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Aziraphale had once again convinced Crowley to let him borrow the Bentley. He was returning from a visit to Tadfield – he’d made a point to keep in touch with their acquaintances there more than Crowley had – and had just turned the corner onto Whickber Street when blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror.
“Oh sugar,” he sighed as he pulled over. What could I possibly have done wrong! he thought to himself as he waited for the officer to approach. I know I was driving just at the speed limit – a concession to Crowley’s complaints that he could feel when the Bentley was under the limit – and I certainly didn’t run through any stop signs.
The police officer rapped on the window and he rolled it down.
“Good evening. License and registration, please,” she asked.
“Ah, yes. Of course,” Aziraphale stammered and gave her his license. She looked at it as he rummaged through the collection of sunglasses in the glove box to find the registration papers.
“I ran the car’s plates. You’re not the registered owner of this vehicle.”
Deliberating with himself for a split second before passing her the registration paper, he somewhat guiltily performed a small miracle on the form to add his own name along with Crowley’s. He’d already used one to update the expiration date on his antiquated driver’s license. What was one more?
“Oh. Well, yes, my- ah- partner was the one who originally bought it. But, as you’ll see on the paper, it’s now both of ours. That’s so odd that it’s not updated in your system already too,” he said lightly.
“Oh! Hmm, yes. I see,” the officer agreed as she compared his license to the names on the registration form again. “Right. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No, I can’t say I do,” Aziraphale answered truthfully.
“This car is out of inspection by,” she double checked the information on her tablet, “ 90 years.”
Aziraphale looked just as incredulous as she did.
“I- I had no idea. I have to admit, my partner handles most of the, ah, maintenance of the car. I never thought to question the inspection date.”
“Well, he certainly does a good job of it. It really is in remarkable condition for such an antique car. But still, you really must keep up to date on these things. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to give you a ticket. If it was a couple months out of date, I’d let it slide, but… 90 years? I really can’t let that one go.”
“Quite right. I completely understand. I will let him know we need to get on that as soon as I get home.” He pointed to the bookshop just up the block. Honestly, the irony that he’d made it this far only to be pulled over practically on his own doorstep!
The police officer handed him the printed ticket.
“Have a good night, sir,” the officer said as he pocket the slip of paper and she walked back to her patrol car.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale huffed as he walked into the bookshop. “You haven’t had the Bentley inspected in 90 years !?”
“Wot? Why would I bother with that? I know she’d never fail on me. She’s in perfect condition because I tell her to be.”
“Yes, and that’s lovely, but how am I supposed to explain that to a human police officer? Honestly, how is it you consistently drive 90 miles per hour through central London without ever getting caught, but one of the two times I’ve driven our car, I get pulled over for your carelessness?”
“Simple. I just make sure no one really notices it.”
“Well, that’s just lovely for you, you fiend, but now I have a ticket on my driving record! It was perfect!” Aziraphale pouted.
“Ah, give it to me,” Crowley said fondly. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Take care of it? Or take care of it ?” Aziraphale asked skeptically as he drew the paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Crowley.
Crowley smirked as the ticket went up in a brief burst of flame and fell in ashes to the floor.