Chapter Text
On a quiet winter evening at Pemberley, our dear couple sat comfortably entwined before the library fire. Darcy soon noticed that his wife was deeply engrossed in her book.
“Why are you smiling like that, Mrs. Darcy?”
“I’m reading the most diverting story.”
“What is it about?”
“Us.”
“Us?”
“They are called ‘JAFF variations’.”
“JAFF?”
“’Jane Austen Fan Fiction’.”
“And why are you reading these so-called JAFF variations?”
“Because of the tropes, naturally.”
“Tropes?”
“Recurring narrative patterns.”
“Such as?”
“Forced proximity, for example. Two people—us in this case—trapped together.”
“Are we imprisoned?”
“Not necessarily. Most of the time, we are trapped by circumstances. In a room. Or a cottage. The location matters very little. What counts is that we are secluded, entirely alone, for a few hours.”
“But how does it serve the plot?”
“Usually the forced proximity compels us to talk and resolve our misunderstandings. We are the epitome of the enemies-to-lovers trope.”
“You were never my enemy,” he objected.
“Speak for yourself, my darling. Do I need to remind you I spent the first months of our acquaintance deeply resenting you?”
“Have mercy on me, there is no need to remind me of my foolishness,” he pleaded.
“Our foolishness.”
“I really fail to see why you are so eager to revisit our past.”
“Because reading and rereading our HEA is most satisfactory.”
“HEA?”
“Happily Ever After.”
He absent-mindedly smoothed a curl that had escaped her coiffure.
“Even after two years of marriage?” he ventured.
“Especially after two years of our own Happily Ever After,” she revealed.
Darcy fought to suppress a beaming smile. He kissed her forehead before asking: “What are the other tropes?”
“Oh, where to begin? There are hundreds! Thousands, even, maybe.”
Darcy took her book, flipped through a few pages, and realised she had been reading a chapter set in Hunsford.
“Oh no. Not this again,” he complained dramatically.
“The more catastrophic the proposal, the more beloved you become to the fandom,” Elizabeth explained.
“The fandom?”
“The endless procession of your admirers, which seems to have reached truly alarming numbers ever since the wet-shirt trope entered the scene.”
“Wet-shirt trope?” he choked, appalled.
“You apparently decided to take an impromptu swim in the Derwent upon your arrival in Pemberley—”
“I would never!”
“…during my first visit in Derbyshire.”
“I begin to suspect these authors mock me deliberately,” sighed Darcy.
“No, my love. They adore you,” she soothed. “And I should be the one whining. Millions of women are pining over my husband.”
“They are not pining over me.”
“They are writing hundreds of variations about you. Face it, William. You are ruining all their expectations in men since 1813. Not that I blame them. I understand the fascination all too well.”
He shot her a sceptical look.
Elizabeth counted studiously on her fingers: “Tall. Introverted. Rich. Socially awkward. Perfect jawline. And tragically, catastrophically, utterly good at yearning—”
“Elizabeth.”
“Fiercely loyal. Utterly devoted to his loved ones. And catastrophic at proposals. Women adore that.”
“No woman should adore that,” lamented Darcy.
“Yet here we are. Oh, and did I mention Pemberley? The best wingman ever.”
“That is deeply mercenary of you,” he teased.
“William, your house has a lake—”
“Our house.”
“Our house has a lake, a sculpture gallery, a vast library, woodland walks, and an excellent portrait collection.”
“You forgot half of Derbyshire,” he pointed out.
“Ah yes. The final blow. I never stood a chance.”
“Not too bad for ‘the last man in the world you were prevailed upon to marry,’” remarked Darcy dryly.