Chapter Text
There was a stranger in town. A most unusual thing to happen. Unusual because Haven was one of those towns. The kind that has one red light. The kind that only exists because the highway carrying truckers and vacationers somewhere else is near enough to keep a gas station alive. This stranger is different though. He isn't a long haul trucker. He isn't related to anyone in town. And apparently, he wears leather trousers.
"If I were twenty years younger, I would bang him like a screen door." Madame Tracy opines while Zira tries not to choke on his tea the next booth over. He shudders at the mental image of Madame Tracy banging anyone. She is on the farthest side of middle age and saucy in the way that some vibrant ladies are allowed to be in small towns. It's friday evening and Zira is at the diner, as he is just about every friday evening. Thankfully, Anathema Device, the owner of the diner (and current waitress), manages to interrupt the salacious conversation before Aziraphale has permanent damage to his psyche. In fact, he is able to put the matter completely out of his mind. Until Ms. Device is taking payment at the register and mentions the lost and found.
“Here we are. Shadwell left his debit card and the new guy left his gloves.” she says while dragging the shoebox from behind the counter. She slides the box over to Aziraphale who carefully tucks it into his messenger bag.
For a moment he considers the exciting prospect of meeting a stranger that wears leather trousers. Well, it’s something to look forward to. What sort of gloves would a leather clad man leave lying in a diner? His curiosity is piqued. As he walks the two blocks from the diner to the library, he ponders the possibilities. Leather gloves for sure. Probably. Those biker gloves. The ones with the holes in the knuckles. The ones with cut off fingers. He nods to himself in agreement as he unlocks the door and makes his way to the desk with only the light of the streetlamp guiding him.
Aziraphale is so familiar with the layout that it is no trouble for him to find the empty space to slide the shoebox. He pauses. Ok. He has to see. Flipping the lid aside, he scrapes his fingers down into the box until they encounter the fabric. Oh! For a second his hand registered the texture as silk. Soft. As he curls his fingers around them, the give is wrong. He was right. They are leather and butter soft. They feel like touching the underside of a rose petal. Delicate. The leather captures the warmth of his hand after only touching them for a moment. Not cold weather gloves though. Too thin for that and fingerless. The hands that go in them must be narrow. Expensive. Very chic. Is the stranger a biker? The gloves look black in the dark room. Interesting. It is strangely voyeuristic to be holding them here in his empty shop. He feels suddenly like a creep. Shuddering a little bit, he dumps the gloves back into the box and slides it into place. He laughs softly in mockery at himself as he makes his way up the back stairs into his loft apartment. It’s not like he had been handling anything intimate. Goodness. He obviously needs to get out more. His barren social life is making all sorts of odd ideas occur to him. Zira doesn’t follow his own chastisement well though, because as he settles into his warm bed, there is one last happy thought of meeting the stranger tomorrow perhaps! Something to look forward to, indeed.