To say that Aziraphale was a bit uncomfortable as he passed the uniformed guard and made his way back to the holding cells was an understatement akin to saying that The Beatles had a few fans, the Titanic and the Hindenburg might have had one or two engineering oversights, or that his friend in the cell at the end looked a bit under the weather.

"Blighted Lucifer, Crowley," Aziraphale exclaimed as he stepped toward the bars. As Crowley struggled to his feet and stumbled to the front of the cell, Aziraphale could smell the stench of alcohol coming off him in waves. "Would you sober up already? I don't have time for this nonsense. You know that I have to go to Croyden to look at those Lovecraft first editions in the morning."

"Can't," Crowley hissed, grabbing his head. His eyes were a murky scarlet under half closed lids.

Aziraphale sighed. "Please, Crowley, just sober up so that we can get out of here. I don't understand why you couldn't just handle this yourself."

"Can't," he rasped again. "They cut me off."

"And too right they were. How much have you had?"

Crowley strained to regain enough coherent thought to puzzle out what the angel meant. Then he shook his head. "B'low." His speech was slurring, and he said it again, concentrating on the word, "Below. They cut me off, angel. Why d'you think I needed t'call you in the firs' place? I can't sober up, because I can't. Can't do an'thing."

Aziraphale's golden brows furrowed, and his forehead wrinkled as he frowned. "Have you tried a blessing?" he asked after a moment.

Crowley scowled at him. "Jus' get me out'f here," he hissed.

"Yes, yes, alright," Aziraphale glanced around at the other occupants of the cell for a moment. "I just have some paperwork to fill out."

Crowley considered arguing the idiocy of that statement, but decided that it wasn't worth the headache. There was just no point in arguing over the inanity of bureaucracy with an angel, so he returned to his seat.

The pile of rags next to him on the bench made a little mewling sound and shuffled a bit. Crowley assumed that there was some form of humanity bundled under the folds of the dirty mackintosh, but he had no desire to catch a glimpse of it. He turned away from the bundle and caught the eye of the tarted-up male prostitute sitting on the bench at the other end of the cell. The man leered at him from behind glittering eye makeup, and Crowley made a move to push his sunglasses up. Of course, they weren't there; his precious shield had been confiscated during processing. He diverted the motion and brushed back his hair instead. Judging by the expression on the prostitute's face, this action had been interpreted as flirting. Crowley gave him his best scowl and pulled his legs up to his chest, leaning against the cold stone wall to wait for the angel.

It seemed an eternity before Aziraphale returned, accompanied by a burly guard carrying a plastic tote box containing Crowley's personal effects. He unlocked the cell and motioned for Crowley to step out. He wasted no time in snatching up his sunglasses and slipping them on, and then he donned his leather jacket and hid the remaining items away in the pockets. He did all of this with a practiced efficiency that might have seemed graceful if not for his current state of drunken stupor.

He leaned heavily against Aziraphale as they made their way ungainly down the hall, past the reception desk, through the front door, and out into the rainy fog-cloaked night.

Crowley had no idea where he'd left his car, and imagined he'd be trolling around the seedier parts of London tomorrow asking random pedestrians if they'd seen a classic 1926 Bentley lurking around anywhere. He expected Aziraphale to miracle up a cab for them, but the angel stood there for a moment, staring at a bright red Bugatti Veyron parked at the curb. Despite the fact that it was right in front of them, and looked about as out of place as a thoroughbred racehorse at a soapbox derby, Crowley's eyes had somehow skated right past it before.

"I suppose this must be us," Aziraphale said uncertainly.

"'S a bi' flash for you, in'it, angel?"

"Yes, well it was a rather elderly Citroen when I went inside."

"Righ', well, this is better then. Bes' not to question our good forshun," Crowley said, and reached for the door handle.

Aziraphale pulled him back at the same time the door opened, and a golden-haired teenager smiled up at him from the driver's seat.

"I got bored, I didn't think anyone would mind the upgrade," Adam Young said. "I thought we needed something with a little more 'go' for the getaway car, after we busted your boyfriend out of the pokey."

Crowley whirled on the angel. "Wha's he doin' here?" he demanded.

Aziraphale looked embarrassed. "Well, you see... I haven't a driver's license, and, well… you called, and… I couldn't think of anyone else to ask, and… Adam was in London anyway, so… you really must admit that things found a way of working themselves out."

Crowley scowled at Aziraphale and turned back to Adam. "Get out'f my seat."

"Oh, no," Adam said, grinning a perfect row of teeth. "I don't trust your driving under the best circumstances. There's no way I'm letting you behind the wheel when you're still half in the bucket."

Crowley wanted to say that Bugatti Veyron's didn't have back seats. That they did not, in fact, make cars that travel in excess of two hundred and fifty miles per hour with enough room to do the grocery run or drop the children off at nursery school. That the sort of people who drove Bugatti Veyrons neither had children nor purchased their own groceries. That the only reason there was even a passenger seat was so that they could fill it with some leggy, blonde bird in the adverts and still maintain the overall look of a car and not some type of rocket ship. He really considered voicing all of these quite reasonable objections, but he knew that, in his current state, his point would just get garbled past decipherability in the translation from his brain to his mouth. So instead, he just climbed into the spacious back seat, curled up on his side, and began to snore.

It was a startlingly human sound.

Aziraphale glanced at him doubtfully and looked to Adam. "I don't suppose you could have a word with your father? I hate to see him like this, poor thing. Stripped of his powers, you know, he's really no better than a mortal- worse maybe, as he's not accustomed to living this way."

"My father and I only manage to maintain a civil relationship by not talking about… business."

Adam had been talking about hisdarkfather, but this statement could be held true for Mr. Young as well. Perhaps the only thing running hell and cost accountancy had in common was Adam Young's taciturn disinterest.

"You two are going to have to figure this one out on your own; I'm just the chauffer."

Aziraphale glanced into the back seat again and felt his heart sink.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Adam asked.

"We might as well bring him back to my place," Aziraphale said. He didn't think it would be good for Crowley to be alone when he woke, and Aziraphale had a few questions he wanted answered.

Adam didn't so much turn the car around as rearrange the roads to lead to Soho.

Mr. Young had spent a little over an hour teaching Adam to drive. It had been one of the most terrifying hours of his life. After that, he had declared that Adam pretty much had the hang of things, and, provided that he never again drove with Mr. Young in the car, he could handle it from there on out.

Needless to say, he drove like the proverbial bat out of hell. When they arrived at Aziraphale's bookshop, a great deal faster than he would have preferred, the angel wasn't sure that he might not have rather had Crowley behind the wheel after all.