Chapter Text
EXT. WOODS - EVENING
“Crowley?”
The shadowed figure steps forward into a sparse patch of twilight, illuminating his face. “Surprised to see me, angel?” Crowley asks.
“How on earth did you get here ahead of me?” Aziraphale wonders with a twinge of bruised ego. “I left you at the tavern only an hour ago, and you were still nose-deep in that whisky.”
Crowley sticks out his tongue, still forked from his transformation. “Easy to slither past you.”
Aziraphale frowns, eyeing Crowley up and down for any hints of sinister purpose. “Well, what are you doing here?” he asks.
Crowley shrugs. “Maybe I’m here to help you,” he offers noncommittally. “Maybe I’m here to get the potion first.”
“You?” Aziraphale tuts. “What could you possibly want with a love potion? You’re a demon.”
“It’s a love potion,” Crowley reiterates. “It’s literally temptation incarnate. Could get up to all kinds of trouble with a potion like that.”
Aziraphale scoffs. “So you want to use it for evil wiles, then.”
Crowley pouts contemplatively but easily sidesteps the question. “Why, you plan to thwart them?”
“I’m afraid it’s my duty,” Aziraphale says, squaring up his shoulders with grandiose purpose.
“Well I’ll have you know, I wasn’t going to use it for work,” Crowley snarks. “What I do in my time off the clock is my business.”
“Right,” Aziraphale huffs. “You expect me to believe you have some noble purpose for it, then?”
“I'm surprised you even believe this stuff, angel,” Crowley dismisses, once again pointedly avoiding the question. “Love potions ‘n’ all.”
“I mean... I didn’t at first,” Aziraphale admits. “To be honest, a part of me thought I might go down this road to find nothing remarkable at the end of it.” He turns in a half circle, taking in his surroundings. “But if this Goodfellow... fellow is real,” he says, waving his hand at the impressive log cabin before them, “if the fairies are real...”
Crowley turns his head back to the cabin, nodding. “Almighty never mentioned anything about this, eh?”
Aziraphale chuckles. “Must all be part of the Plan.” He takes a step forward, joining Crowley at the door. “Shall we?”
Crowley raises a fist and knocks.
INT. ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S CABIN - EVENING
The door to the cabin swings open to reveal an enchanting space, dimly lit by some ethereal source. Except for the very obvious shapes of some scattered furniture, it looks as though they are stepping into another part of the forest. The walls are made entirely of thick, side-by-side tree trunks with tight branches hugging alongside them as makeshift shelves; the windows are carved of enormous knots, the floor a bed of moss and tender flowers, giving the whole area an intoxicatingly sweet and earthy aroma. Upon further inspection, it seems that the source of the light comes from strategic places throughout the room where clusters of fireflies are nestled inside of upturned glass domes like lamps.
“Enter if you dare, strange travelers, if ye be of worthy spirit,” a low voice booms from somewhere, imposing in its threatening bass. Crowley and Aziraphale exchange unsure looks.
“Oh, Puck, do leave the theatrics to me.”
Crowley cocks an eyebrow while Aziraphale’s jaw drops. “William?” the angel asks. “Is that you?”
From the dark depths of the room comes a new source of light — a handlamp filled with fireflies, and holding it is none other than William Shakespeare. “Gents,” he says with a small nod of his head. “Good to see you made it. Do come in.”
He gestures in the doorway with an open hand, and Crowley and Aziraphale step tentatively through, taking in the grand scope of the place as their eyes adjust to the light.
“You were expecting us?” Aziraphale asks curiously.
William sets his firefly lamp down on a nearby waist-high stump that seems to double as an end table, its trunk hollowed out and filled with glass flasks and tubes. “I’ve been observing your quest from afar,” he says proudly. “I must say, distilling centuries of knowledge in a few short months is quite an impressive feat. Puck and I have been enjoying a weeks-long celebration in honor of the success of Midsummer, and he has generously agreed to let me dawdle until such time as your journey came to its inevitable end here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Crowley drawls, hand stuffed in his pockets as his eyes flit about the space suspiciously. “And where is this Puck, then?”
William glances around, too, as though he’s lost track of him. “Oh, waiting for his moment to make a grand entrance, no doubt; he is quite the aspiring thespian. Puck, darling,” he calls with hands cupped around his mouth, “do come out!”
“You know, Billy,” comes the voice again, this time much lighter than before, “half the fun of having humans in my domicile is getting to play with them a little first.”
From behind a thick trunk in the corner of the room, blending in with the rest of the decor, steps a small, unassuming man — at least, he appears to be a man, but for a few differences, not least of all is the pointed tips of his ears. There is something otherworldly about him, too. Perhaps it’s the sheen of sparkling mischief that emanates from his expressive eyes. His hair is as tall as it is long, falling roughly to the center of his jawline, and a split mustache with wispy curls at the end sits above his smirking lips.[1]
“Only half, you say?” William asks with a cheeky wag of an eyebrow.
“Well, I cut my prices for you, Billy,” the creature says, leaning back against the tree trunk and tucking a foot behind the other leg. He nods his head at their new guests. “Friends and family discount, right?”
“Mister Goodfellow,” Aziraphale says, bowing his head and dropping to one knee as though he were before royalty, “it is my most honored privilege to meet you.”
Crowley rolls his big yellow eyes behind his sunglasses at the unnecessary display, but Puck seems to receive it with great self-satisfaction. “Billy tells me you’re after the venenum amoris?”
Aziraphale glances up hopefully. “Is that the love potion magic?”
“Love potion?” Puck snickers. “You humans come up with the most ridiculous names for things.”
Crowley bristles at being called a human but Aziraphale warns him off with a curt glare and a wave of his hand.
Puck folds his arms interestedly, sizing up Aziraphale. He rubs at his chin thoughtfully with his thumb. “Have you brought any... offerings?”
Aziraphale hastily gets to his feet, pulling on the strap of a satchel flung around his neck. He pulls the bag to the front and digs through it. “I’m given to understand you... appreciate a good libation.” He presents the bottle of Bordeaux to the sound of Crowley grumbling.
Puck kicks himself off the trunk of the tree to move closer, and William approaches as well. “A most impressive vintage,” he notes as Puck takes the bottle into his hands, turning it over to examine the label. “A rare thing for it to come into one’s possession.”
“You have no idea,” Crowley mutters from behind them.
Puck dangles his fingers above the wine and the corks loosens and pops out. He brings the lip of the bottle to his nose, inhaling gently. He snaps his fingers to William, who hands over a small glass. Puck pours a taster of the wine, swishes it around in the glass, and takes a sip.
“It’s authentic,” he decides, and Aziraphale breathes an enormous sigh of relief.
“Course it is,” Crowley says, slighted. “Doubted me, did you, angel?”
“Certainly not,” Aziraphale lies with a pitying sort of smile.
Puck carries the wine to the side-table stump and sets it down. “All right,” he says, turning to face Crowley and Aziraphale. “I’ll make the potion for you.”
Aziraphale gasps, lighting up. “You will? Oh, thank you!”
“The effects are not permanent,” Puck notes, “as the magic is intended for... well, let’s say entertainment purposes.”
Aziraphale’s smile twitches slightly. “Entertainment,” he repeats. “Of course.”
“Have you brought the ingredients?” Puck asks.
Aziraphale rifles through his bag again. “Collected them along the way,” he shares excitedly, pulling a small coin bag from the satchel. “I hope this will be enough.” He passes the coin bag to Puck, who dumps its contents — a heap of different colored flower petals and a pinch of green-and-brown herbs — into the palm of his hand. He sniffs it, looking satisfied.
“Should be plenty. I’ll need but an hour to complete it,” he says with an over-the-top pronunciation. He closes his fist around the ingredients and bounces out of the room through a small alcove.
“Come wait with me,” William offers, sitting on the enormous raised root of a tree that has been fashioned into a sort of sofa. “And please regale me with more of your fascinating stories. Tales of heroism, of love — these are easy to come by,” he says in a dreamy voice as Crowley and Aziraphale find space for themselves on the tree root. “Tales of mischief... now, that’s where the magic truly lies.”
“I’ll bet,” Crowley returns, throwing his arm along a branch that serves as a bit of a headrest for the back of the sofa. “Well, I’ve got no shortage of those,” he smirks, tossing an ankle up onto his knee. “Get a load of this one...”
INT. ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S CABIN - NIGHT - LATER
“It’s unethical,” Aziraphale is saying. “I simply don’t think I could.”
Crowley sits on the floor beside the tree’s sofa, his legs stretched far and wide out in front of him. “Angel,” he groans, slightly winedrunk from a bottle of daffodil wine in Puck’s impressive collection. “You had to know that testing the potion would involve using it on humans.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Aziraphale says, although the furrow in his brow indicates he hasn’t come up with another solution.
“It does,” Crowley argues, “unless you plan to use it on our kind.” He laughs himself into a snort, slumping down slightly towards the floor. William glances at him, puzzled by the choice of words, but Aziraphale lights up with sudden inspiration. He looks pointedly at Crowley, who immediately stops laughing. “Nonono,” he says insistently, “that was not a genuine suggestion —”
“That’s brilliant,” Aziraphale interrupts. “There’s no moral quandary if we use it on ourselves.”
“Oh, yes there is,” Crowley says, sitting up and looking much more sober now. “I’m a de—” He cuts himself off, catching the inquisitive look on William’s face. “Deplorable, evil person. You can’t be throwing love venom at me. What if I dis...associate?”
“I hardly think that’s likely,” Aziraphale dismisses. “Besides, Mister Goodfellow said the effects are purely transitory.”
“Yeah, but what if we...” Crowley wrinkles his nose, sniffs the words back in.
“What if we what?”
“What if we fall in love,” Crowley says, lowering his voice, “and, you know... do stuff.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, making the words sound buoyant and silly on their way out.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, blushing furiously. “I hadn’t considered that. Er...”
“How about just one of you takes it?” William suggests. “That way, at least one of you can keep a clear head about it.”
“That’s a good thought,” Aziraphale says, considering.
“Are you volunteering?” Crowley asks skeptically, tossing Aziraphale a look.
“No...”
“Well, neither am I,” he puffs, folding his arms across his chest. “So we’re back to square one.”
“May I posit another option?” William offers.
“Oh, stop helping,” Crowley mutters under his breath.
“Have the jester decide,” William says, ignoring Crowley. “That way you don’t have to choose, and he gets to have his fun.”
“Works for me,” comes Puck’s voice as he returns through the doorway. He sets a flask of shimmering purple liquid down on a tree branch shelf. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Quite extraordinary,” Aziraphale breathes, standing up from the sofa to approach and get a closer look. He inhales deeply, his eyes briefly fluttering closed as he takes in the aroma. “Oh, and it smells wonderful.”
“Sounds like you wanna be the one to drink it, then,” Crowley suggests, swinging his legs around to kneel himself up to a standing position.
“Oh, I’ve got a much more fun idea,” Puck says. He pulls open the wooden doors of a cabinet carved into the treetrunk walls, which blends in so perfectly that it’s hard to notice until it’s wide open. He pulls down a tin kettle. “I’ll brew a tea using the same ingredients as the potion, but without the magic,” he says, stooping down to turn over a boulder, revealing a hidden well filled with sparkling clear water. “The taste will be indistinguishable.” He scoops some water into the kettle and sets the rock back in place. “In one cup of the tea, I’ll slip the potion. The other will be clean. You may choose your tea at random.”
“A blind test,” Aziraphale says, smiling. He whirls on his toes, looking at Crowley with big, pleading eyes. “Do you agree to those terms?”
Crowley’s shoulders slink down as he groans loudly. “Do I have a choice?” he asks.
“Of course you do,” Aziraphale says. “You can choose to turn around and leave empty handed, with no potion and no answers,” he adds with a far-too-smug tone.
“Oh, bless it,” Crowley sighs. “Yeah, go on. Make the bloody tea.”
INT. ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S CABIN - NIGHT
Puck returns to the sitting area shortly thereafter with two steaming cups of tea. He sets them down on a low wooden table at the center and invites Crowley and Aziraphale to sit with a gesture of his hand. “Choose your fate,” he adds as he bows dramatically, a sinister twinkle in his eyes.
“All right,” Aziraphale says, hesitantly sitting himself at one end of the table while Crowley sits at the other. “Should we... do anything specific?”
“Oh, yes,” Puck says enigmatically, drawing back up to stand straight. “In order to activate the magic, you will need to pour it over each other’s heads.”
Aziraphale nods dutifully as he picks up his cup, reaching it across the table toward Crowley, who places a fingertip on the lip of the cup and gently pushes it away.
“I think he’s fucking with you, angel,” he mutters. Aziraphale’s jaw drops with insult as he looks back at Puck, who is grinning.
“Fine,” he drawls. “Spoil my fun. Just drink ‘em normal. Whoever gets the tea with the venenum amoris will feel its effects immediately.”
Aziraphale raises his cup, offers it to Crowley. “Best of luck?” he says, and Crowley taps his own mug against Aziraphale’s.
“Here goes.”
They both peer into their cups looking for any sign of magic, Crowley by swirling his around while Aziraphale takes a shallow whiff. They glance up at once another, both equally annoyed by the other’s hesitation.
“You first,” Aziraphale says.
“It was your bloody idea!” Crowley cries. “You drink it first.”
“Technically, it was your idea —”
“Yeah, not a serious one —”
“Someone start drinking,” Puck cuts in menacingly through gritted teeth, “or you’ll both have it poured over your heads.”
Aziraphale’s lips quirk into a smile. “Same time?” he asks Crowley, who mumbles his general assent. They bring their respective cups to their lips and, in perfect synchronicity, drink.
William scurries over from his seat at the sofa, watching keenly. Puck crouches next to them with wild interest. “Well?” he asks expectantly.
“I feel no different,” Aziraphale says, looking up at Crowley with almost a sympathetic, mournful look. “So... you must have the venenum amoris, then.”
“Nope,” Crowley says with a pristine enunciation on the p. “Nothing here, either.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, looking down at the tea. “Perhaps we need to drink more?”
“He said we’d feel the effects immediately,” Crowley points out, nodding his head over to Puck. Then he glances up at him. “Unless you were putting us on? Is this another one of your tricks?”
“Afraid not,” Puck says. “The potion is definitely in the tea.”
“Which one?” Aziraphale asks, eyes bouncing worriedly between his teacup and Crowley’s.
Puck shrugs indifferently. “Can’t say. I mixed them up a bit before I brought them out.”
“So then...” Aziraphale glances down at his cup.
“It didn’t work,” Crowley supplies, draining his cup with a smack of his lips and setting it down on the table. “Shame.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Quite disappointing. Although the taste is rather lovely,” he adds, finishing the rest of his tea with a sorrowful look.
Crowley stands from the table, brushing any dirt or mossy dew from his trousers with a pat of his hands. “Welp, guess that answers that,” he announces. “C’mon angel, let’s go home.” He holds his hand out to Aziraphale, helping him up off the floor.
EXT. WOODS - EVENING - MOMENTS LATER
Crowley and Aziraphale walk away from the cabin, Crowley with his usual sauntering gait, but Aziraphale with a decidedly less energetic one. Crowley glances back at him.
“You seem disappointed, angel.”
“I should have known not to get my hopes up,” Aziraphale says. “Fairies, magic... It would have been lovely but... it was all a bit too good to be true, wasn’t it?”
Crowley slows his gait just enough for Aziraphale to catch up. “Hey, at least we didn’t fall in love,” he says light-heartedly, nudging Aziraphale with his elbow. “That could’ve gotten awkward.”
Aziraphale sniffs a small laugh. “I suppose there is that silver lining,” he says.
“Speaking of silver lining...” Crowley reaches into the deep pocket of his trousers and pulls out a silver flask. “Siphoned some of that Bordeaux,” he says, dangling it high up with a mischievous grin. “Shall we?”
“Oh, you scoundrel,” Aziraphale chides, but there’s no denying the smile chasing after his words.
“Agghhh,” Crowley dismisses affectionately. “C’mon, let’s head back to yours. At least the path out of here is a lot easier than the path in.”
“Funny how that works,” Aziraphale remarks. They continue on the path in relative silence for a few moments before a thought comes to Aziraphale. “Not sure what I should do with all those books of magic now,” he says. “I’ve accumulated quite the collection, haven’t I?”
Crowley takes a small swig of the flask. “Maybe you should open that bookshop afterall.”
INT. ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S CABIN
William watches from the window as Crowley and Aziraphale disappear into the woods.
“What’s your interest in all this, Billy?” Puck’s voice calls after him.
“I hoped an inspiring new tale might emerge from it all,” William laments as he brushes the large swathes of leaves back over the window like a curtain. He turns to Puck curiously. “To which one did you give the elixir?” he asks. “I know you know. A clever jester such as yourself wouldn’t leave anything to mere random chance.”
Puck grins, flattered, as snatches the Bordeaux from the shelf. He flops himself down onto a moss-covered tree stump that doubles as an armchair. “Both,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.
“That can’t be,” William says, sitting across from him on the treeroot sofa. “Unless the magic isn’t real. A hoax, as Mister Crowley suggested?”
“Oh, it’s very real,” Puck insists, slightly defensive. “Believe me, I was looking forward to the ensuing chaos it would cause.”
“But they both reported no change,” William says. “If the magic is real, then why didn’t they fall in love?”
“Only one reason,” Puck says, taking a swig of the wine straight from the bottle. He shrugs. “Those two idiots were already in love.”
