Archive of Our Own

It’s Hennety’s fault, the note says.

Hennety crushes the paper in his fist as Ange is lifted into the ambulance, oxygen mask obscuring her face, her coppery curls cascading over the end of the stretcher.

Why would she do something like this? Why would she—

. . .

Last night, Ange didn’t touch a drop of the birthday champagne Maria shared out. (Well, sparkling wine; she didn’t know the difference.)

When Ange tried calling in sick yesterday morning, Hennety told her to buck her ideas up, then heard her vomiting in the ladies.

He unscrews the note, turns it over.

The baby’s yours.

Guy’s white as a sheet.

“What is it?” Ange was counting money before he burst in; she’s lost her place now.

“It’s Hennety.”

Looking at the stack of notes, she feigns disinterest. If Hennety doesn’t care about her, she doesn’t care about him.

“What about him?” Maria asks.

“He’s got amnesia!”

Hennety enters behind Guy, looks around the Bureau as though seeing it for the first time, then at Maria. “Who’re you?” He turns to Ange. “Who are you? You’re… the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m Angela,” she says, dumfounded.

“Like an angel.”

Ange’s eyes well with tears.

It was bound to happen. A high-class Bureau de Change? Anyone with sense knows there’s money behind the counter.

Ange is serving, which is just Hennety’s luck. The guy’s wearing a balaclava, holding a gun to the glass, demanding she hand everything over.

Hennety never thought she’d refuse. He’s impressed.

The glass isn’t bulletproof. Hennety knows because he didn’t pay the extra hundred to make it so, but he still jumps into the bullet’s path when the thief pulls the trigger, takes one in the side.

The last thing he sees is Ange’s face. Not a bad way to go.

Hennety chases Maria after their walkout.

He can’t fire Guy because he’s gay like he can’t fire Ange for getting pregnant or Maria for stealing paperclips. He can’t fire Alex because he doesn’t work there, but him leaving would’ve hurt. Not as much as Ange hurts now.

Something’s going on between Maria and Hennety. Ange feels it. She hates him for it.

Her phone rings. Someone’s breathing at the end of the line.

“…Jack?”

“Ange. I’m sorry about today. I do love you, you know?”

“You’ve a bloody strange way of showing it!” She slams the receiver down and sobs.

The ring is beautiful, its diamond so large Ange can see her face in it. She can’t stop smiling. Jack can’t either, though that’s probably because the only thing she’s wearing is the ring.

“We’re late for work,” Ange says, as he nibbles her shoulder. He can’t keep his hands off her.

“Suppose we should show our faces, shouldn’t we?”

She thought about it on the way to work but saying it aloud—It’s Mrs Hennety to you—makes it real. Jack looks like he’d pull the moon from the sky just for her, then kisses her like nobody’s looking.