Aziraphale woke up with a stiff neck, a missing shoe, and surrounded by several empty bottles of champagne. Upon waking, he sat up abruptly with a start.

He then lay back down equally as abruptly having discovered, previously not having noticed this fact, that he was beneath a table. He groaned, as said discovery had been one of the tactile kind rather than the cerebral.

Falling back to a horizontal position, the angel grimaced and pressed a hand to his forehead. The thwack on the underside of the table had evidently exacerbated an already pounding headache. It felt, in fact, rather like a herd of elephants were playing roller derby with the inside of his skull as their rink.

He winced and turned his head away from a beam of bright, warm sunlight which, against all odds, had managed to find a direct path from the window, through the tablecloth, and directly into his eyes. Aziraphale swallowed down a persistently nauseous sensation which was threatening to make him do something quite uncivilized on the expensive looking rug (whose rug was this? Where was he?), but found his mouth so dry that the motion merely sent him spasming into a dry coughing fit. He rolled onto his side.

And then something bit his shoulder.

'Ouch! Good lord !'

Aziraphale narrowly avoided headbutting the underside of the table once more, leaping up as sharp teeth broke his skin but stopping himself short just before his cranium made contact with wood. He reached, somewhat desperately, under the collar of his shirt, from whence he pulled, with no small amount of irritation, and perhaps a touch more roughness than was necessary, a small-ish black snake.

The snake hissed at him and recoiled from the sudden rush of sunlight flooding its sensitive yellow eyes.

' Crowley! ', the angel hissed straight back at him. 'You bit me!'

The snake squirmed and tried to dive back under Aziraphale's shirt, but the angel held him firm.

'Ughhhhhh….' the snake somehow managed to sibilliate despite the lack of esses in the sound. 'Where am I? What'sssssssssssssssss going on?'

'You bit me, that's what's going on!'

'What? Oh, bloody hell, I feel sssssserioussssly awful… Ssssstop sssssqueezing my head, for sssssomeone'sss sssssake….'

Aziraphale relinquished the vice-like grip he'd been holding on the evidently very hungover snake's neck, and Crowley dropped onto the angel's chest. The angel in turn dropped back down to lie flat on the floor.

'What time isssss it?' Crowley asked.

'Don't know,' Aziraphale replied.

'What day isssss it?' Crowley wondered.

'Erm, not certain,' Aziraphale admitted.

'...Do you remember where we are?' Crowley asked, opening one eye and glancing uncertainly around their immediate environment. As this immediate environment was the underside of as table, this action didn't prove exceptionally helpful.

'No. Can't remember,' Aziraphale replied once more. 'This definitely isn't my rug though, so we aren't at the bookshop.'

'Isssssn't my plassssce, either…'

'Oh, I simply cannot handle this, I need to do something about this hangover...'

The angel pulled a wretched face as he did so, then blinked and stared up at the table above him rather more placidly.

'Me too,' Crowley groaned, or, at least groaned as much as a snake is capable of groaning.

'Oh, gosh, that does feel better,' Aziraphale sighed. He nodded dazedly in reply to the snake, not really paying attention, instead revelling in the the feeling of "no-more-headache-and-nausea". He then found that pleasant sensation being rapidly replaced by the slightly less pleasant sensation of "suddenly remembering something important a fraction of a second too late".

'No, Crowley, wait, you mustn't-!'

Snakes, you see, lack the necessary… whatever-was-necessaries (Aziraphale had never been a great expert on zoology) required to adequately detoxify a system flooded with alcohol. The mammalian form was far better suited to the task, particularly that of the model homo sapiens.

As such, instead of playing armchair to a small snake, the angel now found himself being squashed by a very much larger (although still, admittedly, rather small) human.

Crowley sobered up.

'Hells bells, that was a bloody nasty hangover,' the demon muttered grimly. 'Must have been some party...'

'Get off me,' Aziraphale complained, punctuating his griping with a not-entirely-gentle shove. 'And miracle some clothes, for goodness sake. It's one thing for snakes to go around bare-skinned, but humans doing so is rather more frowned upon. Even in my circles...'

Crowley glanced down. 'Oh for- Where on earth did I leave my clothes? Remind me never to go to parties with you, Aziraphale.'

'It's hardly my fault if you have a proclivity when inebriated to revert to snake guise and find someplace warm to fall asleep...'

A fashionable black and gold-trimmed dress materialised over Crowley's small frame. The demon rolled off of the angel and sprawled out on the floor next to him with an irritated huff.

'Well you could have stopped me, couldn't you? Or at least picked up my- ...Wait, was I wearing a dress or a tux last night?'

'God only knows,' Aziraphale muttered. 'No one will pay any attention either way, I'm sure. It's 1926, my dear. Anything goes.'

A dark-haired head dipped under the table with a bright smile. '1927 now, chaps!' the girl barked, far too chipper for... whatever time it was. 'Happy New Year!'

'Right, yeah… Happy New Year, er…' Crowley mumbled. He frowned in concentration as he tried to place the girl's face, earning a cheery grin from the human who,, Crowley began to remember, did in fact have a name. '...Nancy, right?'

'Well done, old thing. I see you're already kicking the hangover to the curb. You give it a good what-for,' Nancy laughed.

'Ah, of course , Aziraphale piped up. 'New Year's party, of course. Of course. Stephen's, yes?'

'Mmhm,' Nancy replied, still half-upside-down leaning beneath the table. 'Cracking good night, what?'

Aziraphale glanced down at his dishevelled state. 'Evidently…'

'David said you were a riot, Ezra, but I didn't believe him. Well-behaved old gent like you, bookshop owner, image of propriety… Proved me wrong, didn't you, old thing! I owe Davey a five pound note, because of you. He said you'd either end up on the table or under it, and if I recall rightly, I believe you managed both.'

Aziraphale groaned internally. He was far too old for this sort of behaviour, by several millennia . Far too old and, of course, far too angelic...

But after the decade previous, the appeal of raucous partying, wild-living, and far, far too much alcohol had become incredibly appealing, to him, and to Crowley, and to the bright young things whom the angel had unexpectedly managed to fall in with. One of their set had begun referring to them as the lost generation of late, and in many ways it seemed terribly fitting. After the horrors of the Great War Aziraphale had certainly found himself wanting to get lost. The glitz and sparkle of the 1920s seemed to be designed to drive out the blackness of those terrible, awful years. He wasn't certain it was working (he knew full well that Crowley was still having the nightmares), but the chaos and glamour certainly proved a welcome distraction. Their manic brightness illuminated the dark like a flamethrower.

Aziraphale shook such thoughts from his mind. It didn't do to dwell. It wouldn't do to get maudlin. Welcome in the New Year with a smile and some optimism.

And, of course, with a pinch of resigned embarrassment.

They really had been terribly drunk last night.

The angel and the demon both crawled out from beneath the table. Which, it turned out, was a dining table of a rather large dining room, now populated with several twenty-somethings looking extremely worse for wear.

Aziraphale smoothed out his shirt, and welcomed back his prodigal shoe with a quick and surreptitious miracle. He noticed that Crowley's hair had sprung back to it's usual coiffed perfection. Both good as new. Mostly.

'Hair of the dog, chaps?'

Their evident host, the effervescent Stephen Tennant, shimmered into view and shoved a champagne flute into each of their hands.

'It's a mimosa. Excellent chap at the Ritz in Paris created it just lately, it's marvellous. Champagne and orange juice. Just the thing for the morning after, take my word for it.'

Crowley shrugged and chugged the whole glass in one go.

'Not bad, actually. What d'you say he called it? A mimosa?'

'Precisely. Love the dress, by the way, suits you much better than the tuxedo.'

'Er, yeah…' Crowley nodded distractedly, attention suddenly caught by the view from the window. 'Stephen, where are we? I thought we were at the Gargoyle last night, but that is definitely not Soho…'

'Oh, no, we ditched the club at about two, don't you remember?'

'Oh dear me...' Aziraphale said with a frown as he walkied over to the large bay window and looked out at the beautiful countryside beyond.

'Well, Davey and I thought it would be a jolly good laugh to drop in on Father, and Nancy and Rex agreed, and then your friend here got rather enthusiastic about taking out that wonderful new Bentley, and-'

'Stephen, where are we ?' Crowley hissed, growing impatient.

'Salisbury.'

'Salisbury!?'

'Salisbury, that's what I said.'

'What in the name of- Salisbury is miles from Soho!' Aziraphale cried out, wringing his hands.

'Mm, yes, it is rather. Took us a fair few hours to get down here. Father dearest was just setting out with the dogs when we arrived, actually. Although we did take a little longer getting here than planned. Nancy got a bit lost . Do you really not remember?'

Crowley groaned. 'No. Yes. Yeah. I remember, now. She nearly ran her bloody car into my Bentley. My brand new Bentley…'

'Nearly , old thing, is not the same as actually . No harm no foul, what?'

'What time is it?' Aziraphale cut in, looking around the room in vain for a clock.

'Er, about half one, last time I checked,' Stephen replied brightly. 'Mother dearest is putting on a late lunch for all of us, if you want to stay for it. Jolly good sport, she is.'

'Half past one?! Oh… bother ,' Aziraphale didn't curse. 'I was supposed to be meeting with an antiques dealer at four this afternoon. I'll never make it now…'

'Tch, that's a shame, old sport! Hey, but you can always rearrange, no?'

'Not really. She's over from Italy, and going back on the third. I doubt I'll be able to see her before she leaves. Oh, but this is infuriating …'

Crowley downed another mimosa and then clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. 'We can make it.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Crowley, we absolutely cannot drive all the way to London in two hours.'

'Wanna bet?' the demon replied, eyes glittering.

Crowley had really taken to automobiles.

'Do you really think we might be able get back that quickly?' Aziraphale asked hesitatingly, voice laced with both scepticism and hope.

'Definitely,' Crowley replied. 'But we'll have to leave sharp-ish. No time for lunch with Lord and Lady Glenconnor, I'm afraid.'

'More the better…' the angel muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the demon, and no one else, to hear.

'You rushing off then?' Nancy said, breezing back into the room from wherever she'd disappeared to.

'Yep. Appointments to keep, you know how it is.'

'Well, you and I, perhaps. To the idle youth of Mister Stephen Tennant however, the notion of keeping appointments is undoubtedly completely foreign, isn't that right Stevie darling?'

'One must remain flexible , Nancy dearest, or one becomes rigid , and no one wants that. Isn't that right, Ezra?'

'I suppose balance is what one must aim for, in all things,' the angel replied expansively.

'Precisely! Balance. And I balance remarkably well, between my bed, the dinner table, and the club. Perfect balancing act, my life. No one could accuse me of being anything but balanced!'

'Yeah…' Crowley was beginning to remember why he didn't make a habit of hanging around Aziraphale's friends. ' Anyway , we'll be off now. Thanks for, er, having us…'

'Yes, wonderful New Year's celebration, my boy. Your brother's club is coming along marvellously. You must talk me through the Matisse's you purchased with him, I find his work most intriguing, and-'

'Come on, angel, do you want to get back in time or not? I'm a good driver but I'm not a miracle worker. Er.'

Aziraphale shot an amused glance at the demon. 'Of course. You're quite right. We must take our leave. Give my best wishes for the New Year to, erm, well, whoever is still here, I suppose. No doubt I will see you all in the near future. Oh! Do you know if Evelyn is back from Buckinghamshire yet? I had been hoping to talk with him about his book-'

'Angel! '

'Right. Yes. Coming. Happy New Year, dear things, Happy New Year!'

And the angel followed the demon out to his car, which, much to the angel's journeying terror, did in fact manage to get them to London before four o'clock.