[The scene many of us wanted to see. Tsk.]
Tadfield Manor. Aziraphale and Crowley are walking down a hallway. Wearing their kilts.
Isn't this where you roughed me up when we were searching for the antichrist baby records, Crowley? When I said you were nice?
Crowley grabs the angel by his sweater and shoves him up against a wall.
Just shut it. I'm a demon. I'm not nice. I'm never nice. Nice is a four letter word . . .
Once again, they're nose to nose. Then Crowley grins, clutches Aziraphale's wooly hair and kisses him with a long, thorough kiss.
The angel's hands gravitate to Crowley's tight backside, naked beneath the kilt pleats. But before the angel can lift the fabric to get a proper feel, Crowley growls:
Fucking sporrans.
Crowley snaps his fingers, and the offending pouches are now on the floor. He slides down Aziraphale's front, runs a hand down the angel's thigh and then back up under the kilt. His head and shoulders follow the hand as he genuflects before Aziraphale.
Mmmmmmmm . . . a tequila lolly in my own little tent.
Aziraphale tilts his head back, face slipped into ecstatic St. Teresa mode. His hands are flat against the wall, bracing him as he leans against it.
As if reality is on replay, Mary Hodges comes up the corridor, stops short. This time she does a swift about face, and, reaching the double doors to the hallway, turns back to close them, pulls out a hex key, and locks them. Goes to her office, selects a sign from a cabinet, and, absent-mindedly fanning herself with it, goes back to the locked doorway and places the sign upon a stand:
CONFERENCE ROOM B
CLOSED
