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And it was feeling so hopeful.
Ah well. One day.
He’d even let Aziraphale drive it this time. That was an interesting experience. The Bentley rather enjoyed going under the speed limit. It was a change of pace, quite literally. It was different from its dear’s usual speed that’s roughly equivalent to ‘really fucking fast’. It was calm. The Bentley didn’t need to dash side to side to avoid pedestrians, buses, lorries and every other manner of object in its dear’s way, and instead got to amble along at a measured pace.
And Aziraphale was so lovely about it. He was effusive with praise. Always let it know when it was doing a good job, never yelled and, best of all, it got to try on a different colour. Crowley, of course disagreed, but The Bentley did think it looked quite fetching in yellow.
It even deigned to play Aziraphale’s favourite music for him. Aziraphale wasn’t suited to Queen, not like Crowley is.
Now, of course, The Bentley is going to love Aziraphale, it’s Crowley’s car, they are one, it’s only natural. But there’s something just a little bit personal about this love. It doesn’t come wholly from Crowley.
The Bentley also loves Aziraphale. For himself. For being soft and round and kind. For being nice to its demon. For being there for him.
But that’s gone now.
It had felt the change in Crowley when he’d left the bookshop and come to stand by it. He’d taken a deep breath, leaning heavily into it as he composed himself. The Bentley had been able to feel his anger through their little bond. His heartbreak too. Crowley had been heartbroken before, but not like this.
Never like this before.
There was a finality to the feelings. Barely a of sliver of hope was left in its dear’s heart. Crowley had been shaking. Tears had fallen from his eyes as he stood leaning against The Bentley. Through their bond it could see what had happened. It could see that he had laid his heart bare, only to be told that he wasn’t enough.
The Bentley had wanted to streak through the streets at that. Lay on its horn and rev its engine. But then The Bookshop had reached out. The two had mingled, their bonds giving them more life than any normal dwelling had. And then The Bentley had understood.
Aziraphale wanted to help Heaven. He wanted to fix things. But more than that, he wanted to keep Crowley safe. Heaven had threatened them, Hell had come knocking on The Bookshop. The Metatron had made threats against them, when all Aziraphale wanted to do was be with Crowley.
It’s duty, wrapped up in love and protection and The Bentley can’t be angry with Aziraphale for it. It would do the same thing for Crowley.
It had watched through Crowley’s eyes as Aziraphale left The Bookshop. Crowley, desperately keeping himself together, not showing any emotion.
Aziraphale had looked back, once. Crowley saw none of it, but The Bentley felt it.
Realisation. Regret. Love.
Aziraphale had realised something and needed to leave. Their fledgling bond wasn’t enough for the Bentley to know what, but it knew that much.
It hadn’t helped Crowley though. It’s dear was still heartbroken, left without moorings in a time when he was already lost.
They’d left that same day. Travelled for hours. At one point The Bentley had needed to drive itself while Crowley simply wept.
It had needed to close itself off from their bond, the urge to sooth Crowley too strong for its concentration.
Crowley was already lost before Aziraphale left. It’s dear had been feeling anxious, twitchy, while also struggling to care about anything other than itself and Aziraphale. He’d been wanting to run, to forget everything for so long. No demonic work to keep his mind occupied, but no safety. Not truly. Hell was always right around the corner, watching his back.
Depression, the humans would call it. And anxiety. And PTSD.
And Aziraphale, well. The Bentley hadn’t picked them up from any little food joints in a while. Its interior hadn’t been filled with the wonderful smell of fresh pastry in a long time. No trips to the theatre.
They’d merely stayed on Wickber street, stuck firmly in Aziraphale’s little bubble around The Bookshop.
It misses Aziraphale.
It misses Crowley too.
It was nice when Crowley was living in it, even if it did miss its solitude. But now that he has his flat back, The Bentley stays parked around the corner, rarely moving. Every time Crowley does take it for a drive, he smells of alcohol now, even though as a demon, he shouldn’t smell like anything if he doesn’t want to.
It’s worried.
Crowley is only getting worse. It was worried before, when Aziraphale was still around, but doubly so now.
Crowley cares about so little.
But it’s been weeks now, and The Bentley is seeing no improvement.
It’s time for something to change.
The next time Crowley stumbles into its interior, The Bentley locks the doors, and drives off on its own. It drives in the direction of the one place he’s been avoiding.
It drives to Soho.
Crowley notices much later than he should’ve, another point on The Bentley’s ‘Crowley is not okay’ list.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Crowley yells when he notices. He tries to jerk its wheel, hit the brakes, but The Bentley doesn’t let him. It’s taking Crowley to Soho, whether he likes it or not.
“Don’t you fucking dare! You’re my car and we’re not going to— to there!”
Crowley continues to yell and hit it, demanding they go elsewhere but it doesn’t listen.
When Crowley resorts to begging it nearly changes its mind, though.
“Please. I’m not ready to face it. I can’t. Not yet. Please, just turn around.”
Its dear’s in so much pain, but The Bentley can’t help him on its own. He needs the help of others. So instead, The Bentley closes its ears. It can still feel the pain bleeding through their bond, but that won’t make it change its mind. There’s been too much pain recently.
It pulls up on the street across from The Bookshop. The Bookshop joyously greets The Bentley but with a shove of emotion, it quiets down The Bookshop. The Bentley is on a mission. Get its dear some help.
Within moments two women descend upon The Bentley.
A dark-haired woman raps on the driver side door, while a blonde woman steps around it.
“Crowley, open the door,” Nina demands.
“We just want to know what happened to you both,” Maggie says.
The Bentley helpfully opens its door, tilting the seat just slightly to the side so Crowley is forced to step out of the car or look a bit silly.
With one mean push of anger at it, The Bentley is left alone.
Now that the humans are looking after its dear, The Bentley needs to figure out how to get Aziraphale back on earth. Lucky there’s someone around who knows him even better than I do, The Bentley thinks and reaches out towards The Bookshop.