Chapter Text
A pattern was established early on in which every significant occurrence in Lord Aziraphale Fell’s life, particularly if they were to alter the path of his destiny, began and ended in a library. The moment he learned his alphabet. The initiation of his training to grow into his title of Viscount Whitefeather as the oldest Alpha child of his mother, Lady Celeste Fell, Countess of Sussex. The meeting of his first literary tutor. The discovery of Oscar Wilde. His proposal to the Omega he was sure would bear his pups and give him a lifetime of happiness. The discovery that his sweetheart had scandalously spent heat with another Alpha, successfully bred, and would naturally be marrying off with him instead.
The months after Aziraphale had spent emerging himself in tale after tale in faraway lands and realities that were not his own, until he felt brave enough to face society again.
Most recently, the delivery of a book from his Apa upon her return from visiting his distant cousin and dear friend, Lady Anathema Device, to welcome her back to England after her recent acquisition of the title of Countess and to aid her in getting a grip of her responsibilities after the unlikely sequence of deaths that resulted in her becoming the heiress. She’d informed him that Anathema had hosted many unwanted guests who were also visiting under the mission of offering their help, mainly as she was still relearning the tediousness of English high society after her several years spent with insouciant, modern Americans, and hadn’t realized she’d accepted their invitations. Lady Sussex had stayed to aid her in ridding them all from her manor as she was unparalleled in the art of navigating High Society.
Anathema had sent along a letter with his Apa informing him that the book had traded over-indulgent hands of guests in such an elaborate fashion that she had feared she’d lost it- a signed first-edition of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The story of her visitors’ horrific ignorance towards its value shook him nearly as deeply as she had hoped it might, which he was sure would bring her great delight upon receiving his answering letter.
That wasn’t the life-altering bit, naturally. He’d read the book when he was at the very least a decade younger, and while he would cherish this book as a lovely gift from a dear friend, it was not the most valuable in his collection. However, as he scanned its contents, he did discover the most valuable gift of his life- not in words, but in the pheromones of an Omega’s oil smeared on a page.
A single waft, even with the scent so distant it was unidentifiable, and time was stopped.
His heart beat louder, angrier, like a powerful drum heralding the approach of some unstoppable force. His mind grew dizzy and dazed, his chest light as a feather. For all he was good for and all in his name, he would swear it was love. Love, stronger than he’d ever felt it. Stronger than he knew a man could.
The phenomenon sent him straight into a protective frenzy. An innate, angry need to hide away and keep safe an Omega who, to his immense, horrible heartbreak, was not to be found. An Omega who he was unlucky enough to find entirely anonymous.
So began the most lonely, intense rut of his life.
When it had been over and he was quite done snapping at any relatives who threw him commentary too off the mark, locking himself away, and catering to himself with no little amount of bitterness and disdain, he realized a rut like that could only be brought on by one thing.
The discovery of his True Mate.
Perhaps such idle fantasy was as good as fiction in their society- not because it was impossible (although it was rare enough to border on rumor), but because it was dangerous. The offending aroma could easily be the mark of a servant. Or an Omega who had already mated. Or anyone from within a myriad of unsuitable possibilities of True Mate for a Viscount. Then again, Aziraphale did not spend the vast majority of days with his nose in a book because he favored reality.
And for whatever enthusiasm he may have lacked about tracking down the Omega, his parents made up for it in spades. It was insisted to him quite fervently that five years was quite enough time to get over being scorned by scandal, and that he must leave the manor and refresh himself. His father and Omega parent, a scholar in his own right (although not without opposition) had very generously arranged for him to tour universities throughout Britain, that he might guest speak at literary seminars and have exciting discussions with fellow intellectuals. It would be a several months long journey that took him all the way through the Highlands. Admittedly, he found it quite superfluous to travel so far into the country. His Apa had also, very generously, arranged for him to stay with fellow members of the peerage on his way. Aziraphale did his best to have faith in his mother, however it was not lost on him that each family of each manor or castle or park to which he was invited, by some incredible coincidence, had an unmarried and eligible Omega in the family.
If his parents had truly wished for him a reinvigorating escape across Britain, they were not wholly successful. It was true, each seminar and lecture and discussion would light his intellect ablaze. His heart would feel full at the discussion of literary styles, the value of satire and social commentary, and the scandalous material new authors seemed to be entertaining more with each passing year. Then he would go on to his lodgings, and dinner after dinner, day after day, have an Omega dangled before him.
Even if he were keen on giving them a chance, it was unlikely he would take interest in any one of them. They ranged from vain and aloof to painfully bland archetypes of the quiet, demure Omega who couldn’t hold a conversation worth having. Their families would no doubt find themselves so clever for the introduction, as if Aziraphale wouldn’t see through its transparency as easily as he might peer out an open window. Then there would be the Lady Omegas flaunted before them, though it would never take much preening before the discovery of their mistake had been made.
Not that Aziraphale didn’t find the company of lady Omegas perfectly pleasant, it was simply that he could not dream of forming the strong passion and mating bond required for a successful marriage with any one of them the way he might with gentlemen Omegas.
It was all frankly quite exhausting. He couldn’t say he truly cared much for the social decorum around courtship and mating. After an Omega was claim marked, the pair could be fairly outright with their affections and scenting, while anything less than an engagement restricted so much as a graze of skin to skin contact. The family would flaunt their Omega, their manners and good breeding, and of course, the participation of the Omega was nearly always forced, which Aziraphale never had a good mind for supporting. He wanted a partner, after all. A mate. An intellectual equal. Not a trophy husband who only tolerated him.
After months of travel, he had reached his final destination, Nead Nathair Castle.
Good lord, was it a sight to behold.
It was deep in the Scottish Highlands, near the cliffs of the coast in the county of Sutherland. A great gothic castle nestled in the hillside and heavily wooded. Where its original architecture had failed, it had been refurbished with the tudor styled half-timbered walls. Then again, it appeared to have later additions inspired by early Victorian architecture, high spires and rounded rooms. It was an architectural marvel, and a far cry from the renaissance architecture manor settled on wide green lawns that he called home at Whitefeather Manor.
An undefinable mystery hung over it, heavier than the white cotton clouds drifting by. It was reminiscent of no short amount of the endless tales the Viscount had consumed in his lifetime- promising something enticing and wonderous. It tempted Aziraphale, deeply, and despite the heavy exhaustion from his trip, he managed to build some semblance of excitement for his stay.
A terrible storm had delayed his arrival a day, and upon his carriage’s approach up the steep hillside to the great castle drive, he felt a minor mortification when he checked the time and discovered it was just before dinner time. Several footmen rushed forth to take his luggage to his room. There would be no family reception due to the time, but the butler, while quiet and stringent, assured the dressing gong had only just been rung. To his further despair, he was told there would be a private dance held that evening- a fact he was positive his Ama knew quite well upon planning his lodging.
Luckily he had the appropriate attire packed, having anticipated something of this nature, and took the time to have his valet remind him of details about the Crowley family.
Lord and Lady Sutherland had three children, he recalled. The eldest was a Beta son, The Honorable Hastur Crowley. The birth of a Beta in a noble family was an incredibly rare occurrence, and generally it was seen as an unfortunate turn of events. They had no titles, and it was even rarer that they might be used to marry off and form some sort of alliance. Then there was their heiring Alpha, Lord Beatrix Elizabeth Crowley, the Viscount Nead Nathair. He had occasionally heard gossip that was equally fond and scandalous in nature referring to her as “Beelzebub”. High society loved her as a constant source of daring social pushes, not unlike it loved his own Apa when she was a young, eligible bachelorette. Beatrix demanded to be addressed as a man in all but pronouns. She was quiet and sly and dangerous and when she spoke it was said that one would do best to listen. In that regard, she took after her father, Lord Lucius Crowley, Earl of Sutherland.
Then there was their youngest, the Lord Omega who Aziraphale was quite sure he’d been informed had come out formally about a decade ago. Such scandal with his two older siblings left his name often forgotten, and thus any regard to him usually dwindled to the moniker, “Crowley”. He was said to have a silver tongue, sharpened to be more deadly than a sword. The appeal of this tended to rely on the person heading the topic. Most Alphas who had gone uncoupled would suggest he was an ill-mannered, narcissistic thing that took a deep admiration to hearing himself talk. Many Omegas, Betas, and mated Alphas would suggest that while the youngest Crowley truly did toe across lines of etiquette quite liberally, he had such a natural charm and an incredibly clever wit that might excuse his transgressions in spades. Everyone, whether loathe or eager to admit it, found themselves ceding that he was quite the beauty, the pianist, and the debater. Naturally, only the last quality made him the subject of disapproval.
The pattern didn’t lose itself on Aziraphale. It was a tragic truth that Omegas who dared have a personality and be particular when choosing there to bestow their affections might be scorned by society. Personally, it made him curious to know this young Crowley, to perhaps find the company of an Omega in which intelligent discussion could be shared.
He was relieved to meet the kind face of a woman who he rightly assumed to be Lilith Crowley, the Lady of Sutherland. She had a charismatic and warm demeanor, quite the contrast to her Alpha, who carried an air of both boredom and danger. The Lord of Sutherland, Lucius Crowley, looked quite severe, with his dark hair, peppered with grey, and eyes that looked a rich gold, almost orange in most light. He had a scent so strong it put Aziraphale on edge. He appeared as if he might rather be in Hell itself. Still, he had a clear adoration of his wife that lightened his scent in troves. They appeared to share a very strong bond, and one sniff of her might inform that she had been heavily scented by her husband very recently. Under her gentle, doe-eyed urging, Lord Sutherland welcomed Aziraphale very kindly, taking his apologies for his tardiness and reassuring him no harm was done.
They were all seated at the table, and Aziraphale spotted a very appropriate balance of Alphas and Omegas. A few of the more daring Omegas went without scent patches, a move that had only very recently become acceptable for their secondary gender in high society. There was something wonderful about it in Aziraphale’s opinion, something that balanced out the overbearingly heavy aroma of over a dozen Alpha’s scents weighing down on the room, something that lightened and freshened it, taking the ever-present edge off of socializing.
Aziraphale was seated near a young female Omega, Lady Hazel Dormer, who smelled like sugar and hosted an incredibly chatty, bubbly disposition. Naturally, he made an admirable effort to engage in conversation, but found they held very little in common. Instead, he listened to her chatter on about the newest French fashions with her other neighbor as he allowed his eyes to scan the table.
Across the way and a few seats down sat a man who he assumed to be the youngest Crowley, also unhindered by patches and leaving his scent to drift. The rumors about his appearance had been true. Even in the dim room, he shined like a precious jewel. He shared his mother’s rich red hair, though his own was cut short and styled immaculately above his head, a golden wreath nestled among his locks. He had a warm brown complexion, spackled with an entire galaxy of freckles. His face was made up of sharp angles and slim curves, except his nose, which was hooked just so. He appeared to be engaging in polite discussion with an Omega across the table, ignoring the red-faced Alpha to his right, looming over him in irritation in a way that filled Aziraphale with the impulse to intervene.
Aziraphale took care not to allow his gaze to dwindle, but when he glanced back, his breath was knocked out of him as he found the young Crowley’s eyes meeting his own. They were deep wells of life and intelligence, each one a different color that the Alpha couldn’t quite grasp given the distance between them. The Omega gave a sly, knowing grin that made Aziraphale’s face heat in embarrassment. When he braved a look back, Crowley was politely looking down at his plate, long lashes on display. His no doubt cutting-edge fashion wasn't entirely subject to Aziraphale's observation given the angle, but it was a sheer black fabric that formed the sleeves, giving a glimpse of the skin the whole length of his arms down to his long, slender fingers, ungloved to eat. Aziraphale tried to ignore the heat that coursed through him. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a handsome Omega before. Surely, it was only due to the impropriety of a High Society Omega wearing sheer clothing, even if it was only on his arms.
Luckily, to his other side sat Lady Sutherland. She regaled him with stories of her and his mother’s shared puphood, spent together with a multitude of fond memories made. She made a point of sparing him from the more embarrassing stories of his Apa as if he was not aware that his pack Alpha had been quite an Omega's Alpha before meeting his Ama, chasing after scandal, sin, and skirts in equal measure. It became evident that Lilith Crowley was overjoyed at the concept of meeting him. They discussed his mother and his commonalities, which were few and far between despite their amicable relationship, and soon discussed his likeness to his Ama, which inevitably launched into a passionate and delightful discussion about literature.
Near the end of the meal, much to Aziraphale’s horror, he heard the Alphas on his other side discussing politics. Politics, at dinner. What barbaric behavior, and not at all respectful of their hostess.
“You have to be stringent,” one of them said, “You can’t make allowances. You can’t budge just because there’s a bit of kickback. Give them a little, and they’ll take a league. Can you imagine the hell this country would break into were Omegas given the vote?”
“Please, do tell, Mrs. Farley, what imaginings we might fear?” contributed the youngest Crowley, a perfectly pleasant smile on his face. His lower lip was especially plush, Aziraphale noted, and wet with what he assumed to be wine. How improper of him to notice.
“Must I say? The entire focus of our nation's government might be shifted to laws on bruncheon etiquette and the acceptable evolution of fashion!”
“Oh my. Quite the hypothetical. I find it of interest that there might be Alphas in parliament eager to put such riveting issues to a public vote. Were it so, I'm sure Apa might be more eager to discuss with me the ongoings of the House of Peers,” the Lord Omega shamelessly teased, a slight smile toying at the edge of his mouth that likened something much nearer a smirk than what was strictly acceptable.
Aziraphale withheld a laugh. Indeed, he saw what had been meant by the information that the young Crowley teetered on the edge of impropriety.
“That’s not the point, sweet dear,” she cooed back in an utterly infantilizing manner, “You shouldn’t have to worry about important things such as government and law. They are rather dull affairs better suited to an Alpha to attend to. They’ve nothing to do with you.”
For a moment, Aziraphale heavily believed the redhead was on the verge of crawling onto the table and plunging his dessert fork into her eye. There was a brief passing scent of burning herbs, and he wondered if the two could be attributed to one another. Still, his appearance remained perfectly postured, down to the twitching of his fingers. He was the very image of poise and grace.
“On the contrary, my dear Mrs. Farley, I believe if there is a single party to be exempt from the importance of laws, it would be Alphas of the peerage.”
“What a ridiculous thing to say,” chortled the Alpha beside him, a balding man who looked far more pleased with himself than with anything around him. For his rude behavior, Aziraphale noted he held no issue with invading the Omega’s space in a terribly improper manner and leering at his neck. As if wondering how such a thing could be excused, the blonde Alpha turned to the head of the table only to find Lord Sutherland’s irritation only targeted at his youngest child himself. There was a dark warning about it.
Unfortunately, the young Omega’s attentions were not geared towards his father. He sat upright, dignified no matter how disturbingly close his drunken neighbor hovered.
“I disagree, Sir Hadleigh. After all, I certainly fail to recall a time in which an Alpha of the peerage broke a law and was held in contempt for their transgressions. Meanwhile so much of the law is about Omegas rights and yet we are unable to make decisions concerning our own welfare.”
“That’s because it’s not for you to decide, is it, pup?” Sir Hadleigh laughed. The youngest Crowley’s face slipped, his nostril wrinkled, and for all the world it looked like he was about to snarl, all before the exceedingly rude Alpha said, “And that’s how it should stay. Of course you haven’t seen the law come for the ton. We’re honorable, an example for the lower class. We would never break the law to begin with.”
Something caught aflame in Crowley’s eyes.
“Is that so? I recall recently reading something of great interest suggesting otherwise. A local paper. Something about a neighboring Alpha thought to be of good standing suspected of acting within dealings of insider trading. I can’t for the life of me remember who it was… the name is on the tip of my tongue…”
“Enough.”
The single Alpha command from the head of the table rendered all occupants silent. The glare Lord Sutherland drove into his youngest son might have been mistaken for the devil’s. One might think his child would burst into flame upon receiving it. He didn’t, but he did shrink into himself, words dying in his throat. His eyes grew distant and foggy, mouth faltering into a thin line. The other Alphas began chattering again very quickly, unable to be bothered by the discipline of a mouthy Omega who didn’t know his place. The topic continued to remain on how Omegas ought not to have the vote, which Aziraphale considered to be a borderline malicious choice to carry on with seeing as the one person most uncomfortable with it had been banned from speaking. Crowley remained curled into his seat, silent as he delivered a thousand-yard stare down at his food.
Aziraphale couldn’t smell Lady Sutherland due to her patches, but an expression of great distress was etched across her face, soft, sympathetic brown eyes targeted at her youngest.
“Always very spirited, our youngest,” she laughed good-naturedly, attempting to smile and pose as the perfect hostess beyond her worry. A glass full of dessert wine hung in her fingers, and she sipped daintily from it, “I would never wish to douse that flame, but it does occasionally present itself as something a bit more akin to a forest fire.”
“I think it’s really quite an admirable trait, having strong convictions,” Aziraphale comforted her, motivated by honesty. Her son was clearly an intelligent young Lord, and it was a true tragedy that his astute argument was dismissed so easily on the grounds of his secondary gender alone. “Besides, an occasional forest fire helps clear out the waste. It offers the trees a fresh chance to grow. An opportunity for life to spring forth.”
The look he got from the Lady in turn was quite a curious thing. An expression he couldn’t categorize to his satisfaction, and with her scent glands covered in patches, his capacity for hypothesis was quite reduced. He assumed- or at the very least hoped- that it was a positive reaction.
“You’re very kind, Lord Fell, and I will not be dissuaded in the belief that such a trait is very much a commonality with your mother. I do hope you’ll spare a dance for my youngest. I know I musn’t meddle, but I confess I am afraid the course of the evening might leave him feeling quite neglected.”
Oh good Lord. A dance. Aziraphale was a frightful dancer. Put a rapier in his hand and he could move as swiftly as the wind. Place him in a dance without, and he would trip over his own feet and stomp all over his partners’. He spared a glance down at Crowley, and, by the way Sir Hadleigh was leering over the poor Omega, he very much doubted that neglect was in his near future. Perhaps the youngest Crowley wished it was; Aziraphale knew he would.
Before he could open his mouth to answer Lady Sutherland, Mrs. Farley was quite loudly and quite drunkenly announcing to the table while directing her gaze at the defenseless Omega, “The main takeaway, my dear, is that filling your head with all those grand ideas will ensure you go a lifetime unmarried and unbred. It would be in your best interest to abandon them.”
The table fell silent. Aziraphale ached with a deep embarrassment on behalf of Crowley and a burning resentment for the despicable Alpha who would disrespect the hosting family in this way and exchange such a terrible, unprovoked sentiment to a fine, well-bred Lord Omega. He wasn’t alone. The room was sharp with the scent of Alphas on edge, only turned foul when mixed with the scents of un-patched Omegas that wafted forth a terrible distress in tandem.
“Oh dear,” lamented his Ama in a mortification so quiet it fell deaf upon any other than Aziraphale’s ears.
Crowley, on the other hand, seemed to take it rather well. His hand was raised, halfway to delivering a sip of water. His lips fell ajar the scantest amount. Red brows quirked in a movement so smooth and artful they likened dancing. His shoulders straightened even further. With an idle swirl of his glass, multi-colored eyes turned to Lord Sutherland. The Lord Alpha’s scent was heavy and suffocating, as if the room were being smoked out. The black abyssal pits of his eyes were fixed on the audacious guest who had dared accept a dinner invitation from his Lady Omega just to insult the rearing of his only Omega child. The woman who had the gall and ignorance to not only speak of his being bred, but to insinuate that he was unsuitable for marriage for being too intelligent. His dark eyes turned to the youngest of his pack, conveying some message simply in their attention.
Like a flash, his son turned his head back to the Alpha across him, set his jaw, and with unyielding, unblinking eye contact, carefully enunciated, “It is of my opinion, Mrs. Fawley, if I should choose between reaching an old age unwed and pupless with only my grand ideas or finding myself a slave forced to smile and look pretty amidst any Alpha who fears any other quality in an Omega outside a habit of obedience and the capacity to be bred, I should much prefer the company of the former.”
An additional shockwave of discomfort wracked the room. Oh dear, Aziraphale thought, such teeth. As a member of society, he found it a terrible behavior. As a man and an Alpha, there was something deeply attractive about an Omega that snapped back in the face of offense, unneeding and unwanting of rescue. Silence reeled on as it seemed to take Mrs. Fawley a moment to realize an Omega had the audacity to insult her in such a provocative fashion. An Alpha near Aziraphale broke the silence, bursting into laughter and turning to Lord Beatrix, who looked frankly quite delighted by the entire exchange.
“Gracious! Your brother does entertain! I must gain his favor for a dance.”
The small yet intimidating Alpha turned to him, cocking a brow and grinning in a bone-chilling fashion that likened bearing her teeth, and goodness, her canines were sharp, “If you do believe my little brother intends to entertain, I shouldn’t think you’d survive a dance in the unlikely event that you were granted one.”
Aziraphale didn’t miss the way Crowley grinned and snickered into his glass.
“My!” Lady Sutherland exclaimed, setting down her glass of dessert wine, the contents of which were hardly scathed, “Such an exciting conversation. I’m sure the Alphas have quite a bit of debate ahead of them. Shall we go through, Omegas?”
The way she stood directly after lodged the inquiry suggested the question was not a true one. Naturally the Alphas all stood not a moment after she had, watching the Omegas trickle from the room one by one before taking their seats again, all except Mrs. Fawley who, after a quiet discussion with Lord Sutherland, excused herself with a quivering voice and a pale face to resign to her room. The atmosphere lightened after the offending Alpha was exiled from the pack. The tone appeared to be set, though now in much more polite company, Aziraphale had a delightful discussion with Lady Blackwood about the growing contributions of Omega authors and poets to the literary world. Lord Beatrix soon joined, and the topic was soon shifted to Poe, then the topics of romanticization of the macabre.
Which somehow came around to the extension of an invitation, that he might join the Crowley Alphas and a couple select guests permitted to stay through the weekend on a shooting venture. The offer was much more familiar ground than dancing, certainly, and Aziraphale apologetically declined, insisting he must stick to his departure date so as not to cheat his next host of a visit after they so kindly extended their hospitality. Perhaps he wasn’t eager to meet the next Omega lined up to be flaunted before him like a show pony, but he was eager to get home.
As they joined the Omegas, Aziraphale couldn’t help but watch the dance space with something akin to distaste. It would be remarkably rude as an unmated Alpha not to ask any Omegas to dance, but truly, he wished with a terrible might to return to his room and read a book in quiet solitude. He was not made of such social stuff. He missed his manor. His staff. His family. His duties. His library.
With equal measures of luck and misery, Lady Hazel pulled him off to a corner in the hopes of flirting. She smelled of an incredible sweetness, betraying an equally incredible attraction to the Alpha, but the scent wasn’t the least bit appealing to Aziraphale. Her attempts at talking about literature were far more endearing than they were seductive, as she rambled on about the newest mundane, unrivetting romance novel of the days. Aziraphale politely guided her fumbling feet through a half-way decent analysis of its contents before Lord Beatrix stole her away for a dance with a mischievous glimmer in her eye.
In need of a new excuse to remain off the dance floor, he found one in two Alphas conspiring in the corner, sharing what he deeply hoped to have wrongly pinned as gossip concerning their host family.
“She wasn’t wrong was she?” the Lady Petunia was whispering, “I can’t imagine a single soul who would commit the time and devotion to court such a creature. He’s like a wild horse.”
“Well, there’s some satisfaction to be had in breaking a wild horse,” Sir Hadleigh hummed, the sentiment making Aziraphale so offended on his hostess’s behalf he tasted bile in his mouth. “Besides, he is quite a pretty thing, isn’t he?”
“Hm. He should be twice as pretty were he to keep his mouth shut,” Lady Petunia decided.
“Now, that’s not fair,” Sir Hadleigh said, much to their onlooker’s surprise, only to continue, “I should say depending on what he did with that mouth, he might look thrice as pretty.”
“My dear Alphas,” Aziraphale nearly spat. The pair jumped from their corner, startled at his presence behind them and the charred edge of his scent. “I do hope you are not insulting a member of our host family. It would be a great offense to the Lord Sutherland, who has allowed us to invade his home, and the Lady Sutherland, who has taken great pains to make us feel welcome, should you be truly sharing such lewd and inappropriate commentary about an Omega of their pack.”
“Oh, dear, you misunderstand us, Lord Fell,” the Lady Petunia schmoozed in a poor, botched attempt to persuade him to lower his hackles, “So far from the city, we run a bit behind the times. It is a bit of a spectacle to find such a modern Omega, thus naturally presents itself as a common topic of discussion.”
What an absolutely absurd excuse.
“We may be far from the city,” he carefully conveyed, “but I should remind you that we are very much still within a proper society. Civility is a prerequisite for participation.”
With the pair of them looking remarkably caught and thoroughly reprimanded, he excused himself into the hallway, tutting about until he ran into a footman and requested an escort to the library, which he had missed in his angry pacing. He was exhausted: socially, physically, and emotionally. If he wasn’t to share proper company that could be enjoyable and relaxing in decent measure, he found it impossible to share company at all.
The moment he was left alone in the room, his back pressed against the closed door, his head leaned back, his eyes closed, and every compounding remnant of tension lept away like a tensed coil upon release. He took a deep breath in, and his pulse quickened, his eyes flashed open, and his head grew dizzy. The aroma filling the room was by no small measure the most divine scent that had ever crossed his path. The freshest herb garden, laced heavily with lavender and hosting a strong undercurrent of mouth-watering honey. He inhaled deeply, again and again, unable to get enough of the incredible scent. It made his mind go hazed and relaxed, his limbs slacken, the troubles slip away. He walked further into the empty library and collapsed on the nearest finely upholstered, deep red velvet armchair.
“Well that went down like a lead balloon,” an unfamiliar voice remarked through the silence, accent tinged with a Scottish tilt that Aziraphale had only heard from servants thus far.
He leapt to his feet, blinking about in the dimly lit room in disbelief that the scent had calmed him to such a great extent that he’d missed the presence of an entire person in the room. At last he realized there was a figure draped out on the dark form of the chaise lounge across the room. As his eyes came into focus, he found it to be none other than the youngest Crowley, lounged into the most scandalous position Aziraphale had ever seen an Omega in polite company take. He was laid out on his side and propped against a plush pillow, one knee curled over the other long, extended leg and his wrist draping over his cocked hip. The position was practically an illustration borne straight out of erotica.
Aziraphale could see him better now. One of his eyes was a warm, rich honey, the other a dark brown with a splotch of gold through it. Gold and ruby earrings were clipped to his earlobes, accentuating his long neck. His shirt was made of dark black bands of fabric snug against his wrists, throat, and waist, all embroidered with a meticulous golden pattern and connected together with a sheer black fabric carefully draped and decorated with small golden-threaded appliques throughout. His chest and shoulders were, at the very least, covered with a black modesty slip underneath, but they might as well have been revealed with the sinful effect invoked by his tan arms beneath the sheer fabric and the cutting edge style of Turkish trousers that lengthened his seemingly leagues long legs from his waist to his ankles, where dark red suede slippers encased his feet. His skin was just as brown as it had been in the dining room, and so warm in the dim glow of the fire. Thousands of freckles kissed his flesh in a way that made Aziraphale ever so envious of the sun. It was a vision that perfectly matched the scent he’d been grasping after, and in a quite embarrassing awakening, he discovered the youngest Crowley had been what- or rather, who- he was smelling this entire time.
A second bout of unease washed over him when he realized he’d practically been standing still, staring, and salivating over the Lord Omega as if he was a piece of meat. He felt blood rush to his face, discomfort and embarrassment swirling into his scent. He bowed deeply, standing to find an amused brow dancing above the brown, honey-splattered eye.
“I’m so sorry, I hadn't noticed you,” he said politely, “What was it you were saying?”
The brow above the honey-colored eye rose alongside its twin, and something scandalously close to a smirk danced across the young Crowley’s mouth.
“I said that went down like a lead balloon.”
“Oh. Yes. Quite.” Aziraphale’s blue-grey eyes danced around the room, and he wondered at himself that he might be so unsettled over so simple a situation. They were alone, he told himself, of course he was unsettled. An unacquainted Alpha and Omega, both unmated and unengaged, alone in a room together when a party was going on, not a chaperone in sight or earshot.
A snort brought his attention back to the present. A snort.
“Easy, Lord Aziraphale. This is a worry-free zone. Check all the fussing over proper etiquette at the door. If I need to walk myself in leagues around a point for the sake of mild manners one more time, I rather think I'll opt to walk myself right off the top of the castle instead”
The Alpha nearly startled upon being called by his given name. He’d forgotten that the custom for heirs in the North was to be addressed as such. Still, it seemed only Lord Anthony was the first to make the mistake of not respecting Southern customs. His placations fell on deaf ears as Aziraphale turned back towards the door, deep in consideration over fetching a chaperone.
“And I should hope with that understanding you would not push me to such tragedy with the utterances of chaperones and proper introductions.”
The Alpha looked back at Crowley, white brows raised towards his hairline, and he stifled a surprised smile. What a strange tempter, this Omega.
“I should hate to bring you any discomfort, Lord-,” he started, realizing, to his mortification, he did not know the correct ending of the name, and most certainly couldn’t flourish his rudeness by ending it with ‘Crowley’ and betraying his ignorance. Instead, he lamely recovered by finishing it with his courtesy title, “Omega.”
A knowing smirk danced on the Omega’s face.
“Anthony,” he said, “but as you’ve agreed upon imparting such a reassurance, there’s to be no fussing over proper introduction, and thus you shall remain ignorant of that fact. Just call me Crowley. Everyone else does, anyway.”
Anthony, the name danced through his head, a lovely thing.
“Naturally,” Aziraphale mused back, the flirting coming too natural to particularly care, “and having said I would disfavor bringing the mysterious unacquainted Lord Omega who is broadly referred to as ‘Crowley’’s discomfort, perhaps I should fetch him a drink and return it to him in some occupied place where we might conveniently become acquainted among appropriate company?”
Crowley barked a laugh, “After what I’ve just said about dancing around points and the lengths they drive me to? Really? You would tease, Lord Aziraphale?”
He didn’t seem the slightest bit upset by the fact. Instead, he seemed rather pleased.
“I could never be so cruel,” Aziraphale refused to relent.
“Hmmm,” he mused with a fond smile and the further freshening of his disarming scent, “As interesting as I find your offer, I’m afraid it is wasted on me, as I am nae permitted to drink in company.”
“Oh, I suppose it does make some ill.”
“Some, perhaps, but not all. In my case, Apa insists I don’t drink in fear that I might say something untoward in polite company,” he explained, delighted at the irony.
His grin was so positively well-pleased, so deeply charming, that Aziraphale was powerless to contain the laugh that burst forth out of him. Oh, Lord Anthony’s scent was floral as a field of wildflowers in response to his laughter, and he felt himself melt as he met the Omega’s gaze, those eyes dripping with something warmer and sweeter than the honey within them.
“I figured you were like me,” Crowley mused, pulling himself upright, sauntering over to the tall bookcases, and brushing his fingers against the rows of leather spines. Aziraphale couldn’t help but allow his eyes to fix on the sultry sway of hips. It was whiplash, the way the Omega spoke, posed, moved so differently than when he had only minutes ago.
“And in what traits do you find our similarities?” Aziraphale asked, realizing that in a great shift of dynamic, he was slowly being circled by an Omega. Crowley attempted to keep his distance at the beginning of his rounds, but, ignorant of who moved first, some invisible magnetism pulled the pair closer together. The Alpha realized with no short amount of delight that the Omega was leaning in to smell him, pupils blown wide with clear interest.
“Opening our mouths to let some weak, placating words we don’t mean fall out them. Growing tired in the ridiculous dance of it all,” he paused along the shelf nearest bookshelf to Aziraphale, pointedly pulling out a book, eyes tracing over it as he sighed, “Desiring an escape to somewhere a bit more exciting.”
“To the library?” Aziraphale attempted to confirm, taking the risk of sounding stupid to lodge a question, the importance of which this stranger could not possibly know.
“Of course,” the Omega sighed wistfully as he flipped the book open and scanned a random page. There was something longing about his face. Something a bit pained. Something deeply beautiful. “I adore peace and adventure in equal measure. The library is the single place I find myself able to satiate both inclinations simultaneously.”
“Are adventures your favorite to read?” Aziraphale asked quietly.
Despite his support of this Omega’s spark and independence, he did feel something a bit fragile about the exchange. In the midst of their unfamiliarity was a tedious ground to be walked. He found himself remiss to give Sir Hadleigh’s comparison consideration, but it really was a bit like breaking a wild horse. Crowley was strong-spirited, quick-tempered, and skittish. Trust had to be gained before one would be allowed near.
“They are,” Crowley sighed, “were, rather.”
At Aziraphale’s confused gaze, Lord Anthony gave a pretty grin, this one less genuine and more performative. A distraction.
“My father greatly limits the literature I’m permitted to consume,” he lamented, gesturing to the many shelves of chained books, “but I would travel the whole world and beyond with the lot of them, if I could.”
There was a terrible sadness about the way he said it. Aziraphale felt deeply sorrowful on his behalf. No one should be denied a book. An education. Literary exploration. An escape.
“For some of the more disturbing and inappropriate material, I might understand, but I can hardly see the harm in a good adventure.”
Crowley rounded a statue near the center of the room, resting his hand against it to hang off of and nestling his chin over his fingers, smiling warmly at Aziraphale in a way that made the Alpha wish to melt into the ground. There was a far away fleck of excitement in Crowley’s mismatched eyes. A crackle of color. A light beckoning to be chased after.
That same tone of good humor gave his voice a sing-song edge, “He doesn’t want me filling my head with dangerous ideas.”
Aziraphale developed a sneaking suspicion that the Lord Omega Anthony Crowley might be hidden away from the whole world and new ideas would still have no chance of escaping his grasp.
“It’s my belief that literature can’t give you dangerous ideas, simply fresh ones.”
Something turned impossibly soft and sweet in Crowley’s eyes, his scent bursting forth like an herbal bouquet, the honey swirling round him, rendering his thoughts distant and dizzy
“I gather you’re something of a literary expert, Lord Aziraphale,” he said, softer than he had said anything else in this private moment between them. The roll of Aziraphale’s name off Crowley’s tongue was more appetizing than any amuse-bouche the Lord Alpha had ever tasted.
The energy between them grew soft without losing any of it's magnetism- a phenomenon Aziraphale could not explain. It was hypnotic. Intimate.
“One can scarcely be an expert on an ever-evolving subject,” he confessed, “Though I have consumed a vast amount of books and shall continue to do so for as long as I am blessed with sight.”
“Having searched through so many books, experienced so many stories, you have earned my greatest admiration,” the Omega confided. Aziraphale allowed himself to search those mismatched eyes, looking for some sense of flirting or teasing or witty rapport. Instead, he found only earnestness.
His greatest admiration? Aziraphale’s heart fluttered and his mind went weightless. Whatever had he done to deserve such a precious thing from a person who was so proudly selective as Lord Anthony Crowley?
“As a scholar?” he attempted to clarify.
“As an adventurer,” Crowley said with no shortage of meaning.
All at once, Aziraphale felt an overwhelming wave of affection. He felt a desire to take the slender figure in his arms, to sweep him away, to let him experience life and excitement and a world just as varied and adventurous outside of books as within them. Perhaps it was a deep Alpha instinct, longing to save an Omega in distress, but even in such a case, he was just as powerless to its effects.
Anthony leaned forward to smell his change in scent, and bit his lip at whatever he found, eyes hungrily flickering to Aziraphale’s own mouth. Aziraphale felt the deep, innate urge to lunge forth, to feel himself fueled by the passion crackling between them like electricity, waiting to be acted on.
“I didn’t know you were in here, M’lord,” a deep voice boomed from the doorway. A startled trill, not unlike a cat’s upon being woken from a nap, pulled forth from Crowley’s throat that made Aziraphale’s whole heart soften, opening like a blossom in the sunlight. Such a precious sound. He ripped his eyes away from the beautiful sight of Crowley’s angular, freckled face, turning to find the butler suspiciously eyeing him up and down.
The reality of the situation crashed back down on him, and he felt a mortification beyond embarrassment. Not only were they unacquainted, not only were they unchaperoned , but they were within a mere meter of one another, radiating forth flirtatious scents of attraction and interest and circling one another. It was a mating dance if there ever was one. He felt caught red-handed. Guilty.
What on earth had come over him?
“Oh, Parker, no need to run and tattle, I’m the offending party here. Poor Lord Aziraphale here dipped into the library for a breath of air. I followed after him and fear I quite twisted his arm into giving me some recommendations. Thank you, Lord Aziraphale, for allowing me to inconvenience you,” Lord Anthony insisted, his voice yet again hosting a Received Pronunciation accent, as harsh a difference as a slap in the face.
Aziraphale felt the lie. Not in the way he might intellectually know a lie was occurring based on previous knowledge, but in a much more physical way. There was an uncomfortable churning in his gut. An innate understanding he couldn’t explain. Before he knew what was happening, Crowley was sharply moving towards the door, his sauntering vanished and his perfect posture and stride back intact.
“Of course,” he said stupidly, feet rooted in place as he remained dumbfounded. It felt like awakening from a trance.
Crowley stopped with his red-satin gloved hand on the door way, turning back to face Aziraphale.
“Should you discover an interest in asking me to dance, Lord Fell, I should confess your invitation would be the first of the evening I’ve any true enthusiasm in accepting.”
Aziraphale’s cheeks burned at the shameless flirting. He’d never experienced an Omega so blatant about their interest. Perhaps it was a good thing. It would be the first instance in which he didn’t need to guess a courted Omega’s thoughts and emotions.
Courting? He thought in abrupt terror, Outrageous, dear chap! We’ve only just met, and not even properly!
Crowley vanished from the doorway, and Aziraphale turned to look at Parker. There wasn’t a trace of surprise present in his expression, though there was a great deal of protective mistrust, and Aziraphale had a good feeling that Lord Anthony had a reputation for stating his thoughts quite liberally.
When he decided a further absence might be noticed by his hostess, Aziraphale returned to activities, sharing a short discussion with Lord Hastur, who looked terribly lonely in the corner farthest from the action. A short discussion was all that was needed to discover he had a very valid reason for standing alone, in that he was a salty conversationalist uninterested in exchange.
He escaped quickly only to find Lady Hazel pulled back into his gravitational pull yet again. He was remiss to find that after such a titillating rapport with an Omega of great cleverness and charm, he was less tolerant of her stumbling, obsessive rambles over novels meant to appease and condition adolescent Omegas.
A fruitless attempt at concealing happiness from his scent was made when Crowley crept up by their side.
“I do hate to interrupt, Lady Hazel,” he said quietly, “I’ve been sent on a mission to tempt you back into my sister’s company. She insisted I use discretion.”
“A fatal mistake on her part, isn’t it, Crowley?” Lady Hazel teased quite familiarly, entirely charmed by her fellow Omega.
He gave her an appropriate grin, Aziraphale noted, not flashing any teeth, as only proper for an Omega’s smile. A show of teeth might indicate aggression. That standard had seemed to slip, he recalled with a warmth blooming in his chest, when they were alone together.
“You do know how I loathe to entertain the unnecessary.”
“Well, since you are here, it would only be appropriate to introduce you before abandoning you, no matter how good the company you would remain in,” she cooed, batting her eyelashes at Aziraphale. He chanced a glance at Crowley, and nearly regretted it, as the bright look of amusement, topped off with quirked eyebrows nearly had him bursting into laughter.
“I would be very happy for an introduction,” Crowley hummed back, his charms rendering Lady Hazel loose on her footing.
“That’s- I- of course!” she managed when she at last found her wits, turning to Aziraphale, “Lord Anthony, this is Lord Aziraphale Fell, Viscount Whitefeather.”
“I- Visco-?” Crowley started, clearly disarmed by the information. A flush rushed to his cheeks, coloring his tanned skin where the many freckles had failed. Aziraphale wondered, briefly, if Crowley had mistaken him for another position. It would certainly explain his previous lack of correct Southern address for an heir. If so, he couldn’t help but be glad for it. He couldn’t imagine wanting Lord Anthony to have treated him any other way upon catching him off guard. “That’s- of course. Well met, Lord Fell.”
He gave a curtsey, his fresh herbal scent tinged with a distressed burning that Aziraphale’s instincts made him desperate to soothe. The Alpha found, to his own surprise, he had rather preferred the sound of his given name out of that lovely mouth.
“And Lord Fell, as I’m sure you’ve discovered, this is Lord Anthony Crowley, the youngest child and only Omega of the Earl and Countess of Sutherland.”
“A true pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Lord Anthony,” Aziraphale said, voice tinged with what he hoped to come across as humor. He bowed towards the youngest Crowley, rising to find the Omega precariously struggling to regain his persona of easy wit and charm past his clear discombobulation.
Lady Hazel’s relentless smile faded the least bit as she traced the space between the Lord and Lord Omega’s eyes, finally leaning in to sniff at the air near Aziraphale only to reach some semblance of understanding.
“Oh now that’s not fair. Do your temptations know no end, Crowley?” she chided playfully, swatting open her hand fan.
The bolster in confidence seemed to give Crowley a leg up on recovering.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, my good lady,” he hummed with a smirk.
“Hmm,” she hummed with a knowing grin, “I’ll pretend to believe you, sneaky serpent. I mustn’t keep Lord Beatrix waiting.”
Lord Beatrix, Aziraphale thought, the odd tradition Northerners had of calling heirs by their given names unsettling his Southern sensibilities greatly yet again.
“My,” Crowley exclaimed, circling to Aziraphale’s left side and sporting a grin that sparked forth wickedness as he continued wistfully, “How unfortunate. I’ve found myself without a partner for the next dance.”
Again with the audacious, open flirting, bordering on bossy. He was quite loud. Quite demanding. Quite direct. Intelligent and opinionated with a mouth unafraid to show it. Not the least bit obedient or passive or subtle. No, he wasn’t a proper Omega at all, and the Alpha found himself hopelessly smitten.
Aziraphale grinned. Skill be damned. If his embarrassment was somehow the cost of this Omega’s interest, it was a worthy price, indeed. He opened his mouth to ask, and was interrupted as a tall Lady Alpha found her way before them in half a moment, bowing to Crowley.
“Excuse the intrusion, Lord Anthony,” she hummed, “but I would be very glad if you were to do me the honor of giving me the next dance?”
Crowley frowned, but excusing himself from a dance that he had only just lamented very loudly about being neglected for seemed to be a social faux pas even he wasn’t brave enough to commit.
“Of course, Lady Bethany. I should be glad to,” he lied, the same sensation pulling in Aziraphale’s gut, and when he gave her his hand, he threw a performatively forlorn gaze at Aziraphale that forced laughter to bubble in the Alpha’s chest.
He watched the Omega dance for a while. It seemed his return to the dance floor made him a highly prized partner, and Alphas soon lined up to request the subsequent dances.
He truly was a beautiful creature. Quite tall for an Omega (Aziraphale reminded himself to compare their heights when they were next together) and very slender, with limbs so long they must have been a nightmare to accustom to the elegant grace with which they moved now. Watching him dance was like watching a great work of art be painted. A wild thing. Lovely, too. Aziraphale realized quite quickly that no matter how wild he was, the loveliness would always ensure him a long line of suitors.
What was he doing? He lamented. Making a fool out of himself again. Here he knew for a fact there was a True Mate out there for him, waiting to be found, and yet he was wasting his time playing with idle fantasy of courtship with an Omega not lacking in pursuers the slightest bit. An Omega who would no doubt find him too gentle and too boring. What was he about to do? Duel with other Alphas over the right to court a person he knew was not his True Mate?
It was late, he discovered. He was beginning to get aggrieved looks for his rude neglect of not inviting a single Omega to a single dance. Perhaps he’d have a mind of asking Crowley, but he seemed rather occupied. Aziraphale felt tired at the idea of putting himself out there. Tired of falling in love with unique, cheeky Omegas that would no doubt break his heart every time.
Simply tired. He wanted to go to sleep. He shared his goodnights with Lord and Lady Sutherland, thanking them for a lovely evening. The Lady Sutherland excused him with eager understanding, reassuring that of course he was exhausted, arriving the same day and going straight to a party. She voiced a great desire to get to know him further before his departure that he promised to fulfill.
After getting lost far too many times and eventually recruiting the help of a maid he found in the corridor, he found his room again, and rang for his valet. After undressing from his numerous fine layers, he resigned himself to bed, settling in on the numerous imported pillows to read. He found with a bit of displeasure that his mind was fixed on one place, and it wasn’t the setting of his book.
It was a place of calm and peace and contentment unlike any other he’d ever known. It was a place he longed to return to. It was the place he had found himself when surrounded by the sweet scent of an herb garden, laden with honey.
It seemed whether he liked it or not, the part of fool was his to play again.
Perhaps he’d delay his departure and stay for the shoot, after all.