The sky above was blue and crisp and any clouds to be seen were hazy, thin wisps spread far apart over the nearing horizon. Cars and juggernauts came and went with a blur that could only be achieved by passing them at speeds over 110mph along the M25. Crowley dodged in and out of cars in a lazy, carefree sort of way, barely noticing they were there whilst humming along to an old Queen number one. Ahead of him, a friendly, green signpost told him to take the next exit. Crowley smiled. The Bentley shifted a gear and his indicators winked at passing cars before the majestic car veered to the left down a slightly smaller road.

"Made in heaven, made in heaven, It was all meant to be, yeah..." Crowley tuned out Freddie Mecury's croons and thought how nice it was to be heading back to London. He had spent nearly two weeks amongst missionaries abroad and, after successfully tempting them out of their sacred fast, was looking forward to celebrating over a glass of wine with Aziraphale. The angel had left a short but polite message on his answer-phone, a message Crowley couldn't help smiling at when he pressed the flashing red button back in his apartment a few hours ago. The man's soft voice had filled the demon's white, modern apartment and brought with it memories of laughter, wine and late night talks. Crowley missed his friend and had made the snap decision to head back into the heart of London for a drink and a catch up almost immediately. Of course, the thought of angering the demonic community further also crossed his mind but he pushed any uneasy feelings to the back of his thoughts where they sat contemptuously behind others of forgetting to call his mother and paying tax. Anyway demons were meant to be bad, weren't they?

It had been several months since the apocalypse that wasn't and the demonic community was slowly getting back to normal. Crowley had been receiving regular orders now for almost two months to cause mundane mischief and commit small but meaningful acts of diabolical behaviour. He felt he was slowly getting back into his old routine and although he wondered vaguely why no one down there had bothered to punish him, he thought it best not to question it. Perhaps they'd forgotten. There was probably a lot of paperwork to sort through in Hell, mused Crowley, there's probably a note with my name attached to it at the bottom of the pile.

The Bentley cut through the midsummer air like a duck through water as the demon passed by another suburban town. Much too many of these places, he pondered as he shot through it, all these towns on the edge of the city are all the same. Boring, mundane little – there was a thump and a noise like a walnut being cracked open. The car stopped. Damn though Crowley. He glanced into his wing mirror and grimaced at a heap in the middle of the quiet road. Above him, a red balloon rose solemnly into the still, empty air until it was caught in a wind current wherein it suddenly took flight. Crowley got out of the car, noting he was now about half a mile away from the sleepy town, and checked his bonnet out of pure habit. There was a large dent which immediately corrected itself, almost embarrassed at being seen as anything less than perfect. The demon lent against the sleek, polished door and watched the body as though it might suddenly sit up and skip off back home for tea. It didn't move.

WELL WELL. Came a voice like the final closing of a coffin lid from behind Crowley. The voice entered his head without the assistance of his ears and lingered there, making itself at home.

WHAT HAVE WE HERE? A SMALL ROADKILL?

Crowley turned and looked at the hooded figure reproachfully.

"That was rather tasteless, wasn't it?" he said. Something like guilt knotted itself in the pit of his stomach. Something like guilt. It wasn't guilt of course. Guilt was a human emotion. Crowley was fairly certain it wasn't possible for him to experience it.

PERHAPS. Said the seven foot skeleton. Then, looking over the demon's shoulder, he sighed, COME ON.

"Cor mister, I like your stick!" Came a high, impressed sounding voice. The shade of a red-headed befreckled boy of around eight skipped over to join the group lounging beside the black Bentley in the afternoon heat.

IT IS A SCYTHE ACTUALLY. Said Death, holding it out proudly.

"Cor, can I have a go?"

NO

"Please? I won't drop it!"

NO. Death nodded at Crowley and put his arm around the boy. TIME TO GO, he said. Crowley watched in fascination as the pair began to fade.

"Wait! The balloon! My sister'll kill me if I lose her balloon..." The voice faded until Crowley could hear nothing but the birdsong belonging to the woodland surrounding him. He watched the empty air for a while before climbing back behind the wheel. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he sped away from the eerie road and from the quiet, crumpled body lying in the middle of it.

Freddie Mecury joined him for the ride back, guitar solos that seemed to last forever accompanying him. Crowley kept his narrow eyes on the road ahead, unblinking. He couldn't get the image of the heap out of his head. Dead. Killed. Gone. Just like that. Of course Crowley had experienced death before. It was all over the place. He'd watched it, enjoyed it too sometimes and even caused it. But he'd always only been indirectly responsible. Convincing someone to shoot their business partner wasn't the same as wrestling the gun from their grip and doing it yourself. Crowley had never directly killed anything, especially not a human child. He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to focus on his dinner plans but an image of Aziraphale's disappointed stare swam in front of his vision. Zira! What would he say? Crowley groaned.

Meanwhile the angel in question was sitting quietly in his bookshop thumbing through his latest find. The book was old and dog-eared, undoubtedly enjoyed by an individual immensely over a period of time. There were dark stains on it where it had had coffee spilt on it and many pages had been bound together with string. The book wasn't particularly intelligent or inspiring but it had been loved. Aziraphale smiled as he thought of the memories the book and its last owner must have shared. Then he closed it, put it in its glass case and locked the door.

The afternoon's glow simmered through the gaps in his venetian blinds which were partly closed to give the appearance that the shop was not open for business. Aziraphale had even gone as far as to turn the sign on the front door around so that to any potential customers, the bookstore was closed. Aziraphale smiled again as he swept loving blue eyes over the towers of books which were his fortress. His home was guarded by printed birds which so often perched on his hand as he went about any daily chores. They held in them secrets, fables, stories of other worlds and could take him anywhere without him ever needing to leave the comfort of his high-backed armchair. Of course, if he wanted to, the angel could simply visit these places instead of simply reading about them. Crowley had often pointed this out but the angel preferred to read mankind's interpretation of the Earth rather than witnessing it firsthand.

"But we could go together! You and I!" Crowley had whispered, "We could go anywhere. Anywhere you want. Rainforests, deserts, capital cities!" Aziraphale had to admit the adventures sounded tempting but he had got used to his daily routine and when away from home, longed for the security of his little, backstreet bookshop.

"You old romantic," Crowley had scoffed but Aziraphale knew he understood. He had bought the angel a book on the Amazonian rainforests once for Christmas. Aziraphale's mouth turned up at the sides as he remembered how it had been bashfully handed to him from under the tree but a buzz from his phone stopped any further reminiscing. The text from Crowley simply said: Five minutes.