(no subject)
It wasn't that Aziraphale had never been injured during his years on Earth, but it was usually more of an inconvenience than anything else, especially if it required getting a new body.1 But there wasn't definitely something different about getting hurt as a human - something more real about it, certainly, and he'd thought that throwing his back out on New Year's Eve was bad. Broken ribs? Definitely worse.
He'd spent the last two weeks in the clinic, mostly because it hurt less if he was lying down, and James was handy with painkillers when it got particularly bad. It wasn't as if there was anything else the doctors could do, and Aziraphale was beginning to feel as if his old, squishy body was doing a poor job of healing itself.2 The bruises on his chest had dulled to a nice sickly yellow.
It wasn't as if he was stuck in the clinic, however, especially now that the pain was considerably less. So he decided to make an effort to start getting out and about again during the day, and just coming back to the clinic to sleep. He certainly didn't want to make his way up to the roof in this condition.
Which was how he found himself in the kitchen with a cup of tea, the first proper one he'd had since the accident. Crowley had brought him some on occasion, but the poor boy just couldn't brew it quite right and Aziraphale didn't have it in his heart to tell him.
1 Which Crowley had done more often than him. Aziraphale was always very good at taking care of this things.
2 Aziraphale had decided that the worst sort of injury is the kind that's supposed to take care of itself. Since when did he trust this body to do anything he didn't specifically direct it to do? It wasn't as if he could work extra hard to make his ribs knit themselves back together.
He'd spent the last two weeks in the clinic, mostly because it hurt less if he was lying down, and James was handy with painkillers when it got particularly bad. It wasn't as if there was anything else the doctors could do, and Aziraphale was beginning to feel as if his old, squishy body was doing a poor job of healing itself.2 The bruises on his chest had dulled to a nice sickly yellow.
It wasn't as if he was stuck in the clinic, however, especially now that the pain was considerably less. So he decided to make an effort to start getting out and about again during the day, and just coming back to the clinic to sleep. He certainly didn't want to make his way up to the roof in this condition.
Which was how he found himself in the kitchen with a cup of tea, the first proper one he'd had since the accident. Crowley had brought him some on occasion, but the poor boy just couldn't brew it quite right and Aziraphale didn't have it in his heart to tell him.
1 Which Crowley had done more often than him. Aziraphale was always very good at taking care of this things.
2 Aziraphale had decided that the worst sort of injury is the kind that's supposed to take care of itself. Since when did he trust this body to do anything he didn't specifically direct it to do? It wasn't as if he could work extra hard to make his ribs knit themselves back together.