- preserved their mystique. "They're woolly."

"Feh."

Alas, at the moment, they had a great deal more privacy than they wanted. "Of course, the wool is a bit greasy. And whiffs. And it's full of bits of things. And they shit everywhere. And they're stupid fuckers. And they've completely surround the car and they KEEP MAKIN' THAT FUCKIN' NOISE--"

"Easy, Andy," Wainwright said. The incessant baas and mehhs were getting on his nerves as well. The sheep didn't quite make the car rock menacingly as they crossed, but they could have done if they chose.

Cartwright took a deep breath. "But they're not so bad."

"What about that film?"

"What film?"

"That film with the sheep that turned into...evil sheep?"

"That was just a film. And in New Zealand. God knows what they get up to down there."

"I heard a story once about a fella who went to Casualty there, and they found a kiwi bird shoved right up his arse." Wainwright eyed the sea of white, warily. He wanted, more than anything, to lay on the horn, scream epithets out the window, and slowly force their way through the herd that clogged the narrow country lane. But Inspector Angel (Inspector! Jesus!) had made it very clear that the members of the Sandford Constabulary, particularly in view of the recent unpleasantness (which had been over and done with going on a year ago now, but in a small town, 'recent' is a relative concept), were to conduct themselves with decorum at all times. Swift retribution would follow should any officer abuse members of the public or their goods or chattels.

This translated into absolutely no nudging sheep with cars, barring a genuine emergency.

"They're tasty, though," said Cartwright.

"They will hear you," Wainwright said through clenched teeth.

"I mean, they have good taste in...furniture," Cartwright said a bit louder.

"Nice save."

"'Kew."

"How's the time?" Wainwright had a perfectly good watch of his own, but it was something to talk about.

"Not good. We are not in the pub, we're completely out of fags, and MOVE YOU SHITTING FUCKS!" Cartwright pounded on the fascia. The sheep ignored him. The lack of cigarettes was the real problem, of course. They could've stood any amount of sheep if only there were cigarettes.

"It's okay. Here." Wainwright offered Cartwright a paper bag.

"Whazzat?"

"Those crap chalk heart things. The Inspector took 'em off Butterman 'cause he and Doris were trying to make them into arrowheads."

"What, like...?" Cartwright mimed firing a tiny bow and arrow.

Wainwright mimed taking an arrow to the chest and dying. "Yeah."

"That boy's not right."

"I know! Everybody knows you're supposed to shoot 'em with a rubber band."

"Or a catapult." Cartwright took a heart from the bag and read it. "'FAX ME.' Fax me? Is that...?"

"I think it means actually fax, with a fax machine."

"Fuck, that's no fun. How're they supposed to be arrowheads? They're not even pointy!" He bit into FAX ME, making it crunch as loudly as he could. "Do girls like being faxed?"

"You never know, my son. You never know." Wainwright took one for himself. "TICKLE MONSTER," he read, and popped it into his mouth.

Cartwright nodded. "How'd you get 'em, then?" FAX ME started to fizz, pinkishly.

"Nicked 'em off Angle's desk when he wasn't looking."

"Hah!" Cartwright pretended to growl and foam, like a rabid dog.

Wainwright joined in, his own mouth foaming green. "With any luck, he'll think Fanny did it and..."

"Oooooo, lovers' tiff! And on Valentine's Day. I am proud to know you, sir."

They high-fived.

"God, these are foul." Wainwright took another. "MY WEE GIRL."

"Hah! Yeah, but they do taste a bit like fags. LESS THAN THREE. Less than three?"

"They taste like fuckin' chalk!"

"Well, unless there's a tin of chocolate syrup in the glove box, they'll have to do."

Cartwright looked in the glove box. You never knew, around here. "Nothin'. Do you think it's really true that if you swallow a bunch of these, then drink a Coke on top really quick, you'll explode?"

"Don't you remember? There used to be a third Butcher brother." Wainwright reached into the bag again. "YOU'RE GORGEOUS. So true."

"It never says that!"

"It does." He held the candy out so Cartwright could see.

"Oh. Fair enough."

"Spoken like a gentleman." He ate YOU'RE GORGEOUS. "I remember once, on holiday, my Dad took us to visit the Lovehearts mine in the chalk downs. Hundreds of people, workin' away, chiselin' little messages on hearts..."

"Oh look. This one says, 'WAINWRIGHT'S A LYING CUNT.' They've stopped. Why have they stopped? WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED, YOU FUCKERS?" Several sheep looked around curiously, though they weren't quite bright enough to understand the car had people inside.

"You really think they're doing it?"

Cartwright looked at him sideways. "It's where little sheep come from, mate."

"MARRY ME. Ew. No. The benders. Bergerarse and Inspector Morose. You think they're actually bent?"

"Oh. Oh Christ. Don't put things in my head that my brain eyes can't not see!" Cartwright shuddered. "Fuckin' hell, who knows?"

"We'll be able to tell for sure when Nickelarse bites Butters' head off and lays his eggs down his throat."

"Please stop saying shite I can never un-see."

"You brought it up. Christ, it's not like I'm Fisher when he decides to over-share."

"Aaaaaagh!"

"Ooo, that got 'em moving." The sheep had started up again. "Nice one. Keep making that noise!"

"No. Get knotted."

"Your Loveheart says GET KNOTTED? Anyway, fair dos. If they are having it off, at least somebody round here's getting some."

"It's been a dry, dry winter. GO AWAY. Oh, that's hard." Cartwright held the candy against the window so the sheep could see, and perhaps find inspiration.

"Love's hard. Jesus Christ, what sort of world is this, when two handsome, thrusting young bachelors are dateless on Valentine's Day?" Wainwright shook his head sadly.

"That would be the sort of world where we put Tina in jail. LOVE STINKS," he read.

"The ladies at Flappers do carry a grudge."

"They're like coppers. They stick together."

Wainwright grinned. "Coppers with amazing knockers."

"Doris!" they said together, and laughed. In unison.

The sheep were putting on a bit of speed, the woolly crowd thinning. "Yes!" Wainwright cried. "Get moving, you fuckers!"

"Freedom!" Cartwright offered.

"Pub!"

"Fags!"

"Girls!"

They high-fived again, just because they could.

One last sheep crossed the road, followed by a black-and-white dog.

"Awwwww look, it's Babe's mum."

"Her name's Daphne," Cartwright said.

Daphne was followed by Mr Shearer, human master of both sheep and dog. He waved a greeting as he crossed.

The Andys waved back. "Evenin."

Wainwright looked at Cartwright. "Daphne?"

"We were introduced once."

Wainwright still looked at him.

"We were!"

Wainwright glared at him a moment more, then started the car. "Right. Pub."

"What do you reckon, then?" Cartwright asked. "The usual deal?"

"Suppose so. If we both come up empty, it's back to your place."

Cartwright looked put out. "Mine?"

"It's your turn, mate."

"Bugger."

Wainwright put the car in gear. "You never know."