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London, 1933
Once picked up from the dealership, it didn’t take long for the Bentley to get to know its new owner. It had been custom made to order for one Anthony J. Crowley, after all, and most custom made cars want to please the one who commissioned them.
That was normal. But as soon as Anthony J. Crowley sat down in the Bentley, hands grasping the steering wheel, something changed. The car’s rudimentary intelligence, brought into being by the distant connection with its owner, surged to full life.
The Bentley learned that Crowley loved to drive fast, and that going fast made him whoop with delight on a good day. Even on a bad day, the dark clouds lifted from his mood as they hurtled together through town and countryside alike.
But the Bentley also quickly learned something else about its owner, something it didn’t understand. Some days, Crowley moved slowly, made strange noises, and sat in the driver’s seat for a long time once he got in. Not wanting to go anywhere, not doing anything. Just sitting there, silent aside from the occasional groans and ragged breaths.
Something was wrong with him. But what?
On a long drive up to Glasgow, the Bentley tried to understand the problem. But its body and Crowley’s body didn’t work the same way. It knew that much.
Whatever this strange condition was, it made Crowley upset. And such was the nature of their bond that when Crowley was upset, the Bentley was upset. But other than going fast, there was little a car could do to help.
They had just taken a long curving turn when the Bentley felt something completely new in its own body. It jolted sideways, thumping strangely. What was that noise? What was happening?
Something was wrong something was wrong something—
“Shitshitshit, I do not need this.” Crowley took his foot off the accelerator.
The Bentley tried to keep going, because going fast made things better.
“Whoa. That’s new.” Crowley loosened his tight grip on the steering wheel and ran a light stroke down the side, skimming to the bottom of the wheel. “Er, car? You’ve got a blowout. Stop so I can fix it, okay?”
Going fast still seemed like the only way to make things better, but the Bentley obediently stopped. Its owner must know best.
Crowley patted the steering wheel. “Good car.”
That made things better already. And within a few seconds of Crowley getting out and swearing under his breath, the sudden strange feeling vanished as he snapped his fingers. Once again, the Bentley felt whole.
“There you go.” Crowley settled back into the driver’s seat, hissed, and rubbed his leg. “Bet that hurt, eh? But you’re all patched up now, blowout’s fixed.”
Hurt. Yes, that was it. The Bentley had been hurt, but Crowley fixed it.
Did Crowley hurt too? Was that what was wrong with him?
Yes, that must be it. And although the Bentley couldn’t fix whatever was wrong with Crowley’s body, maybe there was still a way to help. To make things better.
As they drove again, the Bentley adjusted its driver’s seat, softening, making it perfectly comfortable. It had been custom made for Crowley, after all. It could adapt to all his needs.
Crowley let out a long breath, relaxing, and the distress that had hovered around him all day faded. He settled back into the comfortable seat and turned up the expensive radio. Music filled the car, cheerful and bright.
With Crowley secure and comfortable in the seat’s embrace, the Bentley hurtled down the road. The journey north would be more fun for both of them now.
---
London, 1941
The bombed out roads jarred the Bentley, but it pressed on anyway. Something very important was happening today. The Bentley wasn’t sure what, but Crowley was agitated.
Adjusting the seats to be even more comfortable hadn’t helped, although the Bentley had tried several different changes. Some days, Crowley seemed more comfortable with softer seats, other days firmer. The Bentley enjoyed finding just the right type of comfortable, an exciting challenge.
But it wasn’t working today. And once they screeched to a halt a short distance from a church, Crowley’s hands trembled against the wheel.
"Right, okay. It’ll be fine.” He adjusted his hat and let out a long breath. “You stay here, car. You’ll be safe, I promise. And I’ll introduce you to Aziraphale soon. You’ll like him.”
The Bentley was sure it would be safe. Crowley always repaired even the slightest dings or scratches. He removed mud and dust with a gesture of his hand. And the Bentley made him comfortable in return. They took care of each other.
Whether the Bentley would like Aziraphale, though… it was less sure of that. Aziraphale was a name Crowley often mentioned while talking to himself, as well as on frequent drives through Soho that seemed to always take them down one particular street.
It was a name that always made Crowley upset.
The Bentley glowered down the street towards the church that held all of Crowley’s focus. It rumbled the engine in discontent, and Crowley patted the bonnet on his way past. Power tingled from his fingertips. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”
Although the Bentley didn’t want to stay, it did. Crowley might be in danger, but he would only worry more if the Bentley got involved with whatever was wrong.
Privately, the Bentley thought it might be terrific fun to run over anyone who even thought about hurting Crowley.
Something did try to hurt him, eventually. A bomb crashed down right on top of the church, and the whole street jolted. The impact jarred the Bentley, but flames and debris skated across it without doing the slightest harm. Crowley’s miracle kept the car safe, like always.
It wasn’t long before Crowley came out of the church, followed by someone else. The Bentley focused its attention on the someone else, bristling. Even from a distance, Crowley’s pain echoed through their bond. He was hurt, and it was Aziraphale’s fault.
“—is my car,” Crowley said in an adoring tone, and the Bentley swelled with happy pride before remembering it was supposed to be glowering at Aziraphale. “Custom made for me and everything. Absolutely brilliant.”
He lovingly patted the bonnet, then flicked a hand. All the dust and ash swept away, leaving the Bentley as glossy as ever.
“Oh. That’s nice,” Aziraphale said. He was clutching a bag, and not looking at the Bentley at all. He was looking at Crowley. “Preferable to horses, hmm? Since it doesn’t have a mind of its own.”
Crowley chuckled, opened his door, and sank into his seat. “You’d be surprised. Get in, angel.”
“Ah, yes.” With a shaky breath, Aziraphale approached the never-used passenger’s side and grasped the door handle. He tugged.
The Bentley kept the door closed. No mind of its own? They’d see about that.
“Um.” Aziraphale tugged again. The Bentley resisted. “Crowley, the door won’t open. Am I doing something wrong?”
“Wot? I mean, no one ever rides over there, maybe the door…” And then Crowley grinned. “Wait, hold on. Car, seriously? This is Aziraphale. I told you, you’ll like him.”
The Bentley didn’t like him. He was rude, and he made Crowley upset.
“Hey.” Crowley thumped the steering wheel gently. “He’s my friend. Play nice.”
Reluctant, the Bentley popped the door open quick enough that it smacked into the intruder. Aziraphale made a little amused noise. “Oh, how odd. I suppose I must not have pulled hard enough the first time. Crowley, were you just talking to your car?”
“It’s a good car,” Crowley said defensively. “And besides, it’s not like I had anyone else to…”
He trailed off, the upset feeling intensifying again. And then he shuddered a little, shifting his legs. Every time he touched his feet to the floor, he winced.
Slowly, Aziraphale climbed in. He clutched at the book bag and gave Crowley a sideways glance. “Well, I’m glad you had the car, at least. It’s very nice.”
“My car is not nice.” Crowley glared, and the Bentley prepared to open the door and fling Aziraphale out into the street if necessary. “It’s cool. Amazing. Terrific.”
Aziraphale gave a little laugh and rested his hand on the dash. It was a soft hand, and warm. “It certainly is. And perfect for you, really.”
“Yup, it really is.”
The Bentley relaxed a little. If nothing else, at least Aziraphale had good taste.
They set off through London, jolting across the bombed out streets. Crowley was trembling badly again, his hands tight on the steering wheel. He was in pain. Hurt.
But he wasn’t upset, not now. He and Aziraphale talked freely now, a quick back and forth rhythm of conversation. They spoke over each other, finished each other’s sentences, and asked questions.
And they laughed, really laughed. The Bentley had never heard Crowley laugh like that except on the rare days when he seemed to be in little pain.
He was in terrible pain now. The Bentley had taken over accelerating, braking, and shifting almost immediately, like it did on long car rides when Crowley’s legs hurt too much. But even that wasn’t enough to help.
Familiar with Soho, the Bentley took them to the usual street and slowed in the usual spot. Aziraphale adjusted in his seat, peering out at a bookshop, and the Bentley stopped. “Ah, here we are. Um, Crowley? Would you like to come in for a drink, perhaps?”
Crowley hesitated, and a tinge of the old distress came back. Why was he upset? He normally talked about drinks like they were good.
“I probably shouldn’t,” he said, gripping the steering wheel.
“Oh.” Aziraphale deflated, his disappointment so strong that the Bentley felt it even though they had no connection. “I hoped you would.”
“Nnnh, I mean, I’d love to.”
“Then do.” Aziraphale inhaled sharply. “Unless something’s wrong. Are you hurt? I-I tried to shield you from the holy water, but did a drop—”
“Nonono, you shielded me fine. No holy water.” Crowley exhaled slowly, stroking the Bentley’s steering wheel in the way that he always did while trying to calm himself. “Consecrated ground scorched me a little, s’ all. Nothing to worry about.”
“That is something to worry about! Oh, Crowley.” Gently, Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s arm. “It’s my fault this happened. Please, allow me to tend to you.”
Crowley’s happiness returned in full force, and the Bentley understood now. It wasn’t Aziraphale that upset Crowley. It was his absence.
And Aziraphale might be rude, but he wanted to protect Crowley, and that was all that mattered. As Aziraphale and Crowley went inside, the Bentley settled in to keep watch over them both.
---
Eight months later
Bitterly cold wind sliced across the Bentley’s exterior as it pulled up outside the bookshop. Despite the cold, excitement and pride filled the car. Crowley had promised a long drive today, all the way to Edinburgh, and a guest for the trip.
Crowley shivered at the cold, and the Bentley adjusted to make him more comfortable. He patted the wheel in response. “Thanks, but I gotta get out for a bit. Aziraphale needs to be pried away from books, usually. Be back in a minute.”
The Bentley waited, eager. It had gotten to meet Aziraphale several times after the church bombing, but only for short drives. And while the Bentley had conceded that he made Crowley very happy, the chance to study him for a longer trip was irresistible.
Only a handful of minutes passed before Crowley and Aziraphale came back, and the Bentley popped the doors open. Aziraphale paused, startled, but Crowley dropped right in. “Come on, angel. Got a long drive ahead.”
“Ah, yes. I suppose we do.” Aziraphale stared at the car for a minute longer. The Bentley turned on its engine, and the angel finally climbed in. “Thank you so much for offering a lift. I-I know I could have taken the train, but this will be much more fun, won’t it?”
The glow of happiness from Crowley brightened even more, and he smiled in the sort of way he usually reserved for the Bentley. “Yeah. Yeah, it will.”
They rocketed off down the street, the Bentley studying Aziraphale as they went. It wasn’t attuned to him, not like it was to Crowley. With Crowley, every impulse and feeling resonated through their bond, immediately apparent.
It was still strange, having another passenger, someone who the Bentley didn’t know how to read yet. Anxious, it sped up. Going fast always made things better.
Although he was mid-conversation with Aziraphale, Crowley stroked the steering wheel in reassurance. The Bentley settled under his gentling hand. It might not understand Aziraphale yet, but he wasn’t a threat. That much was certain. And Crowley wasn’t upset, so everything must be okay.
And although the Bentley couldn’t feel Aziraphale’s emotions, the slightly stiff way he sat was familiar. Something hurt him. Maybe his back. Crowley’s back hurt sometimes, especially if he’d had a bad trip to Hell.
So the Bentley adjusted the seat for Aziraphale, changing it to be more comfortable. Aziraphale made Crowley happy, so his comfort was important too.
About twenty minutes into the drive, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Um, Crowley? May I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, ‘course. Big questions fan, me.” Crowley flashed a bright grin. The Bentley hurtled onward. “What’s up?”
Aziraphale hesitated again, then let out a little huff. “Your car is very strange.”
“Is it?” Crowley asked innocently.
“Yes. Very, very strange.” Tentative, Aziraphale pressed a hand to the leather beside his leg. “I swear this seat was much, much colder when I got in, and I don’t believe this is a mere matter of body heat. Is your car warming the seats?”
“Oh, yeah. It does that.” Crowley wrenched the wheel, and the Bentley happily skidded around a turn.
“And it certainly opened its own doors earlier.”
“Yeah.”
“And turned itself on.”
“Yup.”
“And-and-and I believe it’s also been making this seat softer?” Aziraphale’s voice climbed in pitch, alarmed. The Bentley made the seat even more comfortable in response. “Does it just… do this sort of thing all the time?”
“Well, yeah.” Crowley affectionately patted the dash, love brimming from each touch. The Bentley purred in response. “Don’t all cars?”
Aziraphale stared at Crowley. “No. No, I do not believe they do. At least, I’ve never read about it.”
“And as we know, all the knowledge in existence is contained within the pages of books from the seventeenth century. Especially knowledge about cars.” There was a different tone in Crowley’s voice, the kind he used when making fun of other drivers. But kinder, somehow. The Bentley didn’t fully understand it. “I know my car’s different. I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh! Oh, yes.” Aziraphale gave a little chuckle. “Afraid I’m still not the best at detecting sarcasm sometimes, and I’m a bit out of practice.”
“S’ all right.” Crowley’s voice had gone even softer now, and he stroked the steering wheel again. “I don’t really know how it happened. But I noticed it right away. The Bentley responds to me, like it knows what I want, what I feel.”
“Like a horse?” Aziraphale asked.
“Nah, I was never that lucky with horses.” Chuckling, Crowley took them around another turn. The Bentley sped up even more, delighting in Crowley’s happiness and affection. “I am damn lucky with this car, though. It’s constantly adjusting stuff for me, making the seats more comfortable and everything. You wouldn’t believe how much better my pain got after I started driving it.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly. “That’s so lovely. I noticed that you’ve been moving much easier.”
“Yup.” Crowley bent and kissed the top of the steering wheel, then offered another grin to Aziraphale. “My Bentley is such a good car.”
The praise made the Bentley even happier, and the engine purred again in response as they swished down the road into the cold day. The Bentley couldn’t say “I love you”, not in words. But it did love its owner, and it poured all that devotion into making him as happy and comfortable as possible.