Chapter Text
Crowley leaned against the wall and sipped slowly at his whisky, well removed from the cluster of omegas and a few alphas poking and giggling and elbowing each other at the performer display table across the theater lobby. He checked his watch again; another ten minutes until the ushers would start pointedly ringing the "get to your damn seat" chimes. If the crowd didn't start thinning soon, he might have to wade in, which wasn't a fun prospect. He could smell at a distance how excited the group was, poring over headshots, reading the short bios with orientation and compatibility notes, and discretely huffing the scent cards on preview.
He was given to understand that for most alphas and omegas, an arrangement of scent cards like what was laid out across the room was just as mouth-watering as stepping up to a decadent buffet, except the hungry rumblings were centered more pelvically. To Crowley, though, it was more like walking into a poorly ventilated spice shop or passing the perfume counter in a department store. The strongest physical reaction he was feeling right now was the urge to sneeze.
Finally, most of the crowd moved along, breaking up into small groups of omegas, a smattering of alphas, and more than a few betas either being dragged along for moral support or looking forward to the event on entertainment value alone.
Crowley peeled himself from the wall and sauntered up to the table, looking to see what was on offer for the evening. He automatically passed over bios with substantially depleted scent card stacks. He was not interested in getting into a bidding war for what was, ultimately, a glorified heat hookup. A classy heat hookup, and supporting a very reputable charitable cause, but a hookup nonetheless.
He tried not to be disappointed as he paused in sequence at the handful of profiles that still had a healthy chunk of cards left, tipping his head up and breathing deep to catch a whiff of their scent. Five alphas and one omega. Two alphas just… didn't smell good to him. The omega smelled very intriguing but unfortunately only listed "women" under his compatibility notes. The three alphas left all had compelling scents—something he'd want to rub up against and get cozy with—and fortunately had compatibility notes that included men. He grabbed the three scent cards, stacked them in order of preference, and then pulled out a pen and scribbled notes on the blank back of each where, on a personal-use scent card, the alpha's contact information would normally be listed.
An usher loomed large in his peripheral vision. He looked up and took in the aggressively cordial smile, the little mallet poised in anticipation over the dinner chimes that would signal the two-minute warning. Crowley flashed an insincere smile back and moseyed his way toward the doors leading into the performance hall to find his seat.
"Bloody Anathema," he grumbled to himself as he grimaced his way over fancily shod feet and bumped decked-out knees on his way to one of the middle seats halfway down center orchestra. Just a random ticket she had on hand, his whole entire arse. For a seat this nice, she must have been feeling really guilty about having to be out of town during his upcoming heat. They both knew there wasn't anyone else he trusted to perform his health checks while he was in the thick of it, but it wasn't like he'd never done a heat date hookup before.
All right, it might have been a while since he'd last bothered, given how difficult it could be for someone of his orientation to find any sort of date, let alone one for a heat. But he didn't need this level of hand holding, damn it. He'd done the rounds of the usual parks where single alphas and the occasional omega liked to peacock their talents for the consideration of any omega (or alpha or beta) there to see and be seen, and who might want to swap scent cards.
And, fine, he'd only come away from his half-hearted hunting with two measly cards—taken mostly to avoid looking too picky rather than from true interest—but there'd be a fresh batch of strutting singles tomorrow. He had a whole two weeks to get his shit in order before he had to hole up for his heat.
Besides, there were services for omegas and alphas who didn't have either a partner or a trusted friend or family member who could perform their health checks during their cycle. Crowley was sure he had a couple of the nicer websites bookmarked on his phone. Probably.
Worst came to worst, he could go it completely alone. He might come out with a bit more chafing and bruising and a lot more dehydrated than he'd like, but it wasn't like it would kill him. He'd done it before... when he was significantly younger and more limber.
Well, he'd accepted the ticket and shown up to the auction, hadn't he? The phantom voice of Anathema reading him the riot act about appropriate levels of self care and heat and rut safety statistics could just shut up.
Crowley retrieved the auction paddle from his seat and idly flipped through the program as he settled in and did his best to completely ignore the existence of the omegas flanking him. He had just enough time to dog-ear the pages with the bios of his prospective alpha dates (just a rehash of what was in the lobby), when the house lights dimmed and the stage lights flashed bright.
A broad Ken doll of a man loped onto the stage with a handheld microphone. He mugged for the crowd as a boisterous pop song played over the theater speakers.
"Good evening, all! Welcome to the Spring Fling Heat Date Auction! I'm your host, Gabriel Hornsby, and I'll be emceeing tonight's performances as well as hosting the following auction. And sorry, folks, I won't be up for bid tonight!" He laughed exactly twice at his own joke, barely acknowledging the half-hearted chuckle from the audience, before his plasticine features dropped into more serious lines. "But before we start having too much fun, some housekeeping."
Crowley slouched further into his seat and wished he'd been allowed to bring another whisky into the theater proper.
"All proceeds from both ticket sales and the auction tonight will, of course, be supporting a handful of local charities as nominated and voted for through the official Alpha-Omega Cycle Support Alliance poll. If you reserved an auction-level ticket, you should have found a bidding paddle waiting for you on your seat. If your paddle is not there, please flag a nearby usher and be prepared to present ID and we'll get you sorted."
He crossed the stage as he spoke until he reached a presenter podium tucked away in the corner.
"And now, please welcome our esteemed Director of Safety, Beezlebub Mouches!"
A short person with an extremely bored expression and a mop of black hair marched out onto the stage and ascended some discreetly positioned stairs to reach the podium.
"All right, listen up, you lot," they said, glaring over the crowd. "This is an all-orientations heat-date auction. That means you will give proper consideration to the candidates' listed preferences and will not bid on someone who would not be compatible with you."
They paused to level a positively blistering evil eye out over the section of the audience where auction-level tickets were seated.
"You had to list your own preferences when you purchased an auction-level ticket, and if we discover any bidding performed in bad faith, the next-highest bidder will be awarded any auction candidate you may have won, the number of price escalations you contributed to any candidate will be deducted from the final winning bid total, and you will be banned from all future auctions run by the Alpha-Omega Cycle Support Alliance."
Crowley tried to shake off the reflexive guilt the safety director's tone inspired. He wasn't planning on breaking the rules, damnit, so why did he have to feel like he was sitting in the headmaster's office?
Gabriel chuckled a little nervously and edged up to the podium so he could clap a hand on Beezlebub's shoulder. The look they aimed at the side of the emcee's head could have stripped paint off a wall. Gabriel was too busy smiling reassuringly at the audience to notice.
"What my colleague is trying to say, of course, is that we understand how important this process is for a lot of folks facing heats, so we're very invested in making sure every match has the highest chance for success. " He laughed far too energetically and made some confusing hand motions toward the audience to try to get them to laugh along with him.
Crowley mulishly crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't disagree with anything stated, but like hell was he going to give either of them the satisfaction of applause.
A few more logistics for the event were covered, including what did and did not count as an official bid, the bid price tiering system, and explanations about where to go for the optional mixer taking place immediately after the auction. Crowley paid close attention to the last part. Even if the bidding got too rich for his blood, he would still have a chance to chat with and possibly exchange proper scent cards with his three candidates.
From there, the acts started rolling out.
Each candidate had just five minutes to woo the audience. There was… a lot of singing. From opera to show tunes to pop songs, all backed by the live orchestra. One alpha even performed "Wonderwall" on his acoustic guitar with absolutely zero evidence of self-awareness or irony.
But there was also some fine dancing, classic alpha displays of strength and agility, even a few brief comedy sets. One omega performed improvised limericks extolling the beauty of the female omegas within a few rows of the stage. Another alpha spray painted a huge canvas laid out on the stage floor and projected onto a screen for the audience to watch. Crowley double-checked the candidate's preferences—he always liked an artist—but alas he was looking to get bids from other alphas of any gender, not omegas. A bold choice. Most alphas usually waited for the rut date charity auctions to do their bidding.
The first alpha on his potential list performed a striptease to show off all the muscles his muscles had. There was a certain skeeviness that accompanied his mugging for the audience, and his song selection was… a choice. Considering the bidders were overwhelmingly omegas. Crowley quietly tore his scent card in half.
The second alpha was one of the opera performers, and Crowley was on the edge of his seat within two bars of the song. Now here was a talent worth demonstrating. The emotion in the tone, the keening vibrato, the skillful way he tripped along the scales. Crowley's omega hindbrain practically buzzed with fascination. (The alpha was also very aesthetically pleasing to look at, which was a nice bonus.) But then, while ascending to a glorious emotional peak, the alpha's voice cracked on a note. He instantly stopped and went deathly pale. After a moment, the orchestra fumbled to a stop too. With a horrifically embarrassed last glance at the audience, the alpha scurried off stage.
Crowley sighed and tore that card as well. It wasn't a particularly desirable quality in an alpha to give up at the first sign of hardship. Made an omega wonder if the alpha would be up for an entire heat week or scarper at the first sign of omega upset. Heats were a messy, stressful business in the best of circumstances, let alone with a temporary partner.
He was feeling downright gloomy by the time his third candidate came on stage, the third-to-last to perform before the auction. The moment he'd seen the tech crew setting up what looked like props for an old-school magician act, Crowley had been tempted to tear up the scent card on principle.
But raising the card to his nose reminded him that the alpha's scent was a mix of dark chocolate, the vanilla-almond particular to old books, with a finish like smooth whisky on the back of the tongue. It made him think of cozy evenings wiled away with good company and conversation; the urge to curl into another warm body and let your eyes close and mind drift as you savored the fuzzy tranquility of the right side of tipsy. Crowley… kind of wanted to wrap himself up in it like an olfactory blanket burrito.
Then, a beaming alpha dressed in an honest-to-god magician's outfit—half cape and all—and sporting a drawn-on curly mustache bustled onto the stage. Crowley gripped the scent card like a lifeline and fought the urge to get up and walk out of the theater.
"Good evening! I am the Amazing Mr. Fell, here to entertain you with remarkable feats of magic!" the alpha declared in what sounded like an attempt at an old-timey accent that lost a chimney sweep duel with Dick Van Dyke.
"Oh no," Crowley whispered.
The Amazing Mr. Fell proceeded to perform such remarkable feats as dropping the entire pack of cards he'd been attempting to shuffle for his first trick, catching his magician's wand in his half-cape during an unnecessary flourish, and then performing an awkward kick-ball-change motion with jazz hands as he stomped the bouncing coin he'd failed to make disappear to stop it loudly pinging on the stage floor. The smile stayed pinned firmly in place, throughout. Although, it was starting to look a little manic around the edges.
Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and wafted the scent card under his nose like smelling salts.
"You're rubbish!" someone from one of the rows right in front of the stage called.
Fell instantly came over stern. "Well, I don't think there's any call for that sort of language."
"You are, though—actually rubbish," another person projected, albeit apologetically.
The alpha heaved a theatrical sigh. "I suppose there's no accounting for taste. Oh, but this is giving me terrible heartburn." He placed a widely splayed hand over his chest and grimaced comically. "But what's this?" He coughed into his opposite fist and started pulling a line of colorful scarves from, presumably, his mouth.
"It's up your sleeve!" another person catcalled.
Fell's eyes widened and he yanked his hand away from his mouth, displaying the trailing end of the scarves, indeed, up his sleeve.
"Madame!" he exclaimed, turning wide, grateful eyes toward the voice. "You have saved me! The moment you spoke, the scarves moved. I say, are you a magician yourself? Or perhaps a scarf charmer?"
This earned him a cackle, Crowley assumed, from the heckler, and a wave of chuckles rolled through the audience.
Aziraphale beamed again and did a full-body wiggle of delight. From there, he committed wholeheartedly to the terrible, oblivious magician role, improvising reasons for why most tricks didn't work out as planned, and soliciting feedback from the audience. He returned to the magical catcaller again in a "distressed" moment, begging for divine intervention, which clearly tickled her pink. By the end of his five minutes, the crowd was laughing and cheering him on. The very last trick he performed, he pulled a rabbit out of his comically large tophat. The sleight of hand was flawless, and he looked about as shocked as the audience sounded when he successfully produced the rabbit. The theater exploded in joyous applause, and Fell looked fit to burst at the response.
Crowley huffed a surprised laugh and joined the applause.
Crowley mused over the performance right through the last two acts (which he absently noted were good showings): the adaptability, the wit, the quick thinking, the obvious joy when he managed to start delighting the crowd. And it was clearly joy at being able to delight. Despite everything, Fell had displayed some of the traits Crowley preferred in an alpha. There wasn't a lot of flash, but there was more than a hint of substance. And that scent...
He startled when Gabriel bounded on stage again to begin the bidding process, and he forced himself to refocus.
As anticipated, the performers who had both popular scent cards and a solid performance racked up obscene totals as various bidders vyed for the winning bid. When they came to the opera alpha's turn, Gabriel awkwardly informed the audience that he'd withdrawn from the auction. Crowley sighed but wasn't surprised. Hard to show your face as an alpha after turning tail like that.
As the performers were claimed, one by one, the bidding started to calm down as the pool of bidders decreased with every round in the face of the one-win limit.
When Fell came back up on stage, grinning and waving to the crowd—he'd lost the drawn-on mustache in the interim, thank god—there was a warm round of applause that had Crowley wincing. That was a "well done, you" type of applause, not the "I want your hot alpha knot" sort.
Fell seemed to realize it too; his grin wavered a bit before ratcheting back up gamely.
At the podium, Gabriel shuffled his notes around and pasted on his best whitening strips advert smile.
"Up for bid next is the Remarkable Mr. Fell, our very own magic man. His real name is, of course, Aziraphale Fell, alpha. For both gender and alpha-beta-omega orientation preferences, he identifies as bisexual. I guess that means he's not picky!" Gabriel chortled to himself.
In the middle of the stage, Aziraphale's smile grew fixed and wooden. Crowley, who had similar preferences, thought seriously on the merits of chucking his auction paddle at Gabriel Hornsby's thick head.
"We'll start the bidding at the standard opening price: fifty pounds. Do I hear fifty pounds for the resilient rookie magician?"
The crowd shuffled and coughed awkwardly. Fell's won-over catcaller called out, "Sorry, love!" and waved her auction paddle, defanged by the hardwon "winner!" sticker plastered over the middle.
Aziraphale put his hand over his heart and performed a sweeping bow in her direction, his smile rueful. When he straightened, he cast his eyes over the crowd hopefully and then smiled again, this time bittersweet. Crowley felt something in his ribcage clench painfully. He felt for the man, honestly. It had taken a lot of guts to recover from that performance.
"Come on, folks! You know he has to have a brass knot to get through that performance!" Gabriel goaded, looking perfectly earnest as he doled out his backhanded compliments. Crowley wanted to read specific malice into it, but it seemed Hornsby was just… like that.
When no one raised their paddles then, Aziraphale favored the audience with a soft smile and another deep, flourishing bow, already gracefully turning the other cheek.
Crowley was vaguely aware of his arm shooting up, auction paddle like a rogue weed in a neatly trimmed lawn, but he didn't feel in one hundred percent control of his limbs. Aziraphale froze halfway up from his bow and picked Crowley out from the audience with an adorably baffled expression on his face.
"There we are!" Gabriel boomed. "We have fifty! Can we get seventy-five? Come on, it's for charity! He's good with animals!"
Crowley awkwardly dropped his arm and did his best to ignore the stares of his seatmates. The omega sitting in front of him turned around in her seat and whispered a beautifully patronizing, "Good on you, letting him save face."
He showed his teeth in something like a smile and felt a million times more certain about his bid. Fuck all of them, honestly. The more he thought about it, the more he admired the bravery it must have taken to get through those five minutes with such aplomb. Here was an alpha who could laugh at himself, could take failure in stride and be better. Sounded like a great match for someone like Crowley, in point of fucking fact.
When he looked back at the stage, Aziraphale was still watching him, a wondering smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Crowley resisted the urge to hunch further down in his chair. He shouldn't look so bloody grateful. Crowley was just recognizing quality, that's all. A bit of a diamond in the rough situation, sure, but anyone not blinded by old-fashioned alpha expectations should be able to see it.
"Well, I guess that's that," Gabriel sighed. "Going once, going twice… sold! For fifty pounds to the ginger with a taste for magic."
With that, Aziraphale raised both hands to his mouth to send a double-blown kiss Crowley's way that swept grandly into a leg-forward, extraordinarily flamboyant bow. Somehow, he managed to get his fingers deftly hooked into his half-cape so it flared with his outstretched arms, palms up and fingers arranged in the traditional alpha hand sign of tribute to an omega. With his bowed, white head of hair, shirt, and tuxedo shoes, he created the illusion of a pale exclamation point on a black field.
Crowley felt his face burst into flame with a mortified but, unfortunately, equally affected blush. Bloody hell. He might not truly get what other people meant when they said an old-fashioned courtship display from an attractive alpha could get them instantly horny, but he wasn't immune to a well-executed Grand Gesture.
As his seatmates cooed appreciatively—one even going so far as to nudge him playfully with an elbow—he once again found himself resisting the urge to just get up and walk out of the theater. He stuffed Aziraphale's scent card under his thigh, not sure what might happen if he were to get a good whiff of it now, except that it would be embarrassing.
"Whoa, now, Tiger," Gabriel crowed from the podium, transparently delighted that the situation had turned such a complete one-eighty. "Let's save that for the compatibility date, shall we?" He gave Crowley an overdone wink and shuffled his cards.
Looking smugly satisfied with the effect of his bow, Aziraphale blasted Crowley with a last, slightly feral grin and swanned off the stage.
Crowley swallowed awkwardly against his parchment-dry throat and realized he might be in over his head.