Current mood:	anxious
Current music:	Cake - Satan Is My Motor

I've got a mind that can steal me to your house, and a heart that can bring you red flowers
This was going to be much fluffier than it turned out to be. Don't know why that happened.

o.O

All feedback is appreciated.

Satan Is My Motor
Good Omens; Crowley/Aziraphale, Crowley-Bentley friendship



Crowley remembered it in gasps of impression, blurred and softened, threateningly unclear – the kind of memory that left him with a pins-and-needles feeling down the backs of his arms and at the base of his spine, the kind that, if he thought about it enough, made his mouth go dry and his eyeballs tingle and the pulse in his neck become constrictive for fear or desire. It was so hard to tell the two apart.

The memories of thoughts are often more embarrassing, more unsettling, than the memory of an event.

He could have reached out –

But that was a quarter of an hour ago. Now he sat in the Bentley outside his flat, trying very hard not to remember anything at all. Really, it wasn’t working.

The angel was so close

Crowley jabbed his finger at the on/off button of the Blaupunkt, and Queen fled in the face of heavy silence. The engine was still, everything was off, and a breeze blew through the windows softly. Crowley let his hand rest on the stick shift, curling his fingers around the top thoughtfully, tapping it with his nails. He sat back. He was not about to get out. To get out would mean the encounter was entirely over, even though his company had left the car fifteen minutes ago at his own shop. No, to get out would definitively end this ride, putting it in the past, placing the whole matter into the realm of memory – but if it hadn’t ended yet, he couldn’t possibly begin to remember it – so Crowley reasoned. To leave the Bentley now would be to take responsibility for his actions.

Leaning toward him, hand on shoulder but around neck soft sandy hair brushed his wrist where it was exposed, and the feeling of another creature that moved in ways he couldn’t control or expect, new ways that reminded him there were two in this car he leaned toward him and

“I expect you think it’s very funny,” said Crowley accusingly to the dashboard. The engine tinked in the negative. Crowley felt a bit better. “We could go for a drive,” he suggested, his other hand still curled around the steering wheel, reassuring black leather upholstery. But driving meant moving and moving was overrated, in Crowley’s opinion, when he could just stay here with slanting sun on his face

as he had with his arms around him, wrinkling a formerly too-crisp white linen shirt, curled around each other and only moving in the minutest way possible, such as lips, or breath paling along warm cheeks and eyelashes tangling, holding

Crowley put both hands on the wheel firmly and slouched further into the driver’s seat with a huff. The seat obligingly squeaked and puffed around him. He shifted again. The seat squealed.

“Cheek,” Crowley muttered, and tapped his foot. It was a good way to siphon this nervous energy down his leg, smoothly over his knee, into that twitching ankle and out through his tappeta-tappeta-tipping toes. He did it faster.

Time passed, his ankle became sore and the floor protested. Crowley contemplated giving the dash a swift kick, but decided against it. Instead, he squeaked deeper back into the seat, and this time he felt the more solid supports of the seat pressing back. Although it was never known to do so before, the seat reclined until it more resembled a padded black leather lounge chair. Crowley peeled his fingers off the wheel and lay back.

“Thanks,” he said, under his breath. The upholstery mufphed in return.

“But only for tonight,” he said, his eyes hooded, lids heavy. “In the morning –”

The windshield curved fleeing warm light around him like a blanket, but his open windows ensured the air wasn’t stifling. Crowley somehow knew they’d close before it became too cold. He felt the muscles in his legs relax, he nearly stopped thinking,

but they had remained and became lost until the angel pulled back with a smile, and he did not move to respond. He couldn’t, until the angel’s smile had faded like the words in books, the old ink turning to dust. And the angel stroked his cheek. And slid slowly away, opened the door for himself, left.

The angel had broken it off, the angel had broken it off, it was nothing Crowley could be blamed for –

“Stay,” was a word in almost-sleep.

He could have reached out -

“But the angel broke it off first.”

The angel had let it end, but he could have started -

He could have reached out and taken his hand and pulled him back and taken him to his flat and in cool darkness smoothness and night he could have –

But could-haves were for reflection, and reflection was for after the end of things, and it wasn’t over until he got out of the car, Crowley thought. And he would stay in the car, would drive back to the shop in the morning and the angel would see him, come to the door and then out, up to the window of his car to look in, and Crowley would reach out, and take his hand.

He would –