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Amanda had had a really long day.
Her boss just would not get off her ass about the patient reports he claimed she was supposed to have submitted the week before, despite the fact that she was certain she had finished. She had been up at four in the morning because her poor puppy had been sick, and she was worried out of her mind about him. It was getting close to the holidays, when she would have to go home for vacation to see her parents up in Manchester and suffer a week of them asking why she hadn’t found a husband yet. It was late, and dark, and chilly out, and Amanda was distracted, and she really should have been paying attention to her driving but she just wasn’t so when the man stepped out into the road—
In hindsight, Amanda really should have seen him. He was wearing all white, after all, and she had her headlights on, but by the time she registered his presence in enough time to slam the brakes it was too late. The car skidded to a stop, but not before it bumped into the man, knocking him over.
Amanda stifled a terrified yelp and jumped out of the car without even turning the engine off. “Oh, my god,” she said frantically, rushing around to the front. She found the man on the pavement and dropped to her knees, helping him sit up. He was conscious but seemed a little dazed, blinking owlishly at her in the bright glare of her headlights.
At first glance he seemed alright, but then she saw his left arm, cradled in his lap, was bent at a distressing angle. “Oh, god,” Amanda said again, her stomach plummeting. “Sir, please don’t move around.”
The man shook his head a little bit as if to focus himself, and then smiled tentatively up at her. “I am so, so sorry,” Amanda said. She was shaking, terrified, sick with guilt.
“Don’t worry about it, dear girl,” the man said, and his voice was surprisingly steady. “I’m sure I’ll be right as rain.”
“Sir, I work as a nurse, I think your wrist is broken,” Amanda said, and then caught his other arm as he went to go and poke at his wrist. “Please don’t touch!”
“Broken,” the man repeated. Amanda was fairly sure he was in shock.
There was the sound of a door opening, and then a waitress from the cafe on the corner came rushing out, her cellphone in hand. “Mr. Fell!” she gasped. “I’ve already called an ambulance. Are you alright?”
“I’ll be just fine,” Mr. Fell said again, and glanced back at Amanda, who was still holding his right wrist in one hand. “If I could just—“
“Please don’t move,” Amanda all but begged, panic welling up in her throat. God, she had run someone over, someone apparently so well-liked that the people in the neighborhood knew him. He was going to sue, and she was going to lose her license and her job, and she wouldn’t be able to pay rent, and—
“My dear girl,” Mr. Fell said gently. He managed to worm his uninjured arm out of her grasp and then patted her comfortingly on the shoulder. “I’ll be alright, it’s just a small break,” he said, looking down at his wrist with a frown. “No need to worry yourself.”
“I hit you,” Amanda said miserably, shaking. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, fuck, what can I do to make it up to you—“
“You look exhausted,” Mr. Fell clucked. If his arm hadn’t been so obviously injured, he would have looked for all the world like he was just having a nice sit on the road. “Besides, I stepped out into the road without looking. At the end of the day, dear girl, no permanent harm done. Unless you’re hurt?” He peered at her, and Amanda shook her head.
“I broke your bloody arm,” she whispered, filled with dread. She was nearly certain she was more panicky than he was. “I hit you with my car!”
In the distance the wall of an ambulance became audible, drawing closer until the ambulance pulled up beside them. A paramedic jumped out of the back, surveying the scene— the man on the ground, the waitress with her cellphone, and the obviously panicked Amanda.
“Alright, sir,” the paramedic said with a calm smile, crouching next to Mr. Fell. “If you’ll let me help you into the ambulance, and we’ll get you to the hospital to take care of that arm—“
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Mr. Fell started to protest, and then sighed. “Very well.” He allowed the paramedic to help him to his feet, cradling his broken arm in the way he was instructed, and then looked over at Amanda. “Actually, dear, would you mind calling my husband? I’ll need someone to pick me up.” He rattled off a phone number before he was ushered into the back of the ambulance.
Amanda watched it drive away and then slowly straightened. The waitress from the cafe gave her one last glare before disappearing inside.
Amanda took a long breath and then got back into her car, collapsing bonelessly into the driver’s seat. Still shaky, she drove slowly and carefully down the street until she found a parking spot and was able to turn the car off. And then she began to cry, hunched over the steering wheel.
When she got herself together again, feeling wrung out but no less anxious, she unlocked her phone and dialed the number Mr. Fell had given her. And then she listened to it ring, and ring, and ring...
Crowley was hanging upside down, half off his couch, drinking bourbon and watching Golden Girls on his TV when his phone rang.
Crowley sighed loudly and dramatically, snapping his fingers to pause his show while he waited for the answering machine to pick up. Too many telemarketers had his number, so he’d only actually answer if it was Aziraphale calling. His angel had been at the bookshop all day, but they were meant to go out to dinner once he was done with his business. It was a bit later than normal, to be sure, but Aziraphale had promised that his favorite tapas place would still be open.
The phone rang a fourth time as Crowley sat up, and then the answering machine picked up and said, “Hey, this is Anthony J. Fell-Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.”
Crowley smiled slightly in spite of himself. Aziraphale had been over the moon the first time he had called after their wedding and had heard Crowley’s new voicemail message, even though they had eventually decided to use their own names in day to day life. Crowley had been kissed until he could hardly think straight.
Lost in pleasant memories, Crowley wasn’t paying attention until the person on the other end of the telephone started speaking— not Aziraphale’s familiar voice, apologizing for losing track of time, or the bored and practiced spiel of a telemarketer, but a shaking, terrified voice. “Um,” they said, breath hitching a little. “Mr, um, Mr. Crowley? I’m calling about your husband, he’s um, he’s at the hospital right now—“
Crowley’s heart stopped. He was out of his seat before he knew it, his glass shattering on the floor and spilling the dregs of his drink.
Crowley all but ripped the phone from its cradle and snapped, “What?”
On the other end of the line, the person stammered to a stop and then said hesitantly, “Er, Mr. Crowley? Ah, um, Fell-Crowley?”
“Where’s Aziraphale?” He gritted his teeth. “If Hastur’s put you up to this, I’ll—”
“Um, I don’t know who Hastur is,” the woman said. She sounded terrified, on the brink of tears. “I, um, hit Mr. Fell with my car. He’s, he’s alright! Um, ish. Broken arm. But he went to the hospital. He asked me to call you and, um, tell you he needed a ride home.”
Crowley slammed the phone back down and was out of his apartment before he could even think to ask which hospital Aziraphale had been taken to. Jumping into his car, Crowley reached out with his well-practiced Aziraphale is in trouble senses, and the angel’s aura brushed at him from a hospital a few kilometers away.
Crowley made it there in record time, parking illegally and rushing inside. He ran up to the reception desk, ignoring the short queue of people already standing there, and snapped, “Fell.”
The receptionist blinked up at him, politely annoyed. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to go to the back of the line,” he said smoothly.
Crowley hissed, his eyes hard behind his glasses. His mind raced, trying to figure out what human name Aziraphale had given the paramedics before he growled, “I’m looking for Ezra Fell. Where. Is. He?”
The receptionist sighed, tapping at his keyboard. “You’ll have to wait, he’s in with the doctor,” he said after a moment, and then gave Crowley a fierce glare. “Now sit.”
Crowley stalked across the waiting room and collapsed into a rickety chair, his arms crossed to tightly across his chest he was almost afraid they would snap. Somewhere, a baby started wailing.
Crowley seethed, his aura making everyone else in the waiting room angrier and more on edge, until a doctor finally came in and said, “Anthony Crowley?”
Crowley jumped up so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. “Where is he?” he barked, half a second away from pinning the doctor to the wall and unleashing all his demonic rage.
“Come with me,” the doctor said calmly, and turned on her heel to lead him through the hospital without another word. Crowley followed close on her heels, already planning his revenge (on the hospital, on the stupid human who had hit his angel with her god blessed car, on the world, even) if there was even a scratch on Aziraphale. The doctor opened a door and let Crowley into a small room, where Aziraphale was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed with a clunky cast on one arm.
Before he knew what he was doing Crowley was holding Aziraphale in his arms, pressing him close, his face buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Oh! Hello, dear,” Aziraphale said, pleased, and his good arm came up to wrap around Crowley’s back.
“Careful,” the doctor said disapprovingly. “Don’t jostle his arm too much.” She focused on Aziraphale and said with a warm smile, “I’ll bring anything you need to sign, Mr. Fell, and then you’re free to go.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied, a smile clear in his voice.
Crowley waited until the doctor had gone and then whipped off his glasses and gave Aziraphale a serious look over. Aziraphale seemed unhurt, other than the plaster cast on his arm. “Angel,” he finally said in a raspy voice, and to his surprise and shame there were tears welling in his eyes.
“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale said, looking dismayed. “There’s no need to cry, sweet, I’m perfectly fine.” He smiled, tapping lightly on his cast. “Perfectly tickety-boo under here.”
Crowley collapsed bonelessly to sit on the bed next to him. “I thought— when that woman called, said she’d hit you with her car, I thought— I was so afraid—“
Aziraphale reached out and took his hand, gently brushing his thumb over the back of it. “I’m alright, Crowley,” he said gently. “I just couldn’t heal it immediately because I couldn’t get a moment alone.” He smiled slightly, leaning against Crowley’s shoulder. He was warm, solid, familiar, and Crowley all but melted against him.
“Angel,” he said hoarsely, sniffling. “You know if we get discorporated, we might not get new bodies.”
“I know,” Aziraphale murmured. He squeezed Crowley’s hand tightly. “But it’s alright, dear, I’m alright.” He reached up with his casted arm, turning Crowley’s chin so they were face to face. Aziraphale was smiling, his own eyes a little wet. “I’m sorry for worrying you, Crowley,” he murmured, and Crowley shook his head vehemently.
“I’m just glad you’re— you’re alright,” he said.
Aziraphale kissed him quickly, smiling against his lips. “Will you take me home?” he said. “I’m afraid it’s rather too far to walk.”
“Of course,” Crowley said. He swallowed hard, and managed to compose himself as the doctor came in.
“Alright?” she said with an understanding smile, and handed Aziraphale all the paperwork he needed to sign. “It’s a very minor break,” she said. “Just come in when we talked about to get that cast off.”
Aziraphale nodded studiously. “Of course. Thank you very much.”
Crowley stood, offering Aziraphale his hand. “Alright to walk, or d’you need help?” he asked, mostly joking. He felt like if he examined his emotions and the whole situation too closely, he’d cry.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, taking his hand. “I’m perfectly alright, dearest.”
They left the hospital together, Crowley taking care to flip off the receptionist as he passed and Aziraphale performing a little miracle to make sure the hospital staff forgot about him, and then they got into Crowley’s Bentley. Crowley burnt up the ticket under his windshield wiper and then started the car. If he drove slower and more carefully than normal back to Aziraphale’s bookshop than normal, Aziraphale didn’t comment.
As soon as they got inside Crowley started to fuss over Aziraphale, sitting him on the couch and snapping his fingers to miracle a mug of cocoa. Aziraphale would complain about the taste, probably, but Crowley could make him some proper cocoa later.
“My dearest, you know my arm isn’t broken any longer,” Aziraphale said, mildly puzzled, as Crowley produced a blanket from somewhere and wrapped it around his shoulders.
“I know,” Crowley mumbled.
“Crowley. Love,” Aziraphale said firmly, setting his cocoa down and opening his arms. Crowley hesitated until Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, and then surrendered himself into his husband’s arms.
Aziraphale held him close, breathing deeply and pressing a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. “I’m alright,” he said softly. “Perfectly alright. No need to worry.”
Crowley picked at the plaster of the cast digging into his side. “Want help getting this off?” he asked, avoiding the implied question for the time being.
Aziraphale smiled gently at him. “Oh, if you would be so kind?”
“’m not kind,” Crowley muttered disdainfully, ignoring the indulgent, fond smile Aziraphale gave him. He cracked the cast open with a miracle, carefully examining Aziraphale’s forearm to make sure he was really alright.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale started, a laugh in his voice, but it was cut off quickly when Crowley pressed a tender kiss to his hand. Another, to his wrist. His fingers. Up the length of his arm, every inch of skin that had been covered by the cast.
“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale breathed when Crowley finally kissed his way up to Aziraphale’s face.
Crowley swallowed hard. “Please look before you step into the street,” he said.
Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “I’ll make a habit of it, yes.” He kissed Crowley gently. “I’m so terribly sorry for worrying you,” he said.
Crowley exhaled slowly, curling into Aziraphale’s side again. Aziraphale held him close, and then they breathed together for a while, drinking in each other’s presence. “Don’t be sorry,” Crowley said finally. “Just— I don’t know what I— what I’d do without you.”
Aziraphale gave him a wide, adoring smile. “My dear love,” he said. “You know I feel the same?”
Crowley nodded slowly. “Think I know how you felt about the whole holy water thing,” he mumbled, hiding his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “At the Apocalypse, when your shop burned down— and now, when I’d heard you—“
“I know,” Aziraphale said softly. One hand pressed between Crowley’s shoulder blades, drawing him ever closer. “I know, my dear.” He gave Crowley a long look, more serious than normal. “You’re my everything,” he said.
“And you’re mine,” Crowley whispered in return.
Aziraphale leaned down and gave him a quick kiss, and then said with a small smile, “Well, my everything, would you like to get dinner? I think the 24 hour diner down the street is still open.”
Crowley snorted. “Back to normal, I see.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said brightly. He got up and offered Crowley a hand. “Shall we?”
Crowley grinned, accepted his offer.
They left the bookstore hand in hand.