Chapter Text
Happy endings had their problems, even for a couple of immortals like Crowley and Aziraphale: in this particular case it was how to properly thank the humans that had helped them save the world. Of course it wasn’t necessary, especially as the memory of said mortals was hazy on the whole affair, but Aziraphale had thought the gesture would be lovely all the same, and Crowley couldn’t say no to the big wet eyes his angel made with the persistent suggestion.
So, how to show appreciation to those who’d already gotten their Happily Ever After? The trick, Aziraphale insisted, was to find things they didn’t even know they wanted.
To Adam and the Them it was a brilliant new tree house tucked away in the woods to discover on an adventure. For Madame Tracy and Shadwell in their country bungalow it was a garden that would bloom in every season.
Straightforward fellow that he was, a gift to please Newton Pulsifer would have been simple enough, such as the ability to successfully construct a model airplane. Anathema, though, was harder to pin down, and if Aziraphale had needed sleep he certainly would have lost hours of it while perplexing over her propensities.
When Crowley casually proposed they “do a bit of recon” on the new couple, Aziraphale clutched his metaphorical pearls.
“You mean spy on them?” he replied with a scandalized look on his angelic face. Minutes later they were screaming down the road in Crowley’s Bentley to the sounds of “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”
After a week of the pair lurking about the Pulsifer/Device household disguised as laborers working on the vacant home next door, Aziraphale found himself no closer to an answer.
Crowley, however, had been taking his own notes. Aziraphale tended to politely turn his head in the more intimate moments the two humans shared, still a frequent occurrence in the newness of the relationship. Crowley had no such reservations, which often earned him a half-hearted slap on the shoulder from the angel.
In his enthusiastic amateur opinion*, Anathema was a “switch,” in BDSM lingo. Without a doubt, mutual pleasure was achieved in the times she tied Newton to the bed and tortured him kindly with a range of archaic apparatus.** When she tried to encourage her fellow to take the lead though, he simply stammered and blushed. In Crowley’s estimation, ol’ Newt had it in him deep down, in the grand tradition of men long trod upon by the world. Learning to conscientiously assert himself would be good for Newton – and if done right, for his lady love as well.
“He just needs a proper demonstration. Let’s give ‘em a little divine intervention,” Crowley said to Aziraphale with a smirk.
“Oh Crowley, I don’t know. That seems so… drastic,” Aziraphale replied. “Besides, I’m not sure I’m equipped to pass on that sort of knowledge.”
“You are perfectly well-equipped, angel.” Crowley suggestively looked Aziraphale up and down over the top of his shades. His counterpart blushed with coy pleasure. “’Course you can conjure any bits and bobs you see fit. Maybe young Pulsifer won’t be the only one getting an education.”
Aziraphale’s blush deepened, but he persisted.
“Won’t we be inviting the Little Green Monster around for tea, though? Humans are so stubbornly susceptible to it.”
“Was jealousy one of yours or one of ours, I wonder?” Crowley mumbled off-handedly, mostly to himself. “Haven’t you seen the way he looks at Anathema when another man takes a gander at her in public? I mean, women do it too sometimes, but Newt’s too clueless to notice that.”
“No I haven’t, but I suppose you plan on edifying me.”
“It sets him alight. Gets his motor running. He really, really, really likes it. In terms of thank-yous I think we’d be outdoing ourselves here.”
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he processed this information. “Humans are so oddly inconsistent.”
“Almost… ineffable, you might say.” Crowley winked.
“You’re such a naughty boy,” Aziraphale said in coquettish reproval.
“Yes, perfect, hold onto that look! Maybe we’ll find you a great long yardstick to go along with that schoolmarm outrage.”
Aziraphale was pretty sure he was being teased, but he couldn’t resist the bait. “Schoolmarm!”
“That’s the spirit!” Crowley grinned. “Besides, haven’t you always want to fuck a human – not just a demon with a cunt?”
“Language!” Aziraphale hissed and peered about to see if anyone had heard, more out of habit than any actual offense.
“I’m not sure what you’re worried about, angel. Heaven is the perfect training ground for a dom.”
FOOTNOTES
*The Bastille wasn’t the only dungeon Crowley had haunted.
**Crowley suspected these implements had been handed down through the family line. It is a stereotype that witches are prone to what humanity has considered perversion over the millennia, but stereotypes often exist for a reason (though one human’s “sexual deviance” is another’s “castrating of the patriarchy” [usually in a metaphorical sense]).