Chapter Text
Aziraphale’s sock was, once again, missing.
He had checked all over the bookshop: behind the dresser, under stacks of books, inside his shoes. He’d made sure, this time, that he wasn’t already wearing it underneath his other sock. He would have felt very foolish if he’d made the same mistake again… but it also would have been a relief.
No such luck.
Leaping to conclusions about the cause of the sock’s absence last time had led him to an embarrassing situation. But, then again…
Now you mention it, said a demonic voice in the angel’s memory, full of mischief, it’s a great idea. Should try it sometime.
Aziraphale squared his shoulders, hoping he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself again, and went to find Crowley. He was determined to reclaim his sock.
~ ~ ~
He knocked twice when he reached the Mayfair flat — then, hearing no answer, pushed the door open. As always, the lock clicked lightly at his touch and politely let him in.
The bookshop would have done the same for Crowley. Which would, of course, have made committing sock theft very easy, assuming the demon was indeed the perpetrator.
The angel came a couple of steps into the foyer, then stopped. “Crowley?” he called.
No response. He took another step forward.
“Crowley?”
~ ~ ~
Crowley had, he admitted to himself later, made a small error in judgment.
It had only been meant as a lighthearted prank. Aziraphale had unjustly blamed him for the missing sock last time; so this time, Crowley decided, he would earn the blame. The angel would put two and two together quickly enough, he’d come in search of the sock, Crowley would give it back and they’d both have a good laugh and a drink.
The error had occurred when he decided — just for fun while he waited for the angel to track him down — to transform into a tiny snake and coil up inside the sock as if it were a sleeping bag.
The sock was clean, so it didn’t literally smell of Aziraphale… but it was nonetheless imbued with a certain flavor of angelic aura that (unlike any other angelic auras) made Crowley feel enveloped in safety and calm.
And of course, if he was using the sock as a sleeping bag, at that point there was nothing for it but to fall asleep.
~ ~ ~
Aziraphale located his sock on the corner of a table. He smiled. At least Crowley had had the decency to put it somewhere where there was little danger of it getting dirty.
He reached for the sock… then froze as the piece of clothing moved.
Ssssss mine, hissed a familiar — albeit unusually downsized — voice. My ssssock.
“I beg your pardon? It is most certainly mine.”
Ssss cozy, elucidated the exceedingly sleepy-sounding serpent poking a head out of the ankle. Sssssafe. You.
Oh, my.
It occurred to Aziraphale, with a soft twinge of mildly annoyed tenderness, that he might not have the heart to demand his sock back after all.