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“He’s back here, sir.” The guard gestured for the gangly man with a mop of red hair and John Lennon sunglasses to step into a cramped backroom of the British Museum. Crowley immediately found a rather indignant-looking Aziraphale in handcuffs.
“Well, this brings back memories, angel” drawled Crowley. “Don’t ‘sppose crêpes are to blame again?”
“Oh, good Lord. Just get me out of here,” Aziraphale huffed.
“Hold up. Let’s see what the charges are.” Crowley’s smirk threatened to evolve into a Cheshire cat–worthy grin as he turned back to the guard. “What’s he in for?”
“Caught him skulking around a restricted area. Kept saying that he was retrieving his personal effects.” He then added more gently, “Thought he might not be playing with a full deck so I didn’t want to call the authorities.”
“Thanks for that. Give us a moment?” As soon as the guard closed the door, Crowley burst out laughing, “So, I’m your emergency contact?”
“If you must know, yours is the only number I have memorized,” grumbled Aziraphale.
“I’m flattered,” purred Crowley. “Now plead your case. Then I’ll decide what to do about those bracelets you’re wearing.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and relented. “They have a very old Bible of mine that went missing years ago. I thought with the creation of the British Library, they’d be starting to shuffle things around, and I could retrieve it without incident.”
Crowley was now doubled over howling. “So let me get this straight? You called a demon to get you out of jail for stealing a bible?”
“It’s not stealing and this isn’t a jail.” Aziraphale sat up even straighter and attempted a look of disdain, but it was thoroughly undermined by the clanking of handcuffs.
Curiosity finally overshadowed Crowley’s amusement at the entire situation. “I take it Upstairs wouldn't approve of your extracurricular activity. What’s so special about this bible, anyway?”
Aziraphale's cheeks flushed and he looked away guiltily. He was loath to admit that he wanted his copy of The Wicked Bible for sentimental reasons. On a warm night in 1631, he and Crowley had indulged in a great deal of mead, even by their generous standards. They eventually stumbled into Robert Barker’s print shop where Crowley was eager to show off his latest wile of removing “not ” from “Thou shalt not commit adultery .” Aziraphale remembered neither the next rounds of mead nor Crowley altering Deuteronomy 5:24 to read “Behold, the Lord our God hath shewed us his glory and his great-asse .” He did remember spending the night sitting on the floor with Crowley’s head in his lap, carding his fingers through the sleeping demon’s auburn hair. With the first rays of daylight, Aziraphale had deftly extricated himself and assumed a less compromising position.
“It’s The Wicked Bible . For my collection of misprinted bibles,” Aziraphale hastened to add.
Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Since when do you collect misprinted bibles?”
“For ages, my dear boy,” lied Aziraphale as he realized he now urgently needed to find copies of The Breeches and The Bug Bibles. “Satisfied?”
Crowley shrugged and reopened the door to call the guard. “Thanks, mate. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“See that you do. I’ll just get the cuffs….” The guard stared in puzzlement at Aziraphale’s freed hands, but at the sound of a snap he noticed a large box of candy at his desk. “Oh, jelly babies! My favorite!”
As the pair strolled toward the exit, Crowley smiled roguishly. “I think you owe me a drink for that, angel. I feel like mead.”