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The rain was wild, whipping Aziraphale’s coat back and forth in a most distressing manner as he stumbled his way down the street. He grabbed the ends of his coat and held them firmly around him, his legs moving desperately to get through the gale.
London was as busy as ever, despite the ghastly weather. The streets were bulging with the weight of them all, the less aggressive members of the crowd intermittently hopping into the road to let large bulks of the crowd past.
Aziraphale was one of these unlucky people. He staggered off the pavement, shivering violently as he smiled with a faint air of sourness at those who bothered to thank him for his sacrifice. The trouble was, when he tried to get back onto the pavement, he found it an almost impossible task. The flow of the crowd was like a river current, pushing everyone along with it, while expelling anything that couldn’t keep up.
A car horn blared behind him, making Aziraphale jump. He turned, feeling thoroughly perturbed at the belligerent gesture, when he stopped. Then, he smiled.
“Crowley!”
“Get in!” Crowley yelled, leaning out the window, before hurriedly ducking back in again. Aziraphale trotted round the bonnet, holding his hood flat against his head as he faced the wind.
Once inside, he sighed. The delicious warmth of the car blanketed his dripping skin, warming him most swiftly. He jiggled his legs, which were beginning to grow quite numb, and took off his coat, which had been entirely ineffective in the battle against the rain.
“Fun journey?” Crowley enquired, the corners of his lips upturned in a smirk.
“Not particularly, no,” Aziraphale replied, mistaking the demon’s question as genuine. He folded is coat up neatly, before tucking it up on the floor. Several fat blobs of water soaked into the Bentley’s carpet. Aziraphale didn’t notice Crowley’s eye twitch.
“Home?” Crowley asked, teeth ever so slightly gritted.
“Oh, please.”
Aziraphale’s knuckles were as white as snow by the time they pulled up to his book shop. He let go of the handle he had been gripping and allowed himself to breathe. He wouldn’t call Crowley’s driving terrifying per se, but it was certainly unsettling.
He hurriedly got out of the car, his legs wobbling slightly. The rain was still fierce, but not quite as horrific as it had been. He tried to cover his head with his arms as he bustled his way through the throng, Crowley following behind. He struggled with his keys for a frustrating few seconds, but he was inside soon enough.
His outer layers were shedded and dumped on a chair as soon as he crossed the threshold, and the kettle was whistling away shortly after. Crowley, settling himself in an armchair, had simply waved a hand, and the rain had cleared from his clothes in an instant. He watched Aziraphale bustle around, a faint smile on his lips.
“What are you doing back so early anyway?” he asked, putting his feet up against a fluffy pouf. “I thought you were staying in Ireland for a while, spreading peace and love or whatever, but it’s only been a week?”
“Yes, well, the situation changed.” Aziraphale’s voice was shaky, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he poured himself a cup of tea. “Oh, can you please take off your shoes? That’s Venetian velvet!”
Crowley removed his feet from the pouf and folded his arms.
“What happened?”
Aziraphale seemed to pause. His hands were half way towards his steaming mug, and his mouth was ajar.
“Nothing in particular,” he said eventually. Crowley smirked.
“Did you get suspended again?”
“What?”
“Did you?”
“No!” Aziraphale exclaimed, looking highly offended. Crowley raised his eyebrows and the angel’s frame melted under his gaze. “Yes,” he sighed, almost aggressively. “I just wanted some oysters… and then Gabriel… frivolous miracles!”
He continued to mutter to himself, picking up his mug of tea and taking an angry sip. But then once again, he stopped.
He had stopped shivering. He suddenly felt incredibly warm, not just on the outside, but inside as well. The heat seemed to be flowing through his veins, rising up his body and making flush in the most wonderful way.
He looked down at himself, and then up at Crowley. Crowley’s face was determinedly turned away, his head gazing around the room in a very innocent fashion.
“Crowley, you shouldn’t have!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Crowley…”
“Don’t, okay? I didn’t do anything.”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Okay.” He sipped his tea again, a touch of blush painting his cheeks. “Thank you.”
Crowley ignored him. He stood up, apparently restless, and began sauntering around the shop.
“So why are you back? Ireland not suit you or…”
“Well Gabriel gave Sandalphon my job, so I didn’t see much point in hanging around. But, um…”
He titled on his heels, as though considering something. He absentmindedly patted a a pocket of his waistcoat, staring off into thin air.
“Aziraphale?” asked Crowley, sounding only a little concerned. Aziraphale’s head snapped up.
“Hmm?”
“You were saying?”
“What? Oh, yes, right. It’s just, uh… something peculiar.”
He sat down, wringing his hands. He looked most distressed.
“Okay,” Crowley said slowly, leaning against a bookshelf. Concern wasn’t really something demon’s did, but he had to admit; there was something niggling away inside of him that made him most uncomfortable as he stared at his anxious little friend.
“Have you heard of the Scottish Sock legend?” Aziraphale said at last.
“The what?” Crowley snorted.
“It’s a local legend in Ireland. Originated from Derry, apparently.”
“Right…” said Crowley, a small smirk still on his lips.
“So anyway, according to the legend this sock travelled to Ireland, no one’s really sure how, but it came to this family and all the family members who wore it ended up dead. The family got rid of it, but still, wherever it went, dead bodies kept turning up.”
“…dead bodies?” Crowley scoffed. “How the fu-“
“Exactly!” Aziraphale interjected. “Nobody knew what was going on, except that when someone died, the sock was always there. Well, not EVERY time someone died, but you get the gist.”
Crowley frowned, a strange smile forming on his face.
“Clearly someone has a sick sense of humour,” he chuckled. “Killing people and leaving a sock behind!”
“Well, that’s what I thought initially, but…”
Aziraphale’s anxiety was back. His face was blank and his eyes were glazed over.
“Angel,” Crowley said firmly, “you are not seriously suggesting the socks had anything to do with it.”
Aziraphale didn’t respond. Instead, he slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out something orange. He placed it on the desk in front of him.
Aziraphale breathed an enormous sigh of relief as he let the wool sock go. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he had been clenching his toes. He let them relax, feeling a twinging ache in the bones as he did so.
He had been most concerned by how easily anger had been coming to him the last few days, as though this bubble of heat inside of him kept rising to the surface and bursting out. But now, he couldn’t even imagine frowning at someone, let alone getting angry.
Crowley was staring at the socks as though mesmerised.
“Why would someone create grey woollen socks…” he muttered to himself. “I mean, if you’re going to go to all the bother, at least make them a bit colourful… maybe a nice green…”
“Crowley?”
It seemed to take a great effort to rip his eyes away from the socks, but Crowley managed it. He looked at Aziraphale, who was staring at him in a very peculiar manner.
“What?”
“The socks aren’t grey, they’re orange!”
“What? No they’re not. Look at them!”
Aziraphale stared at the socks. They were most definitely orange. In fact, it was the exact same shade as the oranges in his fruit bowl.
He jumped from his chair and quickly grabbed one from the table opposite. He placed it next to the sock and then glared at Crowley expectantly. Crowley stared back at him, utterly perplexed.
“What colour is that?” asked Aziraphale, jabbing a finger at the orange.
“…orange?”
“Okay, and what colour is that?” he asked, now pointing at the sock.
“Grey,” Crowley repeated uncertainly.
“They’re the exact same colour, Crowley!”
“Well not to me they’re not!”
Aziraphale sat down heavily, chucking the orange aside. “What is going on?”
Crowley was looking incredibly concerned. He was staring at the sock, and then slowly at things around the room.
“That’s… blue right?” he asked, pointing at an ornamented jar. Aziraphale looked up, sock in hand and looking thoroughly annoyed.
“Yes,” he snapped.
“And that’s pink?” He was now pointing at the Venetian pouf, which had been muddied slightly on top from Crowley’s shoes. Aziraphale noticed this too, which only seems to sour his mood further.
“Crowley, what is the point of this?” he scowled.
“I just… is it possible to be… partially colour blind?”
“What?” Aziraphale hissed.
“You know, colour blind but only to certain objects…”
Aziraphale rose slowly from his chair. “I am trying to understand the qualities of an object responsible for the deaths of dozens, and you are asking me that?”
His voice was low and dangerous. Crowley frowned at him, as thought noticing his friend’s sour mood for the first time.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” he spat. Crowley took a seat. He grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist and led him down also.
“You seriously think,” he began slowly, “that these socks are capable of killing human beings.”
“Yes, Crowley, that’s what I’ve been trying to-“
“And figuring out how is important to you?”
Aziraphale’s face seemed to soften slightly. He released his arm from the demon’s grip. “I just don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
Crowley smiled slightly. “Okay. Well if we’re going to figure this out we’d better get started.”
He held out his hand and Aziraphale reluctantly handed the sock over. As soon as the wool touched his flesh, he yelled out in pain.
“Ow, fuck me!” he yelped, leaping up and throwing the sock away from him. He clutched his hand, staring as an angry burn began to form across his palm. Then, it disappeared, melting back into his skin.
He glared at the socks, and then at Aziraphale, whose eyes were wide and almost fearful.
“I think I’m starting to believe in this whole socks of death thing, angel.”
They were deep in pondering thought when someone knocked on the door.
“We’re closed!” Aziraphale’s shrill voice sang out. The two of them were standing on opposite sides of the table, the sock poised in the centre.
An agreement had quickly been reached that neither of them should touch it, causing Aziraphale to immediately retrieve his white cloth dusting gloves from a nearby cabinet. Crowley had decided not to ask.
Moving them carefully from the floor, where Crowley’s ungraceful chuck had put them, he placed them atop the table. There were a few theories exchanged, followed by varying degrees of skepticism, and then a long, deeply considered silence.
It was the knock that broke it.
Aziraphale’s shout did nothing to deter the second knock, nor the third or the fourth or the fifth.
With a resigned sigh, he opened the front door, feeling immediate regret as he did so. Not only did the icy wind and slashing rain bring an instant chill into the shop, but the man standing there was the last person Aziraphale wished to see.
“Hi, so sorry to bother you Ziri,” the man trilled, his American accent putting emphasis on letters Aziraphale didn’t even know existed, “but my roof’s leaking and in this kind of weather…” The man sucked his teeth in, showing his concern in what he obviously thought was a playful way.
“Oh, hi Jack,” Aziraphale said, his features actively deflating. “I’m so sorry to hear that but um… is there no where else you can go?”
He was trying desperately to keep the hope out of his voice, but it didn’t matter; Jack was entirely oblivious.
“Afraid not, my other neighbour’s are on holiday at the moment, so you’re my last hope.”
Jack chuckled slightly, and then gave a dramatic shiver. Aziraphale got the point.
“Do come in.”
Jack smiled gratefully and entered. Aziraphale closed the shop door, rather more violently than intended, but it was a real battle to shut it against the wind.
Jack quickly took his soaking coat off, and then paused. He had noticed Crowley.
“Oh!” he said suddenly, looking from Crowley, then to Aziraphale and back again. “I didn’t know… I don’t mean to intrude…”
“You didn’t!” Aziraphale said quickly. “I mean we weren’t… I mean you weren’t… I mean… I mean…”
Aziraphale stumbled over his words, glancing up at Crowley for help.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” he said, barely acknowledging their guest.
“You are?” asked Aziraphale, his face wrinkled in disappointment. Crowley nodded, swiftly collecting his things that were strewn around the room.
“I’ve thought of something, I’m going to check it out,” he muttered to Aziraphale as he brushed past him. Aziraphale grabbed his arm to stop him.
“What is it?”
“I read something about a jumper in the Netherlands that strangled its owners, it was on the blog post thing,” he explained quickly, swinging his jacket around his shoulders.
“Where? We can try and find it here.”
“Uh, it’s an internet thing and um… well you wouldn’t like it… anyway, I’ll be back. Don’t touch the sock.”
Crowley swung through the doors raising his hand as a goodbye. Aziraphale reluctantly turned back to Jack. He was smiling coyly.
“So how long have the two of you been…” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead giving the angel a wink. Aziraphale was beginning to feel thoroughly annoyed, but he swallowed his frustration with ease.
“Shall I make a hot drink? Tea?”
“You don’t have coffee do you?”
“Coffee it is!”
Aziraphale got out another mug and begun to make what he hoped was coffee. Admittedly, he had never made the drink before, usually resorting to the café across the street if the urge arose to have such a beverage.
“You don’t mind if I change do you? I brought some spare clothes.”
“Not at all,” Aziraphale sighed. “There’s a private room back there-“
He stopped, squinting through the window. Crowley was waving at him, his mouth yelling something that was unmistakably “Angel!”
He put down the mug of brown liquid and headed for the door.
“What?” he yelled, poking his through the door. Crowley was waving something white out of his Bentley window. It was his coat.
Aziraphale quickly trotted down the pavement, grabbed the coat and, with a quick word of thanks, returned to the warmth.
“Sorry about that,” he said once the door was closed, making the book shop once again an oasis of warmth and comfort. “Your coffee’s just over th-“
Jack was lying flat out against the floor, his limbs splayed. His mouth was lolled open and his eyes had rolled backwards into his head. His chest was still. He wasn’t breathing.
It was then Aziraphale noticed the orange sock on his foot.
“No,” he whispered, the coat dropping from his limp hand. “No, no, no, no.”
He knelt down, feeling the man’s forehead, then wrist, then eyes. There was no sign of life at all.
He stumbled to his feet, his breath ragged as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
Aziraphale didn’t know what to do, what to think, what to say. Just one thought kept coming to him; he couldn’t stay there. He hated that that was the first thought that came to him after finding a dead man in his shop, but if he stayed, it would be a mess of police and questions, Heaven may even get involved…
He had to go, now.
Aziraphale left his shop, walking for many hours in the rain and the cold. What he didn’t notice, however, was as soon as the book shop door clicked shut, a gasp rang out into the air.
Jack sat up. It took a few seconds for his breath to became steady, but as soon as it did, a yell left his lips.
“What the fuck was that?”