Sometime around sunset, Crowley waved a hand vaguely at the expanse of scenery before them. “Hillsss,” he mumbled.

“Mm?” Aziraphale was not so very drunk, but he was getting there.

“Hillsss.” Crowley tried to concentrate, and stopped when it made his head ring. “Look like. Like. Like white elephantsss.”

Aziraphale peered at him dubiously. “Don’t.”

“Do ssso.”

“No,” insisted Aziraphale. He examined the view. “Maybe green el’phants. Brownish-ish.”

“White.” Crowley was positive. “White elephantsss.”

“Are you by any chance having urges to speak in short, choppy sentences with a noticeable dearth of commas?” Aziraphale asked him brightly.

“No,” said Crowley.