Chapter Text
Crowley’s socks were wet. And, being wet, they were cold, and clinging to his toes, and bunching up, to form hard and sodden lumps in his shoes. He tried not to move his toes, because it was only making things worse. But, this was almost impossible. Thousands of neurons were firing thousands of angry messages, every second. It wasn’t quite an itch, and it wasn’t quite pain, but it was unrelenting waves of sensation. Nerve-shredding, and overwhelming waves, his head was barely resurfacing between them. There was sensation-seawater in his sensation-mouth , and he couldn’t stand it, and where the hell was the bus?
A bus was approaching, trundling red, out of the curtain of grey rain. Crowley peered at it. Its letters and numbers tipped over and tumbled on him, but he could make out enough to see it was the wrong bus. The Wrong Bus, but perhaps, just today, a Good-Enough Bus. Normally, he would wait the extra eleven minutes for the Right Bus. It went two streets closer, and spared the tingling, high-pitched ache in his hip. But, this was not a normal situation. His socks were WET.
He worried at the impossible calculus, of eleven extra minutes in wet socks, on one side, and two extra streets on a rainsore hip, on the other. It bothered his mind. It felt like dividing fractions. He didn’t know , and was on the verge of tears, at the unfairness of it all.
You can’t cry, he told himself. And, you can’t take off your shoes. And say good day to the bus driver, when you get on. And make eye contact, for gods sake. And DON’T CRY. His father’s voice had become his own, and had moved into his head. He hailed the bus, already slowing, and stepped into the throng.
London was grey, and terse, in the downpour. Passers-by were flipping up their collars, and shoving. Black umbrellas were flapping, in his peripheral vision, like irate blackbirds. His case-worker had moved into his head, too. She would have clicked her tongue, and reminded him to ground himself. He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t ground himself, because his socks were wet, and, for pity’s sake, DON’T CRY.
He pulled out his sunglasses, and put them on. They were neutral, and thick, and he loved them. They painted the world darker and more green. An oasis that would fit in his pocket. And yet, they perversely fogged, the moment he stepped onto the bus. He tried to make eye-contact with the driver anyway. “Good afternoon!” he said, to the fog. He tapped on. A tear rolled down his cheek, but no one needed to know. They would think it was a raindrop. Surely. As long as he didn’t let the middle of his forehead pull up. That would give the game away.
“Don’t let your forehead crease,” he said. Alas, aloud. The woman in front of him twitched, and stared at him, from the corner of her eye. The game was lost, after all- he was talking to himself. Don’t cry don’t. The woman sat, and glared, and hugged her handbag. Don’t cry don’t.
Crowleys hip wailed, so he scouted for a seat. He’d have, typically, made a beeline for the upper-deck. The seats in front were his favourite, and a joy. But today, the bus was near full. The odds weren’t in his favour, and he quailed at the prospect of the staircase.
Scanning the lower deck, he spotted one seat that was free, but otherwise, unpromising. The man, who occupied the window half of it, looked buttoned up and tidy. All respectable, and beige, and tweed. A single shopping tote sat, handles erect, on his lap. He looked like a tongue clicker, like a sigher, a bag-hugger. He looked like he might even bark at Crowley, should he try to sit down. And, if the man did, then Crowley would cry for real. He would lose his flailing control of his forehead, and of his tear ducts, and would Make A Scene.
And, one did not Make A Scene. In Public. Not for any reason. And certainly not because one’s socks were wet.
“Can I sit here please?” Crowley asked, and flinched. “My hip...” He forced himself to smile. He forced his eyes to meet the stranger’s eyes.
This was a bad idea.
It was a bad idea, because the stranger had the most expressive face that Crowley had ever seen. What seemed like several thousand facial muscles, all danced in different directions. Like a can of caterpillars. And, those eyes! Those eyes were Bolton Strid.
Under this gaze, hip or no hip, Crowley floundered and made to retreat.
But the stranger sprang up, and leapt into the aisle, indicating, with an expansive gesture of his arm, that Crowley should sit. “Of course, you must, my dear fellow!” the man said. “It’s weather for ducks, and not at all weather for joints. Isn’t it, just?”
Crowley froze, unsure what to do. This was unexpected. “Um... you can sit, too... I.. here..” He sat down, forcing himself hard up against the window, taking up as little space as possible. “Please...” he whispered.
Please. He was pressed against the bus window. He was on the wrong bus. His socks were wet. He started to cry.
“Oh, you poor thing!” The stranger exclaimed. “Is the pain so very bad?”
Crowley didn’t even begin to know how to answer. Yes, the pain was bad.
A loud voice. Perhaps the loudest of all the jostlers and shouters in the rioting concourse of his head.
But, how could be begin to explain such chaos? In particular, how could he answer when, if his answer wasn’t good enough, the seat might be demanded back?
“My socks are wet...” he whimpered, feeling his face crack. Sobs came. Heaves.
He tried to ignore the stranger, now. The interaction was a unsalvageable. There would only be unpleasantness to reap from it. Only sneers, and sideways glances. Flared nostrils, and tightly drawn lips. He didn’t look. He spared himself that. He waited. The bus rumbled. The storm of his tears began to roll on.
And then, something happened. A feeling on his hand. Gentle, fleecy softness. Almost unbearably gentle. Hesitant. A question.
A brand new pair of argyle socks, still nestled in a cardboard hanger. “Here you go,” the stranger said. “I can help, after all! Such a coincidence simply must be fate. Sorry to rush you, my dear. But this is my stop.... ahh... good day!”
The stranger left, bustling off the bus.
Crowley found that he was, somehow, holding that pair of new socks. He craned around, and followed a brown tartan umbrella with his eyes, for as long as he could, while the bus sped away. He swallowed, and without thinking, ran the soft wool along the ridge of his cheek. For a moment, the screaming in his mind bowed to this small comfort.
Then, he changed his socks. Right there on the bus. Fuck all the rest of them. Two hoots, if they didn’t like it.
Someone had been kind.
And Crowley had not had enough kindness to let a drop go to waste.
When finally home, Crowley shed every stitch of clothing, and exhaled. He was free of the agony of waistbands, and collars, and fucking socks. His mind quieted. He could think, again.
Then, he remembered that the socks he’d shed were not actually his own and froze, his abdomen tense and heavy. What did one do, after being gifted new socks from a stranger? Was it like when gifted a tissue? Return verboten and replacement unnecessary? Or was it like being like being lent a handkerchief, to be returned, dry-cleaned as soon as possible? Or was it..?
His thoughts clambered all over each other, an unarrestable spiral. And so he sat down, hugged his knees, in front of his plants and just tried to breathe.
There’s more oxygen over here, he told himself. All that photosynthesis.
He breathed. The stranger had smelled like rain, and like wet wool, and like something else. Some earthy, masculine scent. Balsam, his mind suggested, and he snagged on the word. He let lips shape it, over and over. He modulated the first ‘a’ up and down his mouth, testing where he liked it best.
He breathed.
And he decided.
He had new socks, black. Pre-purchased, in his drawer. Cotton and cheap, but not too hot, and not prone to droop or sag. Good socks.
He would carry a pair of them with him, he decided. And, if he saw the stranger again, he would offer them up. Maybe he would wash the argyle socks, and keep them in his pocket, as a back up gesture.
Yes. That would do.
Resolved.
He caught the wrong bus again, for a week. But he didn’t see the stranger with the piercing eyes and the kaleidoscopic face again.