Chapter Text
The GBI office was a hive of activity in the late afternoon. Fluorescent lights buzzed above the desks, and the air smelled of burnt coffee and paper.
Crowley was leaning against Aziraphale's desk, his dark glasses (because, yes, he wore them even inside the building) slipping down to the tip of his nose. He tossed a thick folder onto the pile of books that Aziraphale insisted on calling "reference material."
"Look at this, Angel. Another cold case they stumbled upon." Crowley's voice had a hint of disdain, but Aziraphale knew him well enough to sense the tension in his shoulders. "They want us to take a look."
Aziraphale sighed, adjusting his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. He picked up the folder carefully, as if it were a rare and fragile book. "Crowley, you know I hate it when you call me that. And you also know that dead files are archived for a reason."
"Usually because someone wants them to be forgotten," Crowley retorted, throwing himself into the chair opposite Aziraphale's desk. "This one's different. It's about the Fulton County Foster Care System. About twenty years ago."
The name made Aziraphale stop. His fingers, which were about to open the folder, hesitated. He raised his eyes to meet Crowley's, which, even hidden behind dark lenses, conveyed an unusual gravity.
"Twenty years ago..." Aziraphale repeated, his voice a little lower.
"Yes," Crowley confirmed, leaning forward. "File C. The case no one wanted to solve. Several missing children. Poorly documented cases. Covered-up abuses." He paused. "We were there, Angel. We grew up in that pigsty."
Aziraphale opened the folder. The first page was a police report dated 2006. The name of one of the victims, an eight-year-old boy, was underlined in red pen. The boy's name was Anthony. *Anthony*.
Aziraphale swallowed hard. "That... that's not possible. There are no records of that."
"Yes, indeed," Crowley said, his voice now a hoarse whisper. "There aren't records of many things. But I remember. I remember a boy named Anthony who used to draw stars in the dirt of the courtyard. And I remember the day he just... vanished. And nobody did anything."
The silence between them was heavy, laden with memories they both preferred to keep buried. Aziraphale finally lifted his eyes from the paper, and his gaze met Crowley's. In that moment, they weren't two GBI agents. They were two orphans, united by a shared survival and an ancient pain.
"What are you proposing, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, his voice firm, but with an almost imperceptible tremor.
Crowley removed his sunglasses. His eyes, a deep, golden yellow that no human being should possess, gleamed with fierce determination.
"I'm proposing that we finally find out what happened to Anthony. And to everyone else. And that we bring justice." He held Aziraphale's gaze. "Together. As always."