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Not by Crowley’s demonic influence (or at least not knowingly), the Bentley is a sentient-but-not-quite-sentient piece of machinery. Of course it can’t speak and can’t necessarily feel, but there’s something that makes it not just any old car.
Crowley doesn’t usually notice. The Bentley is the only car he’s ever owned, so he assumes that this is just what all cars are like. Maybe some people’s cars only like to play The Beetles or Beyoncé or One Direction. His just particularly likes Queen. He doesn’t mind, really. He complains - because he complains about everything - but he and Freddie Mercury were pretty close some years ago, and he likes the music quite a lot.
Many of Queen’s songs were written by Freddie, inspired by Crowley’s drunken ranting about a particular angel on their nights out. He’d drink his body weight in whisky and gin and confess everything he’d held close to his chest for 6000 years to one of the only humans he’s truly allowed himself to get close to.
Freddie had a way with people. He was fun and welcoming and easy to talk to. He made you feel comfortable. He’d adjust to what you needed out of a friend at that moment and become exactly that. So, whenever he and Crowley spent nights together getting sloshed, he’d listen, because he knew that’s what Crowley needed.
Crowley would go on for hours about Aziraphale, talking about their long history; times that Aziraphale had made him happy, when he’d surprised him, when he’d hurt him, and Freddie would listen. Of course, he wasn’t stupid, he knew Crowley wasn’t human. It wasn’t hard to guess with the wild stories he’d tell - and they were too intricate to be lies - though he didn’t exactly know what he was. It didn’t particularly matter to him, anyways. Crowley was his friend. He could have been a bloody aardvark for all Freddie cared.
If he was honest with himself, Freddie found the two to be inspiring. He never met Aziraphale, but he felt like he knew him intimately because of Crowley. It was obvious that the two were in love, and had been for a long time. Obvious to Freddie at least, but evidently not to each other. He had a sneaking suspicion that both parties were aware of their own feelings, but completely oblivious and avoidant of the others’.
In Freddie’s eyes, Crowley was open. He was willing to tell Aziraphale just how he felt, but never directly. He would rather cut out his own tongue than say the words. But he’d do anything else. He’d buy Aziraphale his favourite chocolates and pastries, buy him a new book and put it (in it’s correct place) on the shelf in the bookshop and wait for Aziraphale to find it himself. He’d take him out to fancy restaurants and pay every time without fail. Crowley would save Aziraphale wherever he was, whenever he needed it. He would transport across any channel to get to him, and make up some excuse as to why he was there when he was asked. Never in a million years would Crowley just say ‘because you needed help, angel’.
And Aziraphale would know. He knew what it all meant, he knew Crowley loved him, but he did everything in his power to pretend he didn’t. Now, Freddie wouldn’t know this, but Aziraphale’s main way of avoiding both his and Crowley’s feelings was to use the excuse that ‘demons can’t feel love’.
This theory however, was never proven. It was actually more that demons didn’t love, not couldn’t. Whenever a demon did find themself loving, they would never utter a word about it to anyone, so the myth carried on. So no, demons were perfectly capable of it, most of them just chose not to. Crowley was not one of those demons, but he’d be damned twice if he ever admitted that.
Turns out he was to be damned a second time, because he does admit it to Freddie. Not in as many words, but the subtext is more regular text than text with a hidden meaning.
This time when he fell however, it wasn’t a sudden drop from the sky, white feathers being torn out one by one as he tumbled through the air for what felt like forever. It wasn’t finally hitting the ground only to be met with scorching sulphur that seeped into his skin, blackening his very bones. He didn’t scream until his throat was raw, clawing at the boiling liquid to try and find his way out, begging and pleading for help, to only be met with the sound of his own anguish. This time, he hadn’t cried hot, black tears and hauled his own mangled body upright, his wings dragging heavily behind him, permanently stained; a constant reminder of what he had felt that day.
No, this time it was gentle. He hadn’t realised anything was even happening until it was far too late. There was a soft tug at his core whenever he’d catch a glimpse of white blonde hair over the centuries. One that warmed him up, but never burned. It had started on a wall in Eden. He had went to bother him, really, but for the first time since his first Fall, he felt something almost akin to contentment. He was told about a flaming sword and how it had been given away to help the humans along, and something lit inside him. A tiny flame; one that sometimes burned a little too bright, but never left scars.
So, seeing this, hearing about their lives through Crowley, seeing the joy and pain and love Aziraphale caused him, Freddie Mercury did what he loved the most, and he wrote.
He wrote song after song about his friend and the love of his life. Some remained in his lyric book forever, not being touched, some were recorded but never released, and a select few were actually both recorded then released.
Crowley was pretty unaware of what he was saying when he would get drunk, he would never listen to himself, and he never wanted to. He let it all out, and have no recollection of doing so the next day. So, when Love Of My Life was released, Crowley had almost been sick for the first time in his existence. He hadn’t been intending to listen to the new album his friend had released just yet, but clearly the Bentley had other ideas, as it so often did. A Night at the Opera played in its entirety.
He had a good laugh at I’m In Love With My Car. You’re My Best Friend immediately after made him go a little pale, and he tried to skip it multiple times, but the Bentley wasn’t having any of it. The next few songs were brilliant too, but then it came to Love Of My Life. The second the piano started, Crowley had a feeling he wasn’t going to get out of this one unscathed.
Crowley never found out Freddie had written songs inspired by him and the angel he had been pathetically in love with for 6 millennia. Freddie never told him, and he never asked. Perhaps if he remembered what he was constantly ranting about while he was drunk, he would have, but he didn’t. He had thought that it was just a cruel coincidence. Something horrible Freddie had gone through and never mentioned that felt too much like ‘Then God forgive you’, ‘…you, I’m afraid, are evil’, ‘…if they knew I’d been fraternising!’, and of course, the infamous ‘You go too fast for me, Crowley’.
So, the songs had fucking hurt. And as much as the Bentley liked to be a nuisance sometimes, it knew Crowley’s limits, and resorted to only playing certain Queen songs when the situation really called for them. After all, it was mostly Crowley’s fault what it played, anyways. It felt what he did, at least on a very base level.
Love Of My Life hadn’t played in the Bentley since its release.
And here they are. 47 years later, Crowley is by the same old car, in the same old city, outside the same old bookshop, but now he’s alone.
For the first time in his entire existence, Crowley is alone on Earth. He isn’t able to sense Aziraphale’s presence anywhere. Not in another city, or another country or across the world. He can’t gauge any kind of emotion. He doesn’t know if he’s in trouble or if he’s elated. He doesn’t know anything.
Aziraphale looked him in the eyes and forgave Crowley for loving him. He watched him walk out the door to the bookshop, and said nothing. He stomped his pristine white shoe onto Crowley’s blackened heart, and he miracled away the stain it caused when it broke without a second thought. As if it was all nothing. As if Crowley was nothing.
Crowley waits until the door of the elevator to Heaven closes - then an extra few seconds just to be sure - to get into the Bentley. He sits in silence for some time, breathing in deeply to try and smother the horrible cold feeling in his chest. Gone is the warmth that Aziraphale has kept in his life for 6000 years. A warmth that has always been there, even when they were in the middle of an argument and didn’t talk for a few decades.
He didn’t even know it was there, really. Not until now that it’s been taken away, and all that remains is the shell of a being.
Crowley thinks that this is what he was supposed to be all along. This empty, cold, broken thing. This is what She wanted them all to become when She casted them out like they were nothing.
Crowley had questioned God, doubted Her and Her plans. He had cared too much about the stars; about his creations, the things he loved, and She punished him for it. She casted him out and all he did was love too deeply. And that had hurt. For a long time all he felt was pain, and he tried his hardest to get Her to forgive him. Then that pain turned to anger, and after armageddon never happened, he found that he felt no strong feelings about it anymore. After all, him Falling lead him to Earth, to the humans, to music and his car and to Aziraphale.
They’d known each other briefly in Heaven, but Falling was the reason it became more than that.
While the second time he was discarded didn’t change the colour of his wings, or change his eyes, or burn him, Crowley found that it hurt so much more. What’s physical pain when compared to heartbreak?
He no longer felt the sulphur dripping from his hair and his wings, or the tear of each individual white feather being ripped from him. He didn’t feel his bones aching from the sudden collision into liquid, or the searing that came immediately after.
But this? This would last forever.
He would never be able to feel much of anything except misery again.
This time when he was damned, it wasn’t the Almighty damning him, but Aziraphale. His angel.
He had stabbed him clean through the heart with his flaming sword, his face molded in disgust as he twisted it. And all Crowley could do was watch. He lay on the blade, holding Aziraphale’s hands at the base, only helping to drive it in deeper.
Crowley is once again discarded for loving too much. Self indulgent in his greed, Crowley wanted more. He always wanted more, more, more. Always too much or too fast, and these were the consequences.
He turned on Bentley, and immediately felt a wave of nausea roll through him as familiar lyrics played from the radio.
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
The Bentley never plays music that isn’t Queen, and the one time it does, it plays this. Crowley turns off the radio, and drives away.
He doesn’t go back to his flat. Instead he drives with no destination in mind. He drives for hours in silence, his mind and soul empty.
Morning turns into afternoon, which turns into night, and he doesn’t know where he is. He’s not in the city, in fact there is nothing around at all.
He miracles a little path for him to drive on safely, and parks the Bentley on a large open field. It’s covered in little blue flowers, the car’s headlights illuminating them in two long strips of light.
He sighs and takes his glasses off, sliding them onto the rearview mirror. He looks into it and studies his reflection. There are dark circles under his eyes, making him look gaunt and hollow.
Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.
Crowley thinks he looks almost frightening.
Are you happy now, God? he thinks. I’m what you wanted me to be.
The silence stretches on as he continues to stare at himself.
I wouldn’t love me either.
There’s a click and the radio begins playing out of nowhere. There’s a piano, and Crowley recognises it immediately. His whole body goes ice cold, and he tries to quickly turn it off. It doesn’t work.
He clicks every button on the radio to either turn it down or stop it completely, but the Bentley won’t listen.
Love of my life, you hurt me
He squeezes his eyes shut and wills it to stop.
You’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me
He feels tears gathering, threatening to spill over, and he gives up on shutting off the radio. He grips the steering wheel hard with both hands, his knuckles white.
Love of my life, can’t you see?
He feels like he might throw up. He’s never vomited in the 6000 years he’s been on Earth. He isn’t human, there’s no reason for it, but now he thinks he’s found one.
Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me because you don’t know what it means to me
The pressure behind his eyes gets too much, and he needs to blink, causing the tears he’s been holding back to fall. They stain his cheeks, and he’s reminded of the first time he ever cried. The black sulphur seeping into his skin and pouring out from his eyes in searing streaks.
Love of my life, don’t leave me
Crowley thinks he might be crying sulphur again. His l tears are too hot on his face to be normal, but when he looks in the rearview mirror again, they’re clear.
You’ve taken my love, you now desert me
The song keeps going, no matter how much he begs it to stop. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it out loud or not, but either way, it continues, and it goes for another two more minutes.
By the time it ends, Crowley is sobbing. It’s loud and brutal and gut wrenching. He has never sobbed before, either. He’s cried, but nothing has ever felt like this.
His breathing is uneven and he’s hyperventilating, his hands still gripping the wheel. Of course, he doesn’t even need to breathe, but for some reason, he can’t stop it right now. They come out quick and short. His head hurts and so does his chest.
He doesn’t know how long he sits like that for, heaving in the driver seat of his car, but eventually his sobs subside. The Bentley doesn’t play any other music. The only sounds are his rapid breaths, that are slowly calming.
Whoever said you’ll feel better after crying is a liar, because all Crowley feels is exhausted. He finally lets go of the wheel, his hands sore with how hard he had been gripping it for so long, and he gets out of the car. He’s careless with the flowers in the field, and he steps on as many of them as he can, walking around to the front of the Bentley.
He looks up at the sky, towards the stars. He can’t see them.
He hasn’t been able to see them since his Fall. Possibly the cruelest thing She could have done, Her worst punishment, was giving him the eyes of a snake, making sure he would never be able to see the creations he Fell for in the first place.
The night sky and everything around him is black. If he could see them, Crowley would wish on a shooting star. He’d wish for anything that isn’t this.