The Bentley appears like it always does—impossibly fast, impossibly silent, and smelling faintly of scorched earth and fine leather. It rolls to a stop at the edge of the curb, engine purring like a smug cat that’s just swallowed something holy.
The passenger door swings open, slow and smooth, before you even think to reach for the handle.
Crowley’s behind the wheel. Black sunglasses. Red hair glinting like a matchhead in the light. He doesn't look at you. Not yet. Just keeps his long fingers drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel—'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen. Of course.
"Get in," he says.
Not kindly. Not unkindly. Just… like it’s happening, whether you like it or not.
You sit. The leather is warm, and the door shuts with a sound like finality. The seatbelt snakes itself over your chest, uninvited. The Bentley smells like vinyl, static, and something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon. Maybe blood.
Crowley still doesn’t look at you. But he mutters, half to himself:
“Should’ve made Aziraphale do this. Bloody mess of a situation.”
And then you’re moving.
Fast.
Faster than streets allow. The lines on the road blur, and buildings melt into one another. The city becomes something distant and soft. You’re wrapped in the sound of Queen—just barely playing—and the low hum of the engine that shouldn’t be able to run like this anymore.
He finally glances at you. Just a flick of golden eyes behind those black lenses, sharp and unreadable.
“You don’t look like either of them.”
He means the one and the other one. You know he does.
He knows who you are. Or what you are. Everyone’s being very hush-hush about it, of course—when angels sleep with each other, the heavens prefer to call it a celestial anomaly and then throw paperwork at it until the guilt fades.
You? You're the result. The problem. The child of two angels who should never have looked at each other that way. A paradox wrapped in teenage confusion and emotional outbursts that shatter windows and accidentally short out streetlamps.
You don’t have powers.
Except when you do.
When you're angry. Or scared. Or when someone looks at you wrong. Then strange things happen. Dangerous things.
Crowley knows this.
Which is probably why he’s the one driving you now—because Aziraphale still believes in giving things names like hope, and Crowley is just trying to keep the windows from exploding.
He taps the steering wheel again. Doesn’t say anything for a long while.
Finally: “Next time you blow up half a bookstore, give someone a heads up.”
A pause.
A smirk.
“You’re lucky you’re not a frog.”
The Bentley hums louder, and you swear the car is laughing.