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  1. Tags
    Summary

    Aziraphale pours for them in Mesopotamia, in Greece, in France. Crowley raises his glass in inns, in restaurants, in the Soho bookshop.

    "What shall we toast?" he asks, and it echoes down the ages, a smooth, sliding spiral that comes around and around, but never quite in the same place.

    Aziraphale smiles fondly. "To us."

    Crowley only hesitates a moment, because it's been hard to wait, but Aziraphale all but promised him this moment was coming the night he handed over the holy water. There are spirals here, too.

     

     

    Collection of unrelated short fic. If you have found your way here via a particular tag, please see the index in Ch1.

    Language:
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