Crowley and Aziraphale are headed to a vintage car exhibition, south of London, with their friends from Tadfield. But there are a few creature comforts they must take care of first. In fact, Crowley takes great care in orchestrating a memorable morning/afternoon!

No smut yet, but the seeds are planted, and there are a few lusty squees.

This chapter and the next, I won't lie, are a little awkward. I had a hard time connecting the Bentley, Crowley's love, the aromas, the music, in a cohesive way. It took forever to write and I've fine-tuned the crap out of it, but it still feels like a giraffe's head on a penguin body, so to speak. Somehow. I didn't want to put too fine a point on the effect the Bentley has on Aziraphale, because it seems like a cheap squee. Rather, I wanted a depth of complex feeling to come through, so that we understand how Aziraphale feels, and what the Bentley has got to do with it.

So it's weird, but I hope you enjoy!

MOVING SOUTH

As it turned out, Newt and Anathema were lucky that Crowley thought of the Chichester car show when he did, as the event was coming close – over the Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of the following weekend.

Aziraphale had decided to go, after all. He had absolutely no interest in motor vehicles (apart from one), vintage or otherwise, but he'd been talked into it. Crowley waxing poetic over the creativity, care, and engineering that went into crafting an automobile had been surprising and charming, and Aziraphale found it impossible to say no after that. Interestingly, Crowley hadn't even had his full temptation engine revving then… he'd just been musing over something he truly enjoyed.

But accident or not, Aziraphale was convinced. And human or not, the formerly professional tempter was not one to waste an opportunity like this. This little boon created an opportunity for another delicious "first" for the two of them.

When they had awakened that morning, the owner of a shiny, mostly black, Depression-era Bentley had announced that he had a thing or two to take care of before they could drive down to Chichester. The two of them agreed to meet in front of the building at half-past nine.

First stop was to fuel up (which Crowley still found annoying, especially since cars this age were not known for their excellent petrol mileage), then just down the street for a wash, wax and detail. He had never needed to do any of these things before, but things were different now, so he had pored over a half-dozen services in London's periphery that would perform such services on a vintage car. He had agonised over the choice. He had pored over review after review, testimonials, complaints, and had finally settled upon a shop northwest of the city. He'd spent all week on this decision, had made the appointment, and had done all the reading he could find on the topic, what sorts of equipment were used, and what could be expected…

But he still watched with a knot in his stomach, as he watched a total stranger start up his car, and drive it under a canopy.

The man climbed out of the car and noticed him still standing, watching. He smiled, probably quite used to this sort of thing. "She'll be fine. Go on – go get a cup of tea, and come back in an hour."

When he'd said this, he had nodded at a little shop across the street that had a pink and white striped awning in a mock-Tudor style building. It was a tea shop, and Crowley did not fancy it in the least. But he nodded, crossed the road, entered, realising that it was entirely populated with pensioners (making him the oldest person in the place, as usual, but the youngest-looking). He reluctantly walked up to the counter, not sure of what else to do.

He chose espresso over tea, and sat for precisely an hour by the front window, hoping to be able to see the Bentley across the street being treated, but the staff had pulled a garage door down, concealing their work from view. He found that the mobile signal was dreadful, and there was no Wifi, so he spent the time reading a newspaper left behind by a previous patron.

As he was leaving, he caught a whiff of something delicious – bacon sammies. He bought two, knowing that if anything could seduce Aziraphale, it was the aroma of something delicious. (Though, he didn't honestly think much convincing would be involved. His formerly angelic partner was usually quite pliable when it came to matters of the flesh. Still, as a tempter, he did appreciate craftsmanship, no matter what Hastur or Ligur might have said.)

The car detailers had done an excellent job, so he paid them, thanked them, and left.

Aziraphale wasn't an idiot – far from it. Moreover, he was more sensitive and intuitive than your average human, and even your average angel. Plus, he knew his partner well. Thus, he had an idea that he was about to be "handled" somehow, possibly seduced. Crowley had announced that he was going to see to his car, and then had done an eyebrow flutter that revealed something was up. All one needed to know was that Aziraphale had recently revealed to him that he had always found being in that car a bit titillating, considering the care that Crowley showed it, and how much he loved it. If Aziraphale confessed to being aroused by something, there was no way that Crowley would let that pass without some sort of production. It was literally in his nature (or at least, it used to be). And given that he'd been able to convince Aziraphale to come on the jaunt to Chichester without even trying, and they had a chunk of time alone together in the car coming up…

…and they had agreed to meet at half-nine, and no-one was even allowed on the show grounds until at least two o'clock, it was reasonable to assume that there would be some sort of B-road. Both literal and figurative.

Aziraphale still kept his suits and accessories in "his" room, the room that Crowley had accidentally had decorated to please his angelic friend, several years ago, before serious thoughts of cohabitation existed. He now stood in front of the mirror in his lovely walk-in closet, trying to decide on which tartan bowtie went best with the vintage ensemble he had chosen.

And as he did so, he contemplated the past century or so.

As a demon, Crowley had always driven the vehicle far too fast, but had the magical capability of never hitting anything (apart from Anathema on her bike, but only because none of the three of them had been paying attention). Nevertheless, this habit made Aziraphale nervous, and he frequently scolded Crowley in between shrieks over his recklessness. He exceeded any sort of halfway-sane speed guideline, he was careless, and acted like a bloody demon. But no-one, not even Aziraphale, could say that the experience wasn't stimulating. Or that it wasn't thoroughly Crowley.

Crowley had forever projected the image of an unflappable bad boy, stylish, confident, flush – whatever the era, whatever the style of the moment, he had it. But when he'd acquired the Bentley ninety(ish) years ago, something had changed. All of that Crowley-ness solidified, and he himself admitted that the car became a "body glove." He basically became one with the car, and a new dimension was added to his personality, a new kind of power and virility. Literal ploughing forward, heavy-duty, going-somewhere power. The way he slithered in and out of it like a snake, and walked toward it and away from it cavalierly, in his dark glasses, as though the car were just an appendage, and basically immaterial because he was just THAT cool…

But then, underneath it all, the way he made meticulously certain that the Bentley was always pristine (except when he had no choice but to drive it through a wall of Hellfire)… that's what made it all such an "inspiring" phenomenon for Aziraphale. That, and the coolness, the sleek masculinity, the stimulation (even if it was terrifying)…

The cynic in him wondered if he had been projecting himself onto the car all these years, and seeing parallels in his own relationship with Crowley. The demon had often treated the angel rather coolly, as immaterial, like a limb, just a part of his life, which he could handle with ease, like everything else. But obviously that demeanour was a necessary mask for his actual feelings and intentions.

And so, Aziraphale wondered if whatever temptation Crowley had up his sleeve would work. Actually, one way or the other, whatever Crowley wanted to do today was fine with him. Aziraphale was surely not going to play hard-to-get (such a thing would never really occur to him). But, would the Bentley continue to be a place where, being surrounded by Crowley-ness, and the accompanying virility and love, would give Aziraphale the metaphorical vapours? Especially now that their relationship had come to its full fruition, and Aziraphale had no need to project?

Obviously, Crowley knew full well that Aziraphale was not making the trip to Chichester in order to ooh and aah over vintage cars. His motivations, ironically, were a lot less pure than Crowley's, which was not only interesting, but really fucking hot. And he wanted to make blessed sure that this trip was one worth making… for the both of them.

He parked the big black-and-graphite car in the same spot where he used to: illegally, directly in front of the building. Nowadays, he had to be more careful about his parking choices, since there was a paper trail from the Bentley to him, and he couldn't just "miracle away" a summons, or the scratches left by keys of people who hated seeing it there.

Aziraphale hadn't come down just yet, so he took a moment to let the air in the car infuse with the scent of bacon, and to circle round and make sure that no errant fingerprints had appeared on the car's surface on the drive back from the detail shop.

He actually did find a few on one of the headlight frames. He pretended to be vexed, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and along with a bit of hot breath, used it to carefully eradicate the prints from the surface of his automobile.

"Well, aren't you the fastidious autophile?" a voice said.

Crowley looked up, and there stood Aziraphale, dressed as always, watching delightedly as he fretted over his car.

"Good morning, angel," Crowley cooed, walking smoothly round the front of the Bentley.

"And to you," answered Aziraphale, with an adorable little bow. "Goodness me, Crowley. A handkerchief to the headlight wells? And you say I'm fussy."

Crowley smirked. "We all have our moments. If a man's home is his castle, then his car is his chariot."

Aziraphale thought about that. "I can see that that is true."

"Ready to go?"

"I should think so," Aziraphale said, swallowing hard.

He was now convinced that the seduction would work, and Crowley could see it in that little insecure bob of an Adam's apple.

Aziraphale stepped forward, reached out and pulled the car door open. Immediately, he was assailed by the absolutely Heavenly scent of unhealthy bacon sammies, balancing innocently between the seats. He couldn't help but close his eyes and inhale heartily, and nearly let out his own little lusty expletive. He shifted his eyes toward his companion, who peered over his sunglasses at him, and flitted a naughty eyebrow before sliding into the driver's seat.

Aziraphale got in beside him, his body buzzing. The sheer potency of the love surrounding him – for the car, as well as the care that must've gone into preparing it for Aziraphale, rendered him just a bit breathless, and more than just a bit tingly. In all the right places. He could smell the bacon, of course, and the buttery croissant that held it together. But he could also smell a faintly fruity scent of a mild cleaning agent, as well as a special oil that one might massage into leather upholstery. Crowley had not only had the car waxed, but also detailed.

For him. It was all he could do to inhale the bouquet of adoring aromas, and not moan as he exhaled.

The cool driver was no longer was able to peel away from the kerb like a madman. Rather, he carefully drifted down the block, stopped, then eased into traffic like a perfectly reasonable, devoted, safe motorist.

"So," Aziraphale said, after a few minutes of trying to calm himself enough to speak without trembling. "How long is the drive?"

"For a human who doesn't wish to crash his car into a guardrail? Just under two hours," Crowley answered.

"I see. That's quite a bit of time."

"One could see it that way."

"But didn't you tell me that the auto show doesn't open its doors until two o'clock this afternoon?"

"I did."

"It's not even ten o'clock," Aziraphale sang, coyly.

"What ever shall we do to kill the time?"

Aziraphale's breath hitched at the low, secretive way in which this very much rhetorical question was delivered, and left no doubt (as if there had been any) as to Crowley's intentions. Although, one question remained: how could they keep their goings-on private? Aziraphale didn't ask, though… he couldn't quite form language on his tongue.

"Well," he said. "These smell delicious!" He picked up one of the sandwiches and unwrapped it. He then carefully re-wrapped it with only half of the sandwich exposed, and offered it to Crowley, so that he could grip the wrapper while driving. Crowley took it with thanks, and bit into it.

They ate in silence (or in small-talk) for about ten minutes, and both rather regretted not being able to face each other and fully enjoy the experience of the salt and grease and hunger sated together. Nevertheless, Aziraphale smacked his lips when finished and commented, "Absolutely scrummy. Thanks for that, my love."

"Mm, you're welcome," Crowley responded, chewing the last of his, and relishing hearing the word 'scrummy' coming from his lover's lips.

Neither of them had ever taken food nor beverage in the car before, so Aziraphale wasn't sure what to do with the wrappers. It seemed wrong to toss them on the floor, even temporarily, and they certainly couldn't just throw them out the window. So Aziraphale carefully folded them and pushed them into his pocket.

It was around then that Crowley leaned forward and turned on some music. A catchy, low bass beat began. Aziraphale was definitely not a fan of modern music on the whole, but this, he didn't mind too much. He had heard it many times before, both in and out of Crowley's presence, and even tapped his fingers to the beat.

"Steve walks warily down the street with the brim pulled way down low," sang the voice. "Ain't no sound, but the sound of his feet, machine guns ready to go. Are you ready? Hey, are you ready for this? Are you hanging on by the edge of your seat? Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat. Another one bites the dust…"

Aziraphale had two absent thoughts. 1) This song was nigh on impossible not to feel in one's bones, not to tap-along to, given the beat, and the clipped, exciting delivery of the lyrics – no wonder it was such a hit. 2) If he were to choose a song to accompany Crowley and his Bentley, this one would probably be it. Whenever he was out in the world and heard it, he never failed to think of his friend/adversary.

The next song came on. An electronic buzz began it, and it was a much less-commonly-heard song, but still familiar.

"Ooh, you make me live," sang what sounded almost like a Barbershop Quartet, dressed up for rock 'n' roll. "Whatever this world can give to me, it's you, you're all I see."

"What's the name of this song?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked at him with surprise. He had never heard the angel, nor the man he'd become, show any interest in music popular after 1890.

"Erm, it's called 'You're My Best Friend.' Why?"

Aziraphale smiled. "I like that title. I ask only because I've heard it before, but only in your car."

"Really? It's a pretty popular song."

"Certainly not like the one you previously played."

"'Another One Bites the Dust?' You're right."

"This one is nice enough, but not as catchy."

"And yet, you recognise it?"

"Well, yes. From your car."

"I've played it for you a lot. It's good to know it sank in."

"You did it on purpose?"

"Mm. I used to try to make sure it played at least twice each time we went anywhere… though it was tough on short trips."

"Oh… no wonder…"

Crowley nodded, and looked to his left at his companion. "Surprised?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Not in the least. But it does explain why, perhaps, these songs by, erm… Queen, is it?"

"Yes!"

"Why they are, in my mind, so much part of the, erm… experience of being in this car."

"Well, to be fair, the car used to play Queen of its own volition."

"But now I know you made sure I heard it," Aziraphale said softly, a bit breathlessly. The tingly sensation had ebbed away since stowing away the sandwich wrappers, but now it was back. He'd been reminded of the love he had always felt whilst riding in the car. Though now, he realised he hadn't always been fully conscious of it… it rather infused him, as though the love and heat were in the air.

"So," Crowley sang, and Aziraphale knew immediately that something flirtatious or lascivious or massively tempting was about to come out of his mouth. "The music is part of the package, eh?"

"Indeed. Though I don't know if I had realised it until today. And now, the scent of bacon and croissants, and that leather massage oil…" came the somewhat shaky response.

"So, when we went to Tadfield together that first time, and you said you felt love…"

"It was love. Adam's love for the area. But filtered through what I already feel when I'm here, in this seat, inside the Bentley, and beside you…" Aziraphale pursed his lips and let out an audible exhale that was, indeed, part of the language. "It was heady. Very, very potent."

"Mm… so, in a moment like that one, was there anything playing behind those blue eyes that I should know about?"

"Do you mean, like…"

"I mean, you told me that being in the car is titillating to you. And is it?"

"It is," Aziraphale said, sounding as though his voice might collapse at any moment. "It definitely, definitely is. I thought perhaps the effect would have worn off by now, given, well, some of the things that you and I get up to nowadays. But as it turns out, just the opposite is true."

"And when you've felt titillated in the car, angel, what goes through your mind? Even before we were, you know… getting up to stuff, did you have any, say, 'cravings' as we were bursting forth in the night, covered in this strong, hard, powerful shell? Headed in a direction that only we knew? Clandestinely enjoying each other whilst Heaven and Hell toiled with their ineffable agenda?"

"Very tempting rhetoric. You were excellent at your job, weren't you?" Aziraphale marvelled.

"The best."

Aziraphale shut his eyes and exhaled. Without opening them, he said, "I do confess to having entertained an impure thought or two – or three, or ten, or a hundred – more or less against my will."

"Are you going to volunteer an example, or do I have to pull it out of you? Either of which sound kind of fun."

"One afternoon when we were headed to the coast, remember? It was in the 1960s and for some reason, we decided to take a half-case of wine to a seaside cliff, get drunk, and watch the sun go down?"

"Mm-hm. Vividly. We found a secluded little bench where no-one could see us. If only you knew the things I almost did that evening, angel."

"If only you had. I might actually have been amenable just then."

"Really? Well, shit."

"During the drive, Crowley, I happened to glance down, and fancied that I could see your trousers bulging… just so. Wondered if you were having… thoughts. Which begat my own thoughts."

"Oh, well, perhaps I was," Crowley said, briefly looking at him and flitting an eyebrow. He was wearing sunglasses, but the flit was unmistakable.

"I still don't know," Aziraphale said. "I stole as many looks as I could, but of course, I had never actually seen what a good trouser-bulge looks like, so…"

"And how did you feel about it, angel?"

"I felt… well, appalled at first. And then nervous. Which would have been daft, if you were just some bloke, but you weren't. And some part of me became aware of why it made me nervous, because…"

By now, Aziraphale was breathing a bit hard, and he was conscious that a bit of a bulge was forming in his own trousers.

"Because?" Crowley asked, staring straight forward, smirking. He placed his hand gently on the inside of his own thigh, and stroked a bit absently, totally aware that this would give his partner a little surge of lust, and possibly the impetus he would need in order to finish his story.

"Because… a vision appeared in my mind of reaching over to feel it. Feel you. To know finally what it's like to have one in my hand. A hard phallus, aroused and ready… and yours, no less. I wondered if I could feel it throb through the cloth. As you know, I'd avoided touching even my own. And I imagined that you would make a little moan, and smirk knowingly like you are now, and say something encouraging under your breath, whilst still driving, and looking straight ahead…"

"Something encouraging? Like, 'oh, that's right, angel, give it a good stroke, and don't stop,'" Crowley muttered.

"Exactly," Aziraphale sighed, a wave of want coming over him. "And I wondered what would happen if I unzipped your trousers. Would it just pop out? Or would I have to coax it? I had no idea. And a part of me so dearly wanted to know."

"And if you had found out then?"

"I suppose I did imagine stroking it. But then I shook off the vision and…"

"Not vision. Fantasy."

"Well, yes."

"Are you imagining it now?"

"Of course. Aren't you?"

"Fuck, yes."

"I must say I quite fancy the idea now of watching you try to handle this big, powerful machine as if nothing is going on, while I fondle you, and see if you can achieve orgasm without killing us both."

He saw Crowley adjust himself in his trousers, and he was now quite sure of the bulge forming there – just so – as he now knew what to look for.

Crowley growled, "I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to stay on the road if you did that and I'm not willing to risk our lives, or this car. But I'm also not about to waste this opportunity."

"I didn't for a moment think you would."

I wanted to disclaim: I did do a bit of reading up Bentleys, and found a pretty good article specifically about Crowley's Bentley. In the book, it is described as a 1926 model, though in the Prime series, the car used was a 1933 model. Gaiman explains that 1926 sounded good in 1989 when they were writing the book, but in the days before Google, they really weren't certain of its look. Turns out, a 1930's Bentley is far sleeker, and much better suits Crowley's character.

Apparently, the car could go about 30 miles per hour tops, and any faster speeds seen in the series were done with CGI. Obviously, Crowley the demon could make the car go as fast as he wanted, but Crowley the man would likely be stuck at 30mph. However, for my purposes, Crowley's Bentley has no problem keeping up on the motorway... things are easier this way. If they had to discuss replacing the Bentley, their relationship might be tested far too much for the likes of this story! ;-) And the chapter would be more unwieldy than it already is!

So, what did you think? I could REALLY use a bit of feedback on this chapter, as it might inform what happens next! (I mean, there will be smut, but perhaps with your help, I can make it less awkward?)

Don't let my fights with myself and the slowly-waning quarantine be in vain! Comments are the lifeblood of a writer! Thank you for reading.