Aziraphale

Was Aziraphale worried that they had lost the Antichrist? Yes, of course he was, that was incredibly serious indeed. But since they had apparently wandered out of a massive gunfight and into a pocket universe, that had to take a backseat for the moment. No, his major concern was for his shirt.

Even if a respectable dry cleaners was available at this sort of place, they likely wouldn't be able to do any good. "It will never come out," he lamented. Paintball guns. What a strange concept. Humanity was odd at the best of times, and they had figured out ways to shoot each other in a fun and recreational environment. And while Aziraphale was technically a warrior (he'd had a sword, and everything) war games were not something he truly understood. But that was just the the mysterious beauty of humans, and he wasn't about to question it. "Such a waste."

The drink was good, which was some comfort. A sort of mojito, but made with whiskey and briskly pummeled basil. If there was one thing he and Crowley knew how to do, wherever they went, whenever they went, it was how to order a drink (and, often, accompanying appetizers). It was already pretty obvious that they had effectively walked out of their world, like a pair of actors trooping between the curtains offstage and accidentally ending up in a janitorial closet, and it was only the immortal wisdom of the ages that prevented a true panic from setting in. Really, there was nothing to be done. If this was God's work then, yes, it might be time to panic, but Aziraphale was quite in the habit of not asking any questions in that particular direction.

Also, he couldn't lose his cool in front of a demon, even if that demon was his drinking companion.