Chapter Text
2024, Aziraphale’s bookshop, London
The record player was playing a soft orchestral tune. Aziraphale sat at his desk writing a diary entry while Crowley was spread out on the couch with earphones on and eyes closed, listening to an audiobook. He didn’t care much for reading, because his eyes had hard time focusing on the tiny lettering for long periods of time, but the fantastic thing about humanity was that they had imagination. If your eyesight didn’t allow you to read books, why not listen to them?
On his phone Crowley had downloaded an audiobook service that miraculously had all the titles he wanted and was paid for life, so why not exploit that little snag in the system? Today’s choice was Persuasion by Jane Austen. The audiobook was not that long, he had begun listening to it last night, and had continued today. He could tell the story was approaching its climax.
The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A. E.--," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her!
Crowley kept his eyes closed even though he could sense the angel now moving about in the bookshop. Aziraphale with his love of reading wouldn’t interrupt Crowley in the middle of a book unless it was an emergency. To him it would have been a travesty to interrupt him enjoying the last pages, even when he was listening to them.
--sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: "I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.”
Damnit, Jane. How had she known to write words that over 200 years later would poke Crowley right in the heart and make tears prickle inside his eyelids?
Half agony, half hope indeed. Jane would have loved the dramatics of the little disagreement they’d had with Aziraphale before the whole Second Coming thing, although she’d be even more pleased to see them back as friends again, just spending time together in the bookshop like before their fight.
Not as a couple however, although sometimes Crowley thought that maybe, in some way, they already were that too.
For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this?
For a moment Crowley wanted to open his eyes, see the angel keeping himself busy with the bookshop, catching a smile from him, but he kept his eyes closed. It was Captain Wentworth’s words and feelings and even though Crowley could identify with them, the book wasn’t written about him and Aziraphale.
Probably. He couldn’t be quite sure about that anymore.
In that moment, he missed Jane Austen’s company so much it twisted his heart. She never told him about writing books, but here they were centuries later, a proof of her brilliant mind and sharp wit. A proof of the exceptional person that once had lived. Crowley loved how easy and casual the resolution of the book was in the end, although the story so far had been an emotional rollercoaster. In the end it was just two people coming together and being honest and straightforward about how they felt for each other, and that was that. How simple and human it was, how beautiful it was to think it could be that easy.
There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting.
Crowley opened his eyes and looked for the angel. When he caught the sight of him, wiping dust off the books and smiling as he rearranged a shelf, Crowley swallowed and closed his eyes again before Aziraphale could catch him looking.
When the book finished some twenty minutes later, Crowley noticed he had tears on his face and an angel sitting at the other end of the couch. Crowley opened his eyes and noticed Aziraphale watching him with a sad smile on his face, offering him a handkerchief. Pulling off the earphones, Crowley wiped the tears away and breathed deeply.
“She had a true talent for knowing and describing people,” the angel said. Crowley nodded. They both looked towards a little statue, a bust of Jane Austen, that stood on the shelf near to where they were sitting. The statue was wearing a familiar, simple silver chain with a blue-hued diamond.
“I miss her,” Crowley said.
“As do I, my dear. I read some of the early manuscripts of Persuasion, but I could never tell her how much it meant to me, as she died before it was published,” Aziraphale said. Crowley opened his mouth to ask if the book was about them, but then closed it quickly before he could. Maybe it was better to not know. Instead, he got on his feet and held out his hand with the palm up.
“Dance with me, angel?”
Aziraphale took the hand and stood up. It wasn’t a regency era dance, but Crowley needed to be close to his angel, so they settled for the waltz hold. He needed more than touches of fingertips through gloves, and in the 21st century he allowed himself to have it. They swayed together to the gentle music, and Crowley felt happy to be right here after all they had been through. Aziraphale looked at him thoughtfully.
“I love you,” he said. It wasn’t a question or request; it was a statement. As if it was such an obvious matter that it didn’t need any clarification or follow-ups.
“Angel…” Crowley said, stopping his movements and looking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale shrugged and pressed his lips on Crowley’s. The touch took Crowley’s breath away and he wrapped his arms around the angel.
“Me too,” Crowley mumbled into the kiss. “So fucking much.”
“Thank you for waiting for me,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips, and Crowley answered by just holding him closer. It had always been worth it.
After centuries of longing, the words felt so simple. How beautiful it was that in the end it could be this easy.
When they pulled out of the kiss, although not from each other’s arms, Aziraphale laughed.
“What’s so funny, angel?” Crowley asked, brushing fingers against Aziraphale’s cheek.
“She always tried to make us dance together and was convinced that we’d make a good couple,” Aziraphale grinned. “Turns out all it needed was 200 years of technological advancement and some character development for both of us, combined with one of her books for that to become reality. All along she was right about us. Good job, Jane.”
Crowley laughed in agreement, the sound light and free.
“We could visit her home museum together,” Crowley suggested. “I only visited her once, but she wrote Persuasion while she lived in the house. It could be a good way to remember her.”
“What a lovely idea, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “It’s always nice to get out of London for a while.”
“Let me look it up,” Crowley said, pulling out his phone. “It’s called Chawton Cottage, and it’s just a bit over 50 miles from London. In the South Downs National Park, it seems.”
“Oh! We could stay a couple of days,” Aziraphale said. “A cottage in South Downs. I like the sound of that. When would you be free to go?”
“Whenever you like, angel,” Crowley grinned. “We have all the time in the world.”
Aziraphale laughed and gave Crowley another kiss. It turned into a longer one and when Crowley pulled away, he pressed his face into Aziraphale’s neck to hide his smile. He hoped that somewhere in the wide beyond Jane was happy for them.
Well played, Miss Austen. Well played indeed.
-fin-