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“Dearest,” said Aziraphale, fingers white-knuckled around the brim of her hat, “I can’t help but be a touch concerned that we might be headed for—”
“Glory!” shouted Crowley, taking the Bentley around the next hairpin turn. It came up onto two wheels. Aziraphale emitted a small shriek.
“Disaster, I thought,” she managed to finish, although it was a near thing and she did have to punctuate it with another squeak.
Crowley whooped with delight as they passed a Model T creeping along the road. The road was not, in the strictest sense of reality, meant to accommodate two cars, but Crowley had millennia of practice at convincing things* to do what she wanted. Her scarf whipped around her in the wind, her sunglasses were the absolute height of fashion, and Chicago was in no wise prepared for her.**
By the time they came to a stop—the Bentley humming where its competitors only creaked and wheezed—Aziraphale’s lips had pressed together into a line so tight they nearly vanished.
“Oh, come now, angel.” Crowley stretched luxuriously. “We’ve got to go accept the trophy.”
“Really!” snapped Aziraphale.
“Yes, really!”
“Do you quite think you won that?”
“I’m a demon, love,” said Crowley with a sideways smile. “I have a much broader and more worldly definition of winning than you do.”
Aziraphale huffed out loud in displeasure, but still had to wait for Crowley to come round and open her door. Which Crowley did with the addition of a deep, courtly bow, the likes of which she hadn’t probably received since the Sun King’s time, and Aziraphale blushed charmingly. Crowley smelled a moment of opportunity*** and leaned in to snag a kiss.
Aziraphale squeaked again—seizing the muslin of her skirt in both hands, and staring at Crowley in outright shock—but then paused; seemed to consider the situation; and caught Crowley thoroughly off-guard with a much less decorous snog.
“Now,” said Aziraphale primly, a moment later, “let’s go get your false trophy.”
“Oh, really, why bother.” Crowley watched her, in her outdated dress and straw hat, as if she were about to go boating on a lake and not race cars. “I daresay I have the only trophy I’m likely to need.”
Aziraphale started to smile, that sweet little round-cheeked smile of hers, but then she noticed that Crowley was patting the Bentley lovingly.
(It was worth the afternoon’s cold shoulder.)
*Also people, and she was arguably better with people, but things could also be argued and, if necessary, shouted into submission.
**In another sense, Chicago had always been prepared for her. Chicago might have been made specifically for her.
***Opportunity, in case you were wondering, smells like a combination of fear, adoration, and lemon drops.