Part 1. You Can Stay At My Place, If You Like

[Quotation from original script by Neil Gaiman:

A green country bus/coach is pulling up.

AZIRAPHALE

It says Oxford on the front.

CROWLEY

Yeah . . . but he'll drive to London. He just won't know why.

AZIRAPHALE

I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.

CROWLEY

It burned down, remember?

Aziraphale looks like he's going to cry. . . .

CROWLEY (CONT'D)

You can stay at my place, if you like.

End quotation of original script]

In Crowley's flat, he and Aziraphale are having a nightcap of Talisker single-malt.

Unghhhh . . . Well. That. Was. A day. Wasn't it? (Crowley tosses back the last of his scotch.) Remember I told you I enjoy sleeping? Do you mind if I go and drop off for a few hours?

Not at all. May I help myself to more of your scotch?

Please, be my guest. There's another bottle in that cabinet there if you need it.

Crowley strolls off and enters his bedroom. Snaps his fingers - off goes his jacket, vest, jeans, belt, shoes, giant watch, mesh tie. He lies down on his back and instantly falls asleep, his mouth slightly open just as exhausted humans do. The bed coverings remain as taut and unwrinkled as if nothing were upon them.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale gets up and walks over to take a look at Crowley's extraordinary potted plants. The plants quiver – oh no, a new supernatural being!

My, aren't you all lovely. I don't believe I've ever seen such magnificent houseplants.

He raises his hand and gestures to give a blessing. The plants relax and stop quivering, then gently lift their leaves as if saying "Hallelujah!"

Aziraphale reflects that being a Guardian Angel is part of a Principality's basic skill set, just as a ship's captain is expected to know how to tie a reef knot. Nonetheless, he's a bit rusty, not having been tasked with any more Guardian duty after the Apple Tree and Eastern Gate assignments didn't turn out so well… Goes into the bedroom, sees Crowley apparently dead asleep, approaches quietly and then leans down to softly kiss Crowley's forehead. Goes to foot of bed, carefully sits with his back to Crowley, sternly upright as if alertly on guard. Unfurls wings so they surround Crowley on each side. Takes a sip of scotch.

Unseen by Aziraphale, Crowley's mouth closes into a wistful smile.

Part 2. Holiday In Tadfield; The Sunday Afternoon After Almost-Armageddon and the Near-Extinction

Aziraphale and Crowley are on back their bench by the duck pond in St. James's Park. Aziraphale gets a bright idea.

What do you say to a jaunt back down to Tadfield? A sort of holiday, seeing as how we're both likely unemployed now. The place has such a lovely atmosphere. We could have a picnic!

They rise and walk over to where Crowley's Bentley is – as usual – illegally parked, and get in.

You won't be fussing the whole way about my driving?

Oh no! Since I catapulted that scooter over the motorway, I understand now how you do it. Let us be off! At speed! (Makes gleeful fists)

Later, they are strolling together down a Tadfield country lane. Aziraphale is carrying (levitating, actually) a tartan blanket covering a picnic basket with two bottles of expensive wine, loaf of bread, pate, steak and kidney pie, cheese, biscuits, and of course apples. When they had been in the shop to purchase supplies, Crowley had in no uncertain voice said, "To Hell and Damnation with vegetables."

They encounter Anathema and Adam coming from the opposite direction on their bikes, Dog scampering alongside. Anathema has her divining rods and iPad in her bike basket and her theodolite strapped to the back of the bike. The two stop and dismount to greet Aziraphale and Crowley. Dog growls a bit at Crowley.

Adam gives them both a searching look.

Hi you two. You're not here to do any messing about, are you?

Aziraphale: Good gracious, no! We're here on holiday, to soak up some . . .

Crowley: . . . rest and relaxation.

Aziraphale: . . . love.

Crowley turns and gives Aziraphale a speculative look.

Adam continues:

We're off to round up Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian. Anathema is going to show us how to find an old Roman ley line. She's an occulist, did you know that? Hey, Anathema, can you see their auras?

Anathema squints a bit to activate AuraVision, then blinks and flinches as if a flashbulb had just gone off.

Yes. Yes I can. They're quite bright.

What colours are they?

Anathema is awed.

The colour of magic!

Wicked!

No. Just the opposite, actually. Well, one of them, at least. We should be off, let them get on to their picnic.

Aziraphale reaches into his basket, extracts the pie, a packet of shortbread, and the apples. He puts the pastries into Anathema's bike basket and the apples into Adam's.

Here are some provisions for your expedition. Good luck with your science project!

Adam and Anathema both thank him.

Anathema: Enjoy your picnic!

Aziraphale waves as they peddle off.

Crowley has been bored during the whole encounter.

Auras?

I seem to recall it's something human psychics believe in. Glowing light that surround living beings. Plants supposedly have them, too. They advise talking to one's houseplants to improve their auras. I've never observed any such phenomena, myself.

Loony. Stark barking loony. I knew if from the moment she ran her bike into my car.

Later that afternoon, on a meadow hillside, Crowley & Aziraphale are stretched out side by side on the picnic blanket, propped on their elbows, each taking a last swig from their respective bottles of wine. Aziraphale sighs wistfully,

I rather wish we'd gotten that little bottle of sauterne. It would have made a nice dessert.

Crowley reaches into his jacket, pulls out the small bottle that he'd shoplifted.

Here you go. I had a feeling it would be wanted.

Really, my dear.

Aziraphale relents and smiles nonetheless as Crowley removes the cork and passes him the bottle for the first drink.

Angel, I think I'm starting to sense what you've been going on about. That atmosphere you say you detect in this place. A bit faint, but it's definitely different. And not just because we're outside London.

Flashes of love, do you mean?

I wouldn't know anything about that. Not since my Fall, at least. Boiling sulfur apparently takes it all out of you.

Aziraphale passes him the sauterne and he takes a long swig, then passes the bottle back.

But I do know how I felt when I thought you'd been killed in the bookstore fire. The relief since Adam reincorporated you has been . . . indescribable. And this place is amplifying that.

Aziraphale finishes the last of the little bottle.

You know, Crowley, there's been something I've been meaning to ask you. Am I the "best friend" you said you'd lost when I reached through to you while I was discorporated? I confess I felt a twinge of jealousy then. Thinking it was someone else, you know.

Crowley again gives Aziraphale a speculative look, recalling that little kiss on the forehead from Saturday night. Then he takes off his glasses and puts them on the blanket, rolls over and puts an arm around Aziraphale's waist, burying his face between Aziraphale's neck and shoulder.

Yep.

Celestial bodies don't work quite the same way as human bodies, but Aziraphale nonetheless experiences the extraordinary sensation of having anxiety pour away from him as if he were a shredded sandbag. Sighing gratefully, he hugs Crowley tightly. And more bits of Hell evaporate . . . and possibly bits of Heaven fall off as well.

Part 3. Back in Crowley's Flat

Let's take a nap together.

Oh, I don't know. I've never really felt the need for sleep.

C'mon, try it. You might like it.

Crowley escorts Aziraphale into his bedroom.

Let's try a little experiment.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and their shoes and clothing magically come off. Aziraphale's is now folded and draped neatly upon a valet, while Crowley's lays in a heap on the floor, his black glasses on top.

Aziraphale is astonished, and cannot recall ever being . . . well, naked before. Wasn't that one of those things that the humans didn't sort out correctly, and got themselves expelled from Eden? Although he couldn't remember exactly what the Almighty's concern was - something about leaves?

Crowley gestures to his bed.

After you.

Aziraphale cautiously lies down upon his back. Suspicious. Crowley is up to something, he just knows it. But what?

Crowley, you were wearing your shirt and underclothes the other night.

Crowley doesn't reply, but climbs aboard the bed and lies close to Aziraphale, arms touching. The bedding remains taut and unwrinkled as they both lie there, staring at the ceiling, Aziraphale wondering just how this "sleep" thing works. Crowley's face subtly transforms into a Demon who is contemplating a Temptation, very much as a python might contemplate a plump mammal. He grasps Aziraphale's hand.

Angel, have you ever realized that your skin feels just like ice?

Well, no. No one's ever mentioned it before. But as long as we're on the subject, yours feels like a warm stone.

Maybe your whole body is glacial? Could be why I so much enjoyed that Hellfire tornado Gabriel arranged? In your body, it felt like a steaming hot, relaxing shower.

Could be. You must be hot as a stove. I know I definitely enjoyed that bath in cold Holy Water. Felt wonderful, really. Your body loved it.

What about this?

Crowley suddenly flings himself atop Aziraphale, causing them both to gasp in surprise. Aziraphale feels as if he's under a heated anaconda. So heavy. Can't move. But so warm. So soothing. Once again anxiety pours away from him as sand from a shredded bag. And then, something completely unexpected happens . . . Crowley, by contrast, feels as if he's climbed aboard an ice floe, glacial water flowing against his hot skin like cold satin silk. Ooo! . . . OOOooooo!

Hours pass, both angels remaining rigid and ecstatic.

Crowley eventually relaxes and rolls off. Once again they're on their backs, holding hands.

Aziraphale takes his first breath in hours: "Whoooo-eeeee!"

Crowley's face slowly transforms into a speculative expression. That Temptation worked out amazingly well. What about another one… He rolls over, grasps Aziraphale's hair, and plants his open lips atop Aziraphale's. Once again Aziraphale gasps in shock, and his lips part. Crowley the ex-serpent is capable of doing surprising things with his tongue, and tries out all of them. Aziraphale closes his eyes and goes limp with pleasure, then clutches Crowley's hair and returns kisses cool as ice cream.

Time passes. Hours, in fact.

They finally release each other. Crowley gives Aziraphale a little push.

Roll over, onto your stomach.

Crowley plants burning kisses down Aziraphale's spine, all around his back . . .

Mmmmmmm. I once had a hot pebble massage when I was in Japan. You feel light years better than that.

Crowley continues to explore new kiss landings. For quite a while. Then,

Here, you try me.

Crowley rolls onto his back, points to his chest. Aziraphale obliges. Crowley closes his eyes and goes rigid as Aziraphale plants icy kisses in delightful places. Finally,

Ha! That tickles!

Crowley squirms onto his side and gazes at Aziraphale. Smiles erupt into broad grins, and they once again lie on their backs, holding hands.

Angel. Is that what those doses of Divine Ecstasy you dish out feel like?

I don't know. I'm just a Principality who does deliveries. We don't have the rank to actually experience that privilege. One has to be one of the Seraphim. Or a Cherubim. Or a human, of course. And it's just moments, for humans. I expect a longer experience might well kill them.

Good thing we're angels, then.

You are Fallen, a demon.

Yeah, well, that's a bit of a puzzle now, isn't it? We demons are supposed to be in perpetual torment. And yet here I am, experiencing what I can only describe as "Divine Bliss" at your hands. Explain that.

Aziraphale ponders.

Hm. Perhaps I am now redeeming one of the Fallen?

Or maybe you're Falling into Rebel status like me, on the run from Beelzebub and Hastur.

Aziraphale rolls over a bit and flares out a wing, covering Crowley with it.

I will protect you from them. I am Guardian Angel qualified, you know.

Even if you no longer have your flaming sword?

Aziraphale grimaces and privately curses the damned flaming sword in distinctly un-angelic terms.

Crowley continues:

I put the Bentley's tire iron on the back seat just in case we happen to spot Hastur or Michael or Sandalphon. Don't know if I could handle Gabriel, but it would be fun to try. Perhaps we could each get one of those paintball guns and mess up his suit?

He does love those cashmere designer clothes. Told me so himself!

They both laugh, remembering Tadfield Manor.

Aziraphale muses:

6,000 years of watching humans, and it never occurred to me that we angels could . . . we could . . .

Have actual sex?

Well, yes. Always seemed like such a messy procedure, not fit for celestial bodies. (Thinks a moment) Although, during my trial before Beelzebub – I mean, your trial, when I was in your body – Hastur accused me – I mean, you – of "enjoying himself." You haven't actually been . . .

Satan's assboil! No! Although I did make a few experiments. Early days. Nothing happened. If I'd realized it takes whole body contact and . . . and . . .

Being in love?

Crowley has some difficulty with this, and is silent and thoughtful for several minutes while he works it out and brings himself to admit what he feels. Finally:

Yeah. It's been 6,000 years, but I think . . . well. . . I think was attracted to you from that moment we met atop the Eastern Wall. You looked so lonely and unhappy, standing up there all by yourself without your sword. What an opportunity for a Temptation! (Snorts at the irony) Only I was the one who fell. I seem to make a habit of that. Falling.

Aziraphale gives him an intense look.

You may have been more successful than you realized.

So. It took us 6,000 years, but better late than never, eh?

We are immortal. Lots of time left for further experiments.

Suddenly they are bathed in a beam of Divine Light. They both jerk and sit upright. God speaks:

PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE.

Yes, Lord? Aziraphale's hands clench together in supplication.

IF YOU ARE TO BE THE GUARDIAN OF THE DEMON CROWLEY, YOU WILL NEED A FLAMING SWORD.

Aziraphale, agonized by guilt, opens his mouth to begin his usual plea about the loss of his flaming sword, but is stopped as God continues:

HOLD OUT YOUR ARM.

Aziraphale complies, and a flaming sword appears in his hand. Although it's not a clunky old Bronze Age model, it's more of a slim Japanese-style weapon, with a blade that looks as if it could do surgery. Blue flames flicker along its length.

DEMON CROWLEY

Yes, Lord?

I HAVE HEARD YOUR BLASPHEMIES REGARDING THE GREAT PLAN.

Crowley's thoughts fill immediately with memories of boiling sulfur pools and he steels himself for what he thinks is coming.

GOOD JOB.

A gold star burns itself onto his cheek above his snake sigil.

Ow!

The celestial light vanishes.

The pair sit for several minutes, stunned, staring upward at the ceiling. Then Crowley notices something.

Your flaming sword. It's gone. You haven't lost it again already?

Oh, no. Not at all. (Holds out an arm, and the sword reappears.) They appear on request.

The tip of the sword burns a line into the black marble wall next to the bed.

Oops. Sorry!

The sword vanishes back into 18th dimensional storage.

Crowley is still afflicted by visions of the flaming sulfur pools of Hell. He writhes around and lays his head against Aziraphale's chest.

Hold me, Angel.

Aziraphale hugs him tightly. Crowley's eyes close and he appears to fall into a deep sleep. They remain frozen in this position for hours. Crowley's dreaded visions of Hell evaporate away…

Morning comes.

Crowley, do you by any chance have champagne on hand?

Yes. Yes, I do. Couple of bottles of Cristal. There's a French bakery in Mayfair now. I could call them for a delivery of croissants and brioche, if you're feeling . . . "peckish"?