"Was that truly quite necessary?" Aziraphale bit his lower lip, looking in the Bentley's rear-view mirror at the wreckage they were rapidly leaving behind. The London streets blurred, new vehicles moving to the front lines, concealing their fallen comrades. He turned toward Crowley, all accusing.
Crowley fiddled with the radio dial and, failing to procure anything not involving a Mr. F. Mercury, gave up and adjusted his ridiculously expensive Ray Bans. Somewhere in South Africa, an entire third-world nation was waiting patiently to be fed. He was having none of that.
"I put the demon in 'pandemonium:' you should know that by now. It's not as if an auto accident is out of the ordinary. Got off light, if you ask me."
Aziraphale gave him a look that would have easily withered even the strongest of his houseplants. Crowley was almost cowed. Almost. "Yes, your wordplay is very nice, Crowley, but you didn't have to make the traffic light change that quickly. Someone's bound to have noticed it skipped yellow and went straight to red. Twice. Not very subtle, if you ask me." The angel frowned, turning back toward the window with an indignant huff, rapping his fingers on the inside of the door in a pattern that seemed to fall just a shade short of "utterly vexed."
Crowley stared straight ahead, sulking at the lack of appreciation for his etymological skills and tapping his thumbs on the leather of the steering wheel in a distinct rhythm of "doubt." He tried to look more confident than he felt as he slipped the Bentley through a space between a concrete lorry and a Volkswagen with molecules to spare. "Exactly. People will eat that sort of 'strange' right up. If they even noticed in the first place. Which they didn't."
There was a long pause in which only the outside traffic and the faint strains of Queen could be heard. Crowley cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, unfortunately missing not one but two elderly couples. "No one was hurt," he mumbled, silently cursing the offending geriatrics. It wasn't often you got them in herds, especially not near a crowded intersection and–
...yeah. Excuses, excuses. Some fine tool of Satan he was turning out to be.
Aziraphale's reflection hid a satisfied grin. Of course no one had been hurt. He'd made sure of that. But it was really rather touching that Crowley had made allowances, no matter how small. Another compromise well-executed, if he did say so himself.
And the Bentley rolled on...