The bookshop had caught fire.

Crowley didn’t know when, or how, but the bookshop had caught bloody fire. Aziraphales bookshop.

And Aziraphale wasn’t in there. Crowley knew, he had checked as soon as he saw the flames.

Someone had killed his best friend.

Someone had killed his only friend.

Now, Crowley was crying, just a bit. And, honestly, for all he knew, it was probably that bitch Shax.

He was driving past the speed limit again. After all, the bar closed early on Sundays.