( @askazicro - forgive me, I wrote this at around 2 in the morning on my phone. prepare yourself for errors, inaccuracies, and terrible writing alike. But I love your art so much, and the urge was there. And I felt it essential that I explore this incredible headcanon of TooManySocks)
I now absolutely subscribe to the fact that one (1) Angel owns a million pairs of socks.
And when he runs out of rooms for those socks (which he will do- there’s only so much space in both this plane of existence and the next), he will begin to secretly stash them in Crowley’s apartment.
I use the word secretly as if it is a secret when, in reality, it very much isn’t a secret, because Crowley’s apartment in all its cold angles and shades of black and gray makes it impossible to not notice the bright woolen pairs that have been shoved in drawers and flower pots and toothpaste holders.
Crowley finds them easily, and throws them either in the garbage or down the garbage disposal/plant execution site.
More appear by the next morning, shoved below his fancy office chair and in filing cabinets. He’ll find them when he walks across freezing floors and stubs his toe on all the sharp edges sticking out in the halls.
“Look,” he’ll tel the Angel the next time they meet. “I don’t mind you keeping things at mine. But couldn’t you find a more… subtle place to stash them? It doesn’t do my evil reputation to have pink ankle socks on the bookshelves.”
“Hm. Yeah. Socks. You know.” He pointed down to his shoes. When he says so, he gives his sore feet a little stretch, wincing when the tight shoes pinch at popping toes. “I only have a few pairs. Black ones. You’ve seen em.”
Aziraphale, leaning on his Demon’s side, looks up at him innocently. “Don’t have the foggiest what you mean, love. Pass me that mug, won’t you? It’s getting cold.”
And so it is out of spite that Crowley begins to wear them.
Because it’s his space, and Aziraphale cannot expect to invade it without having his things being invaded by demonic toes.
He’s still a demon, after all. And inflicting Aziraphale some slight grief seems fitting enough. And nothing could bring more grief, he thinks, than stealing the clothing that Aziraphale thought might (foolishly) take over Crowley’s space.
Especially seeing as Aziraphale of the Waistcoats and Tartan was finicky when it came to his beloved outdated wardrobe.
And so he abandons his thin, black socks for the ones he found cluttered around.
Besides believing that Aziraphale has a million pairs of socks (he does), I also believe that Demon’s are accustomed to being cold. Hell’s wardrobe requirements weren’t many, but “discomfort” was a suggestion that most there followed. Crowley had been the one to create the idea on Earth of High Fashion being itchy and too-tight and irritable, and so this was something he got behind without much issue. He’d been the one to come up with Modeling careers, after all.
No one really enjoyed being cold.
But he did enjoy being fashionable. And he definitely did (not) enjoy being miserable for the sake of appearances.
So he’d grit through the cold and pinchyness.
And so when he found the socks and began wearing them, it was for purely demonic reasons.
He’d begin with gray argyle. He saunters into Aziraphale’s shop one day, hiking up a tight pant leg (no easy feat when most of his pants are either skin tight or tighter) when he bends dramatically low to pick up a book of “Camping Etiquette: Bear With Me - A Guide on Proper Wildlife Manners” from beneath a side table.
“Oh,” Aziraphale will chitter, eyes drawn down all of the Longness of Crowley’s Wobbly self to the newly socked feet. “Are those…?”
“Are they what, Angel?” He rises, but keeps his foot pointed out. He gave the shoe a wiggle.
He’s prepared to tempt the Angel into anger.
Aziraphale blinked down at the foot. He looked up at Crowley. He smiled. It wasn’t the reaction Crowley was looking for. At all.
How very unhelpful of him.
“Nothing, dear. Could you re-shelve that? Second case in the back, to the left.”
Crowley grumbles and does as he’s told.
The next day week he wears Pink Stripes, Yellow Polka Dots, Green ZigZags, and (in a fit of desperation) the ones with little Philosopher busts on the toes and SOCKRATES written on the bottom.
Aziraphale barely bats an eye.
The big guns come out a week later, when he resorts to heavy woolen socks, a pair of rainbow socks, and a novelty pair with STITCH, PLEASE sewn into the side.
“Notice anything?” he’ll ask one day when he’d arrived to pick up Aziraphale for their trip to the opera. He sat in the Bentley, extending one leg out the door. Aziraphale would stop on his trip round the car to look the demon up and down. From the top of his head, to his socked ankle, stuck out of the car like an old cartoon lady might have.
“You know, I haven’t the faintest! New trousers, dear?”
Crowley’s face droops, and he mumbles little mockeries under his breath until their tickets are taken, and he’s slouching in the theater seats, tapping his socked toes (this time around he’d worn a pair with MY OTHER CAR IS MY FEET across the ankle in hideous neon green) to a terrible rendition of Madame Butterfly.
He’ll break out a few more in the following weeks.
There was an especially desperate time when he’d tromped down the stairs into the back den of the bookshop in trousers, an undershirt, and socks, and stalked the room like a vulture, doing his best to flaunt the nauseatingly bright knee highs. SEXY IS MY MIDDLE NAME was stitched down one calf. The other; BOYFRIEND MATERIAL.
“Dear,” said Aziraphale. “Darling. Love. Light of my life. Could you please stop circling me. I’m getting dizzy.” He looked up from the newspaper. “And for gods sake, Crowley. Either put something on, or put on the kettle, but do find a use for yourself.”
Crowley kicked the door to the kitchen open with his SEXY socks and made tea with as much anger (and honey) as he could manage.
It’s not long before he forgets that he’s doing it. And the socks become a part of the morning routine. He would have argued that it was because they clashed with his outfits. And despite being fashionable, it was technically demonic to look a little out of style.
He’d also argue that it was still to spite Aziraphale, even if he didn’t look very spited.
He would not argue that it was because his feet were warm.
He doesn’t wince when he walks across his apartment in the morning, crossing cold floors with a plant mister in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His pinchy shoes don’t pinch as much.
And napping is much, much nicer. Splayed out on a couch, shoes kicked off, wiggling his toes in a thick pair of socks with FULL TIME PLANT MOM scrawled on both soles and Ivy drawn up round the ankle.
And oh isn’t it delicious when Aziraphale finds time to put down his book and knead his thumbs into the little sore spots right below his heel while he drifts off. “Comfy, darling?”
“Mph,” says Crowley into a pillow.
More socks will materialize in Crowley’s apartment weekly.
Crowley will continue to believe they are Aziraphale’s way of storing his belongings elsewhere.
Aziraphale, who has a perfectly lovely set of his own socks stored in their very own spot in the upstairs closet won’t say a word. He drops a kiss to Crowley’s head, takes a moment to breathe in spice and shampoo and pinot and leather and something faintly like Broken Speed Limits, and goes back to his book.
And thus, an Angel uses the subtle art of novelty socks to begin his beloved demon’s journey into self care.
