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One of the things Aziraphale regretted most at the end of the world was that he’d never gotten around to reading Jane Austen. He’d meant to, really he had, but the past 100-something years had gone by fast — the 19th century had been rather crowded, and then he’d suddenly been very busy with the world wars. Plus, he had the bookshop to tend to and miracles to perform, not to mention all the time he’d spent thwarting Hell’s unholy plans (even if this “thwarting” included an unusual amount of lunches and walks around St. James park).
He’d only met Ms Austen once, in her later days, and acquired signed editions of four of her books (the ones that had been published at the time, that was). Now, they stood idly on a shelf somewhere in the back of the shop along with the final two, the ones that had been published after her death. They remained in perfect condition, completely untouched, and Aziraphale had an afternoon to spare. Crowley was meant to be coming over at 8 (meaning, realistically, he’d be around by 9.30), but until then there was nothing to do.
Aziraphale was still getting used to it, all this time he suddenly had on his hands. He didn’t quite dare call it freedom yet, just free time, but it felt strange nonetheless. It had only been a week since the Armageddon-that-wasn’t, and yet the angel was already certain he’d never adjust to his new life. But, at least for today, he had some sort of purpose.
So Aziraphale settled in his favourite chair, a stack of books on the table beside him next to a cup of hot cocoa. He’d decided to read them chronologically in order of release, as he always did when he embarked on projects like this. He liked how clearly you could see an author improve from their first book to their last, how you could pick up little proofs that they’d gained some insight (or, on occasion, completely lost their minds).
He was a fast reader, and the sun was still high by the time he’d finished. At this point, he wasn’t quite sure why Ms Austen had gained so much popularity so fast — sure, her novels were sweet but they were hardly worthy of classic status. Still, this was only one of her early works, and there were various parts that stood out. The angel even found himself sighing first at the line if I could but know his heart, everything would become easy, and then again at I come here with no expectations, only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is and always will be… yours.
Besides, he’d resolved to read all of them. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.
He got up to make a cup of tea, noting that it was barely past 2. If he was diligent, he could finish the remaining books before Crowley showed up, with time to spare.
Cup of tea beside him, Aziraphale picked up Pride and Prejudice.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…
He was slowly starting to understand the appeal. There was something deeply relatable about these characters, the way they each wanted to hate the other but couldn’t quite, their stubborn refusal to talk to each other, their portrayal of affection by all means except verbal.
The book did, despite its virtues, remind Aziraphale why he tended to avoid romance. By the time he’d finished, he found himself longing for something so ridiculous he could hardly bear to think about it. The book had put something in his chest, or rather it had enhanced something that was already there, a century-old ache. Perhaps it was desperation, or sadness, or loneliness, or something entirely different. Whatever it was, Aziraphale was in the middle of desperately wishing for it to go away when the second kettle of the day started whistling.
Right then, time for Mansfield Park. Once again, the angel settled into his chair — which, by now, was almost perfectly shaped to his form, a result of extensive sitting — and picked up the next novel. This one was a little different, about a young woman from a poor family, and her introduction into the world of the rich. It was significantly more profound than the others, more mature, and Aziraphale quickly became deeply invested. He did, however, somewhat reluctantly, find himself wishing for a more prominent romance.
Such a romance could be found in the fourth novel of the afternoon. It was half past seven, and Crowley would be arriving any time within the next three hours. Angelic reading abilities and all, Aziraphale quickly got started on Emma, hoping for once that the demon would be late.
“Oh.” Aziraphale nearly shocked himself with the first word he’d said aloud all day. It had been an involuntary reaction to the line if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt embarrassed and cleared his throat, continuing the novel as if nothing had happened. And yet the line stayed with him like a catchy melody, irritating but playing on repeat in his mind.
If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.
He finished in record time and, given that Crowley had yet to arrive, he picked up the next novel. Persuasion.
His favourite so far, and unlikely to be beaten as there was only one book left after it. Aziraphale paused his reading halfway through because he couldn’t help but think it a shame that all this had been published after Austen’s death, meaning that she’d never gotten to hear all the praise it deserved. He was somewhat comforted by the notion that she might have heard rumours of her earthly fame in heaven.
He resumed his reading.
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.
Quite right, he thought. Half agony, half hope. He’d noticed it more and more lately, how often he related to human things. Just the other day, he’d cried at a film about a boy and his dog and then he’d smiled because he was crying, and the whole experience had been wonderfully strange. And now here he was, empathising with a Jane Austen character to an almost painful degree.
The past eleven years had been nothing but that, half agony and half hope. The agonising threat of the apocalypse, the naive hope that they could stop it; the agony of having to fight a war he’d never signed up for, the hope of saving humanity; the agony of losing Crowley, of not running off with him and the hope of… Well.
Aziraphale turned his attention back to the book.
Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. 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.
They did have quite the talent for drama back then. There was less of it now, which was quite a shame. His thoughts drifted a little, to the glamour and prestige of the 18th century, but he refocused, hoping to finish before Crowley showed up.
I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.
“Oh,” he said again, out loud to the empty store. Aziraphale let himself imagine, for a fraction of a second, that those words were directed towards him. This was the appeal of romance then, to picture yourself in the scenes you were reading, to imagine that someone might love you unconditionally, eternally. What a ridiculous thought.
And yet. Was this was love was, then? Was it what Mr Darcy had done for Elizabeth — the trouble he’d gone to for her sisters, just to see her happy? His disregard for his own feelings, however intense, in favour of her satisfaction? Was it the way Wentworth and Anne returned to each other, even after all the time that had passed? Was it all those little moments, the favours and the sacrifices, the intimate knowledge of one another, the going away and the coming back and the wish for eternity, undisturbed.
If that was it, then…
“Oh,” Aziraphale repeated. The way the stories had played out in each of the five novels he’d read had been so familiar; the way all these things, love and affection and romance, had been depicted was something he knew all too well. This thought that had formed was so huge, so pressing, that the angel forgot where he was.
It was in the middle of this thought that a knock echoed from the other side of the door.
“Oh dear,” he muttered to himself. He stood up too quickly and knocked over his stack of books, barely stopping himself from swearing at his own clumsiness. “Just a moment!” He shouted.
“Sure,” Crowley mumbled on the other side of the door. He hadn’t been late today, not initially, but when he parked outside the bookstore at 7.58 his body just wouldn’t get out of the car. He couldn’t for the life of him explain it, it was like something in him had frozen. The angel would complain, as he loved to do, about Crowley’s tardiness, but he simply could not force himself to leave the car.
This was the first time he’d seen Aziraphale since their lunch date after the end of the world, and since then there had been a question forming, growing larger and more difficult to ignore with each passing day: what if things were different now? What if their newfound freedom meant newfound something-else too? Had they only gotten along because of their common goal, or because they’d needed each other, because the agreement made things easier for both of them? Now that nothing tied them together other than whatever emotional residue remained after all this, would things stay the same?
The thing was, Crowley loved Aziraphale. He wasn’t quite sure when it began, or how or why. It was just the way it was, nothing to do about it. He’d known it for at least a couple of millennia, and he figured by now that the angel knew it too. He’d certainly done nothing to hide it, not from Aziraphale, though the whole Heaven/Hell situation had put quite the damper on things. Besides, there hadn’t been a safe way to let anything happen. What they’d been doing was already bad enough, all the favours and lunches and time they’d spent together. Anything more than that and they were risking a fate much worse than a quick death. So Crowley had simply let it rest, doing what he could to make sure Aziraphale knew. And Aziraphale had done the same, he reckoned.
But now things were different. There was no Heaven/Hell situation anymore, at least not for the time being, and that opened up the door for a million terrifying possibilities. Sure, there was the aforementioned chance that their relationship would fade away without a common interest, but there was also a chance that it would evolve into something else now that no one could stop it.
There was a lot to consider, and Crowley had thought of it all. He kept coming up with new scenarios, new ways for everything to go sideways. And that’s what he’d been doing sitting there in the Bentley, Queen blasting through the speakers, for 67 minutes until he managed to pry himself from the comfort of the car.
And now here he stood, feeling a little ridiculous.
A series of noises sounded from behind the door, and he could hear Aziraphale muttering to something himself. After a few moments, the angel opened the door, looking very flustered. “Hello,” he said, his tone just a little off.
“You alright in there?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, quite.” He stared absentmindedly at Crowley for a second, blinked a couple of times and gestured inside the bookstore. “After you.”
The demon went inside, happy for the comfort of the place. It was always warm in there, and it smelled of tea and old books. The whole place was so cosy, so soothing, so incredibly Aziraphale that he couldn’t help but feel at ease. He threw himself on the sofa and stretched out so his back rested against one end and his legs were dangling over the other. Maybe things wouldn’t be so different after all.
Aziraphale closed the door behind him and went to find the wine, while Crowley tilted his head at the five books that lay scattered across the carpet. “Jane Austen?” He called in the general direction of the back room. He’d met her once by accident at Oxford, where he’d been meaning to tempt some students into abandoning their studies. He couldn’t recall much about her, only that she danced a mean contradance.
The angel returned with a bottle of something fancy and placed it gently on the table. After pouring them each a glass, he took a seat in the chair across from Crowley, hands folded neatly in his lap. “I was reading them,” he explained.
“Yeah, no, I got that.” Crowley picked up the glass, downed its contents in one go and started to pour another. “D’you like them much?”
The angel nodded eagerly. “Oh yes,” he answered. “I’ve found that I quite enjoy romance. The humans really seem to have a knack for it.”
“To love is to burn, to be on fire,” Crowley quoted and smirked at the expression on the Aziraphale’s face. He looked confused and impressed at the same time, with a hint of something that may well have been affection.
“I thought you didn’t like reading,” he said.
Crowley made a vague noise, before downing another glass of wine. “Yeah, well.”
“You were late,” Aziraphale said after a moment, and took a long sip of wine.
“Sorry,” the demon mumbled. He wanted to explain that technically, he’d been here on time, but that would mean he also had to explain exactly why he hadn’t just come inside immediately, why he’d needed over an hour to pull himself together.
Someone had the fill the silence, and something had been pressing on Aziraphale’s mind the entire afternoon. “Crowley?”
“Hm?”
“Have you ever…?” The angel started. This was ridiculous, he thought, though he couldn’t quite dissuade himself from continuing. “Have you ever partaken in human displays of… affection?”
Crowly nearly choked, though he did an excellent job of hiding it with a cough. “Been a bit too busy, I’m afraid,” he answered. Then, after a moment, “have you?”
“I’ve… dabbled.”
Though he’d never gone as far as to fall in love with a human, Aziraphale had, on occasion, found himself in a situation in which one of them had grown fond enough of him to express themselves physically. And he’d never been opposed. There was something very pleasant about all of it, as if human bodies were created with the specific purpose of holding one another. Perhaps they had been. Just another thing to add to the list of things he’d never know.
“You’ve dabbled?” Crowley sounded a little too disbelieving for Aziraphale’s taste. If he’d taken a moment to notice, of course, he would’ve realized that the bitterness in the demon’s voice wasn’t so much disbelief as it was jealousy.
“Well, on occasion, it’s come up and I’ve not… objected,” the angel tried to explain, though he felt more and more idiotic with each word. “Nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked.”
Crowley frowned, unable to get the image of Aziraphale doing… Well, whatever he’d been doing, out of his mind.
“Does this mean—” He started asking, though he couldn't get himself to finish the question. If Aziraphale had been running around kissing people, perhaps that meant Crowley’d been wrong. When he thought about it, really thought about it, it wasn’t like they’d ever discussed their relationship, or labelled it in any way. He’d been under the very comfortable impression that they felt the same about one another, that there was a mutual but unspoken affection between them. But now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps the angel just saw it as a slightly weird friendship, nothing more. The thought was enough to make Crowley wish his wine glass was full of holy water.
“Mean what?” Aziraphale asked.
Mean that I misread every situation we’d been in together for the past 6 millennia; that I’ve been walking around thinking you felt the same way when in reality you weren’t even close; that I am, in fact, completely and utterly unlovable.
“Oh, nothing.” Crowley blinked a few times, thankful for the sunglasses. He wanted to leave, or to drink a whole lot more, or to disappear completely. Perhaps he ought to sleep through another century.
After a few minutes of composing himself and staring up at the ceiling, he finally managed to look down at Aziraphale. The angel looked miserable, like the entire weight of the world was resting on his shoulders, and Crowley couldn’t stand it. Okay, so maybe their relationship was entirely one-sided, maybe Crowley had had the wrong impression since the beginning, and that was entirely his own fault. That was just how it was, the demon decided, and it didn’t mean anything. Nothing really matters, right?
“D’you reckon she got it right, then?” Crowley asked, in a slightly desperate attempt to cheer the angel up.
“What?” Aziraphale blinked, grateful that the silence had been broken.
“Jane Austen,” the demon elaborated. “You think she was right? We’re fools in love, and all that?”
He thought about it for a moment. Surely, he was the last person on the planet who’d know what humans experienced in the romantic department. Regardless, he did have a feeling that she’d captured it quite well. “I suppose,” he finally answered. “I don’t think I’m a very good judge of that.”
“You just said you’d dabbled,” Crowley grimaced at that last word as if he still didn’t quite believe it.
“Well, yes,” the angel sighed. “But not— you know— not with love.”
Crowley felt it all rise up, the anger and the hurt and the disappointment of the evening. He wanted to scream or to cry or break something, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. “You wouldn’t know love if it slapped you in the face,” he mumbled instead.
Was that meant to be an insult? It was always hard to tell with Crowley, everything he said was covered in so many layers of sarcasm and weird intonation that it would take a whole team of translators to understand him properly.
“I would!” Aziraphale tried his best to sound offended, even though he wasn’t. He knew the demon was right, he’d only just properly realized his own feelings an hour ago, and now all of a sudden he wanted to argue that he knew exactly what love was and how it felt. From an angelic standpoint, sure, he loved all being equally and holy-ly, but the personal kind? The frustrating, beautiful, human kind of love? He was basically an idiot on that front.
“You wouldn’t know love—” Crowley sat up suddenly, so the wine in his glass sloshed over the edge and onto the carpet “— if it fell on you like a great big bomb.”
Aziraphale opted for a silent response, unsure of whether to argue or not.
“In fact,” Crowley put the glass down roughly, and a bit more of its contents landed on the carpet. “You wouldn’t know it if it travelled halfway across France in the middle of a revolution to keep you from getting your head cut off, or if it blew up an entire building — with the exception of a few books, of course — to keep you from getting embarrassed by a load of Nazis.”
By now, Aziraphale was slowly catching on. And, luckily for him, there was just enough alcohol in his bloodstream to embolden him to say something. “Crowley, I’ve been thinking—”
“Oh, this’ll be good.”
The angel frowned and cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking— Well, with the books I’ve read and the recent… What I mean is—” This was difficult. Far more difficult than Mr Darcy had made it seem. “I’m trying to— You know, with all our history and—”
“Oh out with it already, angel, we haven’t got all night!”
“I think— I think perhaps I’m in love with you.”
For a microsecond, Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to grab those words from the air between them and put them back inside his mind. Why had he felt the need to say it out loud? What could that possibly accomplish? And what, worst of all, if he’d read this all wrong? There was a slight chance that all that Jane Austen had clouded his mind, filled it with false ideas of romance and love and—
And then Crowley’s face broke into a grin, and he sat up a little straighter. “Y’think so?” He asked as if he was holding back a laugh.
“I do,” Aziraphale replied resolutely, brows furrowed in a serious expression. He’d said it now, there was nothing he could do. He was in love with Crowley, he thought, and he had been for the better part of 6000 years, even if the thought had only entered his mind for the first time in the 1940s and been properly solidified an hour ago.
The demon’s smile only widened at the severity of Aziraphale’s tone. “I knew it!”
Was he being serious? Actually, that wasn’t the problem, the problem was the exact opposite. Why wasn’t he being serious? And, more annoyingly, why was he acting like he’d just predicted the ending of a murder mystery novel? Was this all some sort of joke to him, or had it all been part of some big demonic plan? That would be some badge of honour, Aziraphale thought, making an angel fall in love with you, tempting the most virtuous creature in the universe.
“And,” Crowley dragged out the word, choosing his next ones carefully. “You’ve only just realized this now?”
“What do you mean just now? Of course I’ve just realized it!” He paused. “Did you know?”
Crowley laughed. “Yes, I knew, angel. Why’d you think we were averting the apocalypse? For the good of humanity?”
This was all too much. Aziraphale felt dizzy, and it wasn’t because of the wine. He was pretty sure he was about to pass out. “I thought— Oh, I don’t know what I thought.”
“Waitaminute, was it Jane Austen?” Crowley was way too amused about this whole thing, he was downright having fun. “You’re telling me I walked into a church for you, and you realized because of Jane-bloody-Austen?”
A new thought dawned upon the angel, one that seemed to dull every other thing that was racing through his mind at the moment. “But… Does this mean that you’re also— Do you—?”
“Oh, angel.” There were a million meanings behind that word. Crowley had always said it, but sometime in the past couple thousand years, humans had picked it up as a term of endearment. Now Crowley used it on purpose, with more intent than in the beginning, pretending he used it the same way people did. He especially liked to say it in public, around people who would look at them knowingly as if they had any clue what they were.
And now he said it again, for what must’ve been the millionth time. But this was different, more gentle. Aziraphale heard it, properly heard it, for the first time in 6000 years.
That irritating smile was still playing on his lips, and Aziraphale’s question still lingered in the air. Crowley shook his head and, after a moment, added “yes, Aziraphale. Obviously, I do.”
The angel’s eyes widened. But he wasn’t about to make a stupid mistake based on a lack of clarity, so he asked, in the most assertive voice he could muster “do what?”
“You’re— You’re really gonna make me say it?” The smile was fading, replaced by a much more genuine expression. He’d been under the distinct impression that this was how it was for them. Like oxygen — quiet, unspoken, but always there.
Crowley stood up and, without quite knowing why, Aziraphale did the same. In a single stride, the demon was mere inches from him. “Aziraphale.” He spoke softly, more a breath than a word. “I—” he paused, moving his hands up to cup the angel's face. He was completely serious now, almost more so than he’d been a week ago at the end of the world. “I love you.”
And then the seriousness was gone, turned into a grin. “Most ardently,” he added dramatically, removing his hands from the angel’s face to make a theatrical gesture.
It had been 6000 years. For how many of them had this been true? Aziraphale had no idea. Perhaps it had been there always, like the sun or the stars or convenience stores, lingering despite it all. Or perhaps it had been growing, slowly and steadily, since the beginning of time, the longest and first love story ever told. Even Jane Austen couldn’t have come up with that, he thought.
Crowley noticed the look on the angel’s face and tilted his head at him. “You alright?”
“Yes, I just— You never told me.”
“I did.”
He had, hadn’t he? A million times, or at least three that Aziraphale could name off the top of his head. He’d been there in France, smug as he’d acted, and then again in London during the Blitz, not to mention the entire past month. He was always there, like some sort of miracle.
But more than that, Aziraphale thought, he’d done things like that for Crowley too. He’d gotten him the holy water, he’d stayed and tried his best to save the world because it contained all their favourite spots; all the restaurants and the pastry shops and the parks where they’d spent countless hours together. He loved humanity, and of course he’d done it for them, but that wasn’t the only reason, was it?
“I suppose you did,” the angel said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“’S alright.” Crowley was smiling — genuinely, properly smiling. Not a smirk or a grin or any sort of mischievous leer, but a real smile. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that.
“If I loved you less…” The demon quoted.
“I might be able to talk about it more,” Aziraphale finished. And then he reached out, slowly and carefully, and removed the demon’s sunglasses.
Crowley’s eyes were beautiful, that was really the only word for it. Aziraphale had always thought so, even back when he didn’t know it was love he felt when he looked at them. They were nothing like human eyes of course, but they carried the same kindness.
Aziraphale remembered a conversation they’d had with Shakespeare once, where he’d asked why Crowley wore those ‘strange eyepieces’. The eyes are the window to the soul, Crowley’d said, and I don’t like to show people mine (the Bard had used the first bit later and gotten all the credit). If he’d been right, Aziraphale thought, and you could see straight through a person’s eyes and into their soul, then Crowley’s was… Well, hard to describe.
The demon blinked against the light but didn’t object. He just took the sunglasses from Aziraphale’s hand and threw them over his shoulder. Nothing felt real to him at the moment, not the wine or the books or the fact that Aziraphale loved him. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” he said. “Sometimes I thought— Well, I thought you knew.”
The angel shook his head. “Obviously I didn’t know, otherwise I would’ve— I— Well, I would’ve—“
“You would’ve what, angel?“
Something grabbed hold of Aziraphale just then, an idiotic, almost human sort of courage. They’d prevented an apocalypse, they’d quite literally faced the devil. But none of it mattered anymore. There was no outside world, no Heaven and no Hell, just the bookshop and the two of them and the rest of eternity.
Fuck it.
In one swift move, he grabbed the demon’s collar and pulled him in, pressing their lips together. All of Crowley softened, every bit of tension in his body dissipated. He could feel the angel’s heartbeat against his own, fast and nervous and excited. He was so close now, finally, after all this time, and still it didn’t seem like it was close enough. Aziraphale let his hands drop to Crowley’s hips, and before he knew it he was kissing him back, desperate and passionate, like he’d been waiting 6000 years for it. He felt Crowley’s hands in his hair, his skinny frame against his fingertips, his lips — how were they so soft? — against his own.
It was obvious that the angel had tried this before, Crowley thought. He knew just where to put his hands, when to part his lips slightly and let him in. It was a ridiculous thought, and somehow it made all the sense in the world. But then again, it wasn’t so hard. It was almost natural (though this may well have been because Crowley had imagined it a million times, because he’d pictured the scene almost every time he looked at the angel). He placed a hand on Aziraphale’s neck and pulled him closer, suppressing a smile when he heard his breath hitch.
Swept up in it all, half drunk on wine and half drunk on Crowley, Aziraphale lost his balance and fell backwards onto the couch, dragging the demon down with him. They were pulled apart as they landed on the couch, Crowley on top.
“I would’ve told you before if I knew you’d do that,” he breathed.
In that instant, Aziraphale had a somewhat shocking realization: they were happy. Finally, after all this time. He didn’t say it out loud, but he watched as it dawned upon Crowley too, watched the change in all those little expressions he’d come to know so well. They were alone and in love and confused and ever-so-slightly terrified, but happy.