Crowley smirked from beneath his fedora. "Yes, angel. Out. I know you're used to being dusty, but once in a while is good for you. You need to get a feel for the people, don't you?"
Aziraphale pased for a moment, considering the positions of the people with which Crowley intended to dally. "They are all rather lost, aren't they? In this... what?"
"Speakeasy." He pulled Aziraphale along by the hand. The angel, despite any previous protestation, walked easily with the tugging.
"I'm sure there are many who could do with a bit of inspiration among those who are adrift in..."
"Temptation? Naturally. See, you should be there. What is THAT?" Crowley stopped with such certainty that Aziraphale tripped neatly over his own shoes to avoid bumping into his friend. The angel followed his gaze into a lot, above which was an overpainted sign declaring "Import Cars, Fine and Pricey!"
"What? What?" Aziraphale saw no one present.
"Look at HIM."
"For land's sakes, Crowley..." He was interrupted by Crowley pulling him close and pointing so that they shared a line of vision.
"*Him,*" Crowley said in a voice heavy with longing -- a rare tone of respect and desire that made the angel more than a little jealous.
"All I see is an automobile. Or, is that--?"
"Yes, of course."
Aziraphale had never heard of a snake purring, but now he knew that the sound was possible. Crowley strutted toward the sweet black creature made of curls and curves all in sweet shiny black. Without toucing the finish, Crowley glided his fingers over the lines along the wheelwells, the hood, the doorframe. After a moment of silent appraisal, he hopped him and, with a very pointed finger, started the engine. Exactly as he thought it should have, the Bentley rumbled to life with all due circumstance.
"Come on, get in, angel. We're going out in style now."
"I thought your hat was in style? Not a combustion machine."
"Angel, get in."
Aziraphale got in, though his method involved opening a door and not bounding over it. He had to admit to himself that the soft leather seats were comforting.
Crowley pressed his foot to the peddal as sharply as possile, and the three of them, Aziraphale, Crowley, and the Bentley, tore from the parking lot with demonic frenzy.
Inside the small sales shack, all Joseph Painter, purveyor of imported automobiles, heard was what sounded like some fairy severely startled. He looked out his tinted window to see no one... and more importantly, no *thing.*