Chapter Text
The thing about being friends with Crowley since childhood, Aziraphale thought as he wrestled with a jammed safe in the back of a Hong Kong mansion, was that you learned very early on not to ask too many questions. Where had the car come from? Why were they running from the police? What, exactly, was in the bag they'd just stolen?
Best not to know. Best to just... follow along.
"You done back there, angel?" Crowley's voice crackled through the earpiece, that familiar mix of impatience and affection that Aziraphale had been hearing for twenty-five years.
"Nearly," Aziraphale replied, twisting the dial with sweaty fingers. He could hear Crowley's muffled curse on the other end. This wasn't going according to plan. It never did. He should have known better than to agree to this.
He'd first met Crowley when they were both seven years old, in a time Aziraphale's family still referred to as "before the divorce." It was the summer holidays, and Aziraphale's parents had decided that what their shy, bookish son needed was more friends. What they'd gotten, instead, was Anthony J. Crowley—a scrawny, sharp-eyed boy who'd appeared at the door with a stolen packet of biscuits and a grin like a fox.
"Wanna see something cool?" Crowley had asked, and that was it. That was the moment Aziraphale's carefully ordered life had started going off the rails.
He'd watched Crowley set fire to a garbage can that first afternoon. He'd helped him break into their headmaster's office to change their exam results. He'd covered for him when Crowley's father came looking for him in the middle of the night. By the time they were fourteen, Aziraphale had lost count of the number of petty crimes they'd committed together.
He told himself it was loyalty. Friendship. Crowley needed someone, and Aziraphale was too weak to say no.
He told himself a lot of things.
"Aziraphale." Crowley's voice was sharp now, cutting through his reverie. "We've got company. Please tell me you're nearly done."
"Just a moment—" The lock clicked open. "Got it."
Aziraphale pulled the safe door open and found, as promised, a small velvet box nestled among stacks of cash. He pocketed it, ignoring the money. That wasn't what Crowley had asked for, not this time.
He slid the safe closed and slipped out the back window just as a light flicked on in the hallway.
He'd done it. They'd done it. They'd—
"Aziraphale!" Crowley's voice was closer now, and Aziraphale turned to see his friend's sleek black car pulling up beside him. Crowley leaned across the passenger seat to throw the door open, his eyes wild behind his sunglasses. "Get in, get in, get in."
"What's happened?" Aziraphale asked, scrambling into the passenger seat. He'd barely closed the door before Crowley peeled out, tires screeching against the pavement.
"Plans have changed," Crowley said, his jaw tight. "Bad changed. We're not the only ones after that package."
"After what package?" Aziraphale asked, already suspecting he wasn't going to like the answer.
Crowley glanced at him, something flickering across his face. "I didn't tell you everything."
"You never do."
"It's a baby."
Aziraphale blinked. "I'm sorry, did you just say—"
"You heard me." Crowley was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. "The thing in the safe—the client wants the box, but they also want the child. I didn't think we'd actually have to—I was just supposed to—" He broke off, cursing. "Look, I was just told to get the pendant. I was supposed to do the job, get paid, and that was it. But they found out. All of them. The family, the rival gangs, the police—everyone's after this kid."
Aziraphale felt the blood drain from his face. "Crowley, you did tell me this was a simple job. You said we'd be in and out."
"I know what I said."
"You said no one would get hurt."
"I know what I said."
"You said we were just stealing back some family heirloom. You said—"
"Aziraphale, I know what I said!" Crowley slammed his hand against the steering wheel, and Aziraphale fell silent. Crowley took a breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just... I didn't think it would get this complicated."
"An innocent child," Aziraphale said, his voice trembling. "You've dragged us into the kidnapping of an innocent child."
"It's not a kidnapping—it's a... a temporary relocation. I was going to get them to a safe house, maybe, and then figure out what to do. But now—" Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale was struck by how much of an act the bravado had always been. How scared Crowley looked underneath it all. "I need your help. I can't do this alone."
Aziraphale had spent his whole life trying to stop saying yes to Crowley. Every time, it got harder. Every time, he told himself this would be the last time.
"Where is the child now?" he asked, his voice weary.
Crowley was quiet for a moment. "In the back seat."
Aziraphale turned slowly, and there it was: a car seat, strapped in with obvious improvisation, and in it, a small baby, fast asleep.
"Oh, Crowley."
"I know. I know." He pulled the car over, and the two of them sat in silence for a long moment. "I don't know what to do, angel. I never know what to do, I just—" He took a breath. "I just keep going."
"That's the problem," Aziraphale said softly. "You never stop to think."
Crowley laughed, and it had no humor in it. "Can't stop. If I stop, everything catches up with me. Everything I've done—everything we've done—"
"The things you've done," Aziraphale corrected, but his voice was softer now. "I'm merely an accessory."
"Angel," Crowley said, and his voice cracked on the word. "You're the only good thing in my life. You've always been the only good thing."
Aziraphale's chest ached with something familiar and unspoken. He'd known Crowley since they were children. He'd loved Crowley since they were teenagers—loved him with a hopeless, desperate devotion that had never been returned. Because Crowley, for all his cleverness, had always been oblivious to the things that mattered most.
"You're going to make this right," Aziraphale said, more firmly than he felt. "We are going to make this right. We find somewhere to stay, we lay low, and then we figure out how to return this child to its parents without going to prison for the rest of our lives."
Crowley stared at him. "You'd still help me? After everything I just told you?"
"I've helped you do stupider things," Aziraphale said, and despite everything, Crowley smiled.
"Angel," he said again, and his voice was different now—softer, more vulnerable. "I... thank you."
"Don't thank me," Aziraphale said, looking away. "Just drive."