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“Computer hacks, bribery, break-ins, hours in that field — damp like you wouldn’t believe, Camelot all over again—”
In the passenger seat, Aziraphale nods in mute sympathy.
“—and after all that, not even a wahoo! Hastur— oh, here we are.” The Bentley merges onto the M25. “Well? What do you think of it?”
Aziraphale searches for something complimentary to say about the long stretch of vehicles. “It seems very effective,” he offers.
Crowley grins. “You’re a better audience than Hell.”
“I should hope.” Aziraphale has prided himself on his audience abilities since Hamlet.
There’s an outburst of futile horn-honking. The Bentley joins in. Aziraphale winces.
Crowley resumes ranting, voice raised above the cacophony. “‘What’s a computer?’ Hastur says! That toad’s stuck in the fourteenth century. Even you know what a computer is.”
Aziraphale is fond of the cheap, plasticky desktop he uses for his accounts. He’s unsure what computer hacks are, though; taking an axe to the machine seems impractical. He makes a noncommittal noise.
Crowley nods, apparently satisfied.
Then he looks out the window, and swears. “We’re not moving.”
“Caught in traffic,” Aziraphale agrees amicably.
Crowley swears more.
“Dare I say,” Aziraphale begins.
“Nope.”
Smugly undaunted, Aziraphale continues, “Evil sows the seeds of its own destruction.”
“You’re in this car too,” Crowley points out.
“I don’t mind you not driving at your usual breakneck pace.”
Crowley scowls.
They inch forward, then stop altogether. Professional disapproval aside, Aziraphale can’t help being impressed by Crowley’s handiwork.
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” Aziraphale says.
“‘Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds’?” Crowley suggests.
Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “No, actually.”
“Shame. Just ‘odegra’?”
“If you keep on like this, I shan’t tell you.”
“Fine, fine. What’re you thinking?”
Aziraphale smiles. “Wahoo.”
Crowley laughs. They sit back to ride out the traffic jam together.