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They have barely cleared Earth’s atmosphere when the Bentley starts to shake. Crowley doesn’t panic, because there is no time for that, but his hand tightens on the wheel as he forces the car into another gear.
When there is no noticeable improvement, he curses under his breath. From the corner of his eye, he sees the ghostly pale Aziraphale holding onto his seat for his dear life, and he understands what the problem is.
“You need to do your part.”
Aziraphale blinks, turning toward him, eyes wide with something between terror and wonder. “I’m sorry?”
“Normal cars can’t do this, you know,” Crowley says, gesturing to the dark space surrounding them with faint stars guiding the way in the distance. “Most can barely even figure out how to do their part on the road. But this is my car.” The pride can be heard in his voice, far too great to be hidden. “It’s not going to fall. If we need it to fly, it will. Because I can imagine that right now, we’re cruising through outer space in the best space-faring Bentley ever to exist.”
Crowley is doing, imagining that things are in fact fine, normal even, that driving the Bentley through space is just as plausible as a shortcut through London. He can almost feel a translucent road beneath the wheels and see the invisible architecture around them. Just a normal little stroll in a car that is whole and functioning and moving faster than light.
He knows that this is not what Aziraphale is seeing. Instead, the angel is too busy imagining the worst possible outcome, waiting for the moment it stops working, for them all to fall.
Crowley is far more skilled in this area, and this does bring back memories of driving a flaming car - and he does not think of what happened to the Bentley when they’d finally arrived at their destination, he cannot afford to linger on the thought. Everything’s fine, this will work, this is working.
“But it needs us to imagine that for it to work,” Crowley tells Aziraphale, who is listening intently. “And you’re not helping.”
Though the angel’s face falls at the last part, he doesn’t protest. His cheeks burn with shame, but he is quick to ask, “Oh. Alright. Yes, I see - I - What can I do to help?”
“I just need you,” Crowley says through gritted teeth, wrestling the Bentley back into something resembling a straight line as it suddenly lurches downward, “to imagine that everything is just fine!”
“But it’s not!” Aziraphale gasps, and the Bentley jolts, its careful trajectory slipping as though it, too, has lost confidence.
“Not helping, not helping!”
Crowley pulls wildly at the wheel until they’re finally back on track. There’s still a long way to Alpha Centauri, plenty of time for things to go wrong, and even though he can feel the Bentley tremble, the car is still going as fast as it possibly can.
The thing about driving in space is that there are no fellow drivers to keep in mind. No traffic jams, no road work ahead. Definitely no speed limits, though they’ve never stopped Crowley before. There are the occasional obstacles in the shapes of orbital debris and wayward satellites, but so far, there are no angels, or demons, on their arses. Yet.
“Crowley, this is insanity.”
“This is your plan.”
“Exactly!” Aziraphale throws up his hands. “You should have known better, you should have told me no!”
“Like you would have listened anyway!” Crowley snaps back at him. “I’m just the driver here, trying to get you where you need to be, and right now, this vehicle is running on optimism, so you need to pull your weight.”
It’s not a nice feeling, even when a demonic part of him still longs to be spiteful, to imply that Aziraphale is dragging them down. The angel technically is, but Crowley can’t fault him for worrying about this impossible situation. It’s just that worrying won’t get them anywhere but down.
“I’ve never been very good at it,” Aziraphale says quietly. “Imagining that everything will be alright.”
“Now’s a perfect time to start!”
The Bentley groans, and Crowley with it, stubbornly imagining it in perfect condition, better than any space rocket, even.
“Alright.” Aziraphale has his eyes closed, brows furrowed in a painful-looking frown. A drop of sweat rolls from his forehead due to his pure concentration.
It looks like he is taking a shit. Crowley is about to comment on this, but then the Bentley swerves once more.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, his eyes now fully open, wide with fright.
“No pressure,” Crowley tells him. “Just a reminder that if we don’t pull this off, we will quite literally crash and burn.”
“I’m aware of the fact.”
Aziraphale looks sickly, which is not an unusual occurrence whenever the angel is in the car with Crowley behind the wheel, and Crowley reconsiders his approach.
“Buuuuut—” He drags the word out, buying time until something resembling a point forms inside his mind. “You can fly.”
“Well,” Aziraphale says, blinking in mild confusion, “yes.”
“Bumblebees can fly,” Crowley says, latching onto the idea with sudden determination. “The humans say they shouldn’t be able to because of a construction oversight, but that’s a lot load of crap since they didn’t account for the vortex generation - Anyway, they say it can still fly because no one told it how it shouldn’t be able to.”
“...So the Bentley is the bee in this analogy -?”
“I think you’re the opposite of a bumblebee.”
“Oh?” Aziraphale says, his expression a mix between a frown and a forced polite smile.
“No one told you that you could fly,” Crowley continues, swerving past an abandoned rocket stage, “So you think gravity isn’t optional.”
“Well, it isn’t. It’s just that with wings, you can generate enough force to exceed the downward force of gravity -”
Crowley cuts him off, voice oddly soft, “You know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” Aziraphale looks down in his lap, then back up at Crowley. His eyes swirl with something precious yet fragile, something so Aziraphale that Crowley’s heart aches with how much he’s missed it. “Thank you,” he says. “But -”
At the word, the Bentley jolts, a strip of metal tearing loose from the rear while sparks spray wildly from the right wheel.
“No buts!” Crowley shrieks, imagining: whole, fine, fully functional.
Aziraphale has buried his head in his hands. Crowley isn’t quite sure if it’s from regret or from the rather terrifying view surrounding them once you consider how far they can plummet.
“I keep making mistakes! I try, and it won’t work, because I make the wrong choices,” Aziraphale wails, clenching his fists in frustration. “I wasn’t a good supreme archangel, or a good principality, or a good guardian, or even a good friend to you!” He looks at Crowley, his eyes shining with hurt and regret, so much of it that Crowley can’t quite hold his gaze for long. “I think I can make things better, but it doesn’t work out, and when I act stupid, I need you to come rescue me. Like now.”
In the silence that follows, the harsh grind and screech of the Bentley’s gears fill the space between them.
“I’m not rescuing anyone,” Crowley finally says. “I’m driving a car. I’m following your plan! Which is insane, yes, but you and I are currently inside a Bentley soaring through space, and I, personally, have plenty of other places I’d rather be if I didn’t believe your plan could work!”
A hubcap comes flying off, colliding with a meteoroid further ahead.
“Oh, you’re doing magnificently,” Aziraphale desperately tries, patting the seat. “Much better than I -”
And then they lose a tire. It shouldn’t matter, not when the road exists only in Crowley’s mind, but the Bentley swerves violently, threatening to spin out at any second.
“Stop that half-assed praising, and start imagining things right!” Crowley cries out because he is losing focus, his imagination faltering, and if the car falls apart, so will they. “Here, take the wheel.”
He grabs a hold of Aziraphale’s jacket, dragging him toward the driver’s seat while using the momentum to climb to the back of the car. From there, he begins to inspect the damage: the cracked windows, the dented frame, and the rather significant issue of one missing wheel.
The car bounces, and his sunglasses slip off.
“You’re not falling apart,” he hisses, pouring all his imagination and willpower into the car, only to discover it is, in fact, holding on. He can feel it, the purring of the engine, and it’s an old, familiar comfort.
“I can imagine it!” Aziraphale shrieks.
Crowley’s head snaps towards him. “What?”
“The Bentley.” Aziraphale has his eyes closed again: a rather bad decision for someone who is now the driver. “You. Me. That we can make it. I can imagine that, and - and all the wonderful things we can do together. Things I want to do to you, and you to me. That we’re flying through space in a car, and it’s fine, and nothing’s falling apart because we are a team and the plan can work, and it’ll be alright.”
Crowley can imagine it too, even when his broken but healing heart warns him against such foolish ideas. But Aziraphale is here, back with him, and they’re in this stupid, impossible, dangerous situation together, just like the old days.
“You have to really imagine it, angel,” he says softly. “Imagine it so hard you can see it.”
Aziraphale exhales, and slowly, his grip on the wheel eases, desperation replaced with subtle confidence. The Bentley follows his smallest command, and the angel leads them the way forward.
“I can see it,” he says, and there are stars emerging in the distance, rays of vivid colors falling through the windscreen, caressing his pale face and curls.
“What does it look like?” Crowley asks.
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale tells him. “I think - I think you’d like a garden.”
“What?”
“Afterwards. So you can let the plants grow.” Aziraphale sniffs and steadies his breathing. He’s a diligent driver, his gaze fixated on what’s ahead so he can ensure that they reach their destination safely. “Yes, I see it so clearly now.”
The Bentley has stopped shaking, and Crowley’s heart swells with pride for his car once more. Such a clever car, knowing exactly what Aziraphale needed. Now, under the angel’s gentle hands, it behaves perfectly.
“Good car,” Crowley says, and as he pushes himself upwards, he locks eyes with Aziraphale in the rearview mirror.
Crowley thinks of his sunglasses, lost somewhere on the Bentley’s floor, but he doesn’t reach for them. There are still tears clinging to Aziraphale’s lashes, but he sees the careful smile in his eyes, too.
And then the angel frowns. “Do you think I should still keep to the left?” he asks, and Crowley starts laughing.
He climbs back to the front, all long limbs and poor timing, and the Bentley’s sudden bounce sends him stumbling over the gearshift. He flails, accidentally grabbing Aziraphale’s thigh in an attempt to steady himself, and by the time he’s pulled himself into the passenger seat, both of them have flushed cheeks.
“You can have your seat back,” Aziraphale offers once he’s cleared his throat, “If you’d like.”
Crowley shrugs. “Seems like you have the hang of it.”
“We can fly,” Aziraphale pipes up, repeating Crowley’s point from earlier. “But it’s been a long, long time since I’ve taken a flight. Ages, truly. It would be nice to spread the old wings for a bit. With you, if you’d like. When this is over.”
Hope tugs at the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth.
“Sounds fun,” Crowley says, and for a moment, he has to look elsewhere, towards the glowing stars waiting for them. He can imagine it, almost, spreading his wings and enjoying the freedom of flight with Aziraphale. The image does require quite a bit of imagination, and just days ago, he would have refused the very notion, but now… “We could make it a race.”
“You’d cheat,” Aziraphale says knowingly.
Crowley grins. “Probably.”
They’re getting closer and closer to Alpha Centauri and what comes next in the plan - something that Crowley cannot control, so for a moment, he allows himself to imagine the peaceful existence that can come afterwards. And how it might last this time.
“I should be able to keep up,” Aziraphale tells him. “Even against wings as lovely as yours.”
“I can’t say no to a dare like that.”
“We have a date, then?”
Crowley hesitates, just for a split second, before he tells the angel, “If you’d like to call it that.”
“I would,” Aziraphale says at once, the waiting stars reflected in his glossy eyes. “I can imagine it, you know. Flying with you.”
Crowley swallows, holding back words he cannot afford in the moment. “Good,” he says instead, leaning back in his seat. “Almost there.”
He can see Aziraphale steel himself, and Crowley almost caves just then, almost blurbs out all the things that Aziraphale needs to know in case things go wrong -
But Crowley cannot entertain that thought, not when Aziraphale can finally imagine the happy ending they so truly deserve. The what-if’s can wait until they’re no longer relevant.
Because this is what Crowley can bring himself to believe in: Aziraphale next to him, driving his car through space, embraced by the colorful lights of the nebulae, a masterpiece six thousand years in the making -
“What are you looking at?” Aziraphale asks, catching his gaze from the corner of his eye.
Crowley cannot lie to him.
“Just you,” he says, smirking, “Testing the limits of my imagination.”