Chapter Text
“Nick, we have to go to the new place,” Danny tells him as he slides into the car.
“Hello to you too,” Nicholas mutters drily, though not all that upset. They barely greet each other anymore, anyway, always immediately launching into conversation like they'd never stopped in the first place. It's a comfortable rhythm, Nicholas finds. He hadn't been able to do the same with Janine (or anyone, for that matter) before, always stuck with this need to be polite and greet everyone properly, something ingrained from childhood.
Danny smiles toothily. “Hullo. Seriously, though, everyone's been talking ‘bout how good the food is there.”
Nicholas smiles back. “Well, we've got time before work. You want to go there now?”
Danny nods, gesturing impatiently for Nicholas to put his seatbelt on before he begins driving again.
—
They didn't have much in the way of conversation while in the car. Their chatter consisted entirely of Danny rambling about all the things he'd heard about the new eatery, waving one arm around vaguely for emphasis while Nicholas listened with a smile. Danny's eyes, thankfully, stayed focused on the road, though there were a few times his speed limit crept up to just a few kilometres over, before gliding back down when Nick made a startled noise.
The shop is right near the station. It's a quaint little place, a bit of a hole-in-the-wall kind of business, but when they step inside, it's clear that a lot of love has been put into the interior. There are fragrant flowers growing from pots on the walls (all natives to the area) and the paint on them is a pleasant shade of green. Small tables are set up with a lush succulent plant sitting in the centre of each one for decoration, surrounded by comfortable, padded seats.
The man behind the counter watches them with an even smile as they walk up to the display cases.
“Hi there,” he says. Nicholas is immediately struck by his accent. It's a drawling, warm tone, vaguely British, but not quite there.
He makes conversation, just so he can hear that voice again, trying to pinpoint what it is. “Morning. How are you finding Sandford so far?”
The man shrugs. “It's good. Bloody cold, but about expected in England.”
“Are you Australian?” Nicholas asks. The accent isn't strong enough for him to be quite sure, but there's no other country that can explain that kind of voice.
Cocking an eyebrow, the man smirks. “More or less. Never really lived anywhere in particular, but that's where I'm from.”
“You've kept the accent pretty well,” Nicholas tells him. “That's why I– you know– knew.”
“Shit, I thought it was the tanned skin, blonde hair and blue eyes!” The other man chuckles. He has none of those features; he's all pale skin, red hair and green eyes.
Nicholas finds himself frowning slightly at that. There's some kind of joke he's missing, he's sure, but he can't fathom what it is.
“Just a bit of stereotyping,” the man explains easily, not slightly perturbed by his joke not landing. “Other than my accent, I don't really think you could call me an Aussie.”
Nicholas nods. During his university course in sociology, he'd learnt a bit about Australia's multiculturalism. He'd thought it was strange, the way that the country is largely formed of people who have no connection to the land beyond their grandparents, or even their parents. There are, of course, the First Nations people and the Torres Strait Islanders, however anyone else is simply a settler, either coming from a place of war, or hoping to make themselves a living.
Despite how much he'd love to get into a conversation about multiculturalism, even he knows that it's socially unacceptable to start info-dumping on someone you met two minutes ago.
Before either of them can say another word, Danny stands up, ramrod straight, his eyes as wide as saucers. “Wha’ is that?” he asks. His finger is jabbed into the display glass, pointing at a monstrosity constructed of cream, pastry and various fruits.
“It's called ‘Titillaga’,” the man tells Danny, “Do you wanna sample it?”
Danny's grin melts away into a little ‘o’ shape, his eyes wide. “Would tha’ be okay?”
“I wouldn't have offered if it wasn't,” the man tells him with a wink, before reaching down to grab one of the pastries. He sets it on the table behind the counter, before producing a knife and beginning to cut it. It's a generous slice, set upon a small paper plate, and Danny is beaming as he takes it in his hands.
Watching Danny eat is slightly awkward, so Nicholas looks in the display case himself. There are various pastries and baked goods, some familiar, some not. Many incorporate fruit, ranging from berries to pineapple, with cream or custard to go along with it, the treats encased with pastry that has a perfect golden crisp. A separate display case has a large tray of rice at the centre, with two heated trays beside it containing some sort of spiced meat and a curry.
“God, this is so good,” Danny says. Well, Nicholas thinks that is what he’s saying - the man’s voice is muffled through his mouthful of cream.
“Glad to hear it,” the redhead behind the counter says.
Danny turns to Nicholas, offering his plate. “You wanna try any?”
Shaking his head (it's much too early for sweets), Nicholas turns his attention back to the display cabinets. There are no prices marked for any of the food, which he finds himself frowning at, but nothing seems particularly amiss otherwise. Food regulations appear to be followed, with steam swirling around the hot food and chilled air around the pastries; tongs set aside in their designated containers; every dish appearing clean and sanitary. All of it seems perfectly good.
He listens as Danny finishes off his food and actually makes an order, picking an absurd amount of goods to be taking home for just one person. Rather than chide, he allows himself to become absorbed by the swirling pattern of steam, distracted only when Danny makes some sort of surprised noise.
He sees Danny staring in utter horror at the man behind the counter.
“Ya can't be serious,” he's saying, his voice thick with emotion.
The man shrugs. “Any extra goes to charity. I don't need it.”
Danny turns to Nicholas then, not even seeming to notice that the exchange has him with his hand on his baton. “He's tryin’ ta charge me ten quid for this whole lot. Ten!”
Nicholas frowns. He’s never seen Danny complain about the price of anything before, not even that time they were charged twelve pounds for two Cornettos. Come to think of it, if anything, this food is much cheaper than it should be. “What do you mean?”
“This thing alone,” Danny gestures to the mountainous monstrosity he ate before, “should be ten quid. I've ordered five other bloody things!”
Still lost, Nicholas looks to the other man. He's watching Danny with a slight smile on his face, seemingly at-ease with the scene unfolding before him. Now that he’s standing behind a pay register rather than a full cabinet, Nicholas can see that his arms are crossed against his incredibly broad chest - he must go to the gym in his spare time, with muscles like those.
“I charge enough to cover the ingredients. If you want to pay more, that's fine, but it's all going to charity. I don't need any more money than I've already got.”
Danny's brow is furrowed, more pissed than Nicholas has ever seen him, but he pulls a ten from his wallet and hands it over regardless. “Can’t believe this,” he mutters to himself.
“I’ll set up a proper donation box, just for you,” the man says with a wide grin, taking the money from Danny and folding it away into the till.
“You bloody well be’er,” Danny replies, clutching the bag of pastries close to his chest, as if to protect them from his language, “Chargin’ me ten fuckin’ quid for all tha’. Seems like a dream or summat.”
“I’m Fai, by the way,” the man, Fai, says, looking between Nicholas and Danny.
“I’m Danny, and this is Nic’las,” Danny says, jabbing a thumb in Nicholas’ direction.
Nicholas steps forward, holding his hand out to shake. “Nicholas Angel. I run the local police station, so if you ever need anything, you’re more than welcome to come and speak to me.”
“Sure thing. And if you’re ever running short on a lunch break, pop in for a feed,” Fai says in turn, his grip on Nicholas’ hand firm, but warm. He looks at Danny. “That goes for you too, if you’re not still offended by the prices.”
Danny scoffs at that, but the smile on his face is good-natured. He glances down at his watch, before grabbing Nicholas’ arm and pulling him toward the door. “Shite, we’ve go’a go. See you ‘round, Fai!”
Nicholas hears laughter from behind the counter as he follows his mate out of the store.
“He's the attractive sort, isn’ ‘e?” Danny asks Nick the moment the shop door closes behind them.
Nicholas can only stare at him, unsure as to why he would say such a thing.
It’s not that he’s wrong. He’s simply not right, either. They’ve only just met the man, not even seeing him from the waist-down, yet here Danny is, making a comment he’s never made about anyone before as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, waiting for Nicholas to catch up on the revelation. He thinks for the appropriate answer, thinks and thinks and thinks, trying to ignore how pretty Danny’s eyes are in this weak morning light, or how Danny has a smudge of cream at the corner of his lips, or how easy and warm Danny’s smile is, before-
“What?”
That’s all he manages to say.
Danny grins, as though entirely oblivious to any of the thoughts going through Nicholas’ head. “He’s right fit. Could be in a movie, I reckon.”
Nicholas stares at him still, trying to figure out if perhaps Danny is speaking in tongues. At Danny’s soft, persistent smile, he loses any will to try and respond. “Let’s head down to the station,” is all he says.
They begin walking, not a word passing between them.
—
“So I says to him, I says, ‘Feelin’ a bit hot today, eh?’ and he bloody well-near pissed ‘imself!” Danny exclaims to the rest of the station members, a wide, silly grin on his face.
Nicholas only came into the work-area halfway through Danny’s story, but as he looks around at the laughing faces of his coworkers, he can’t help but smile along with them. It seems Danny is recounting the story of when he and Nicholas arrested a shoplifter in the frozen aisle at the local supermarket yesterday. Well, the work was mostly done by Danny. He’d spotted the kid, watched him, and sprang into action the moment they had proof of what was going on.
Nicholas couldn’t have felt more proud, really.
“Sandford’s finest, ladies!” Andrew Wainwright says, slinging an arm around Danny’s shoulders and giving him a rough shake. Nicholas searches for the sarcastic leer of his mouth, but to his amazement, finds nothing there.
Danny’s face is flushed and smiley, if a little surprised at Wainwright’s treatment of him. “It were nothin’, really,” he says.
A chorus of reassuring answers fly through the air, namely from Dorris and Tony, and Danny manages to flush even more.
If Nicholas had a camera on him, he’d take a photo. It’s a perfect moment, really, with everyone gathered around at their desks, smiling and laughing, not a care in the world. It’s the kind of thing you’d want up in a frame to look back on in fifty years’ time and smile about.
“Nick, we’ve got a call from Main Street,” one of the Turner’s voices drifts from the doorway.
Everyone turns to look at him.
Evan Turner stands there, phone in hand and a frown on his face. “There’s a body.”
And suddenly, that picture-perfect moment is gone.