This drink lent itself more to sipping than the scotch, and so Aziraphale allowed himself the distraction of it as he considered how to respond to Owen. Yes, it had been a story, one which even he did not always remember all of. At times, especially just after it had happened, it really had seemed like a dream. But more than that, it had been a prophecy, which - Aziraphale got distracted, staring into the fruity depths of his whatever-it-was, being medium-rude and not noticing - called into question everyone's actions, because prophecies and the cause and effect thereof. Although Agnes Nutter had never seemed one to meddle as such. Just write things down in a meddling sort of way in order to make people as confused as possible.

He and Crowley had discussed this once after a terrible nightmare (Crowley's) and a walk along the hills feeling very small (Aziraphale's). They had not come to any particularly comforting resolution.

A quick draft on the back of his neck brought him back to reality, and he shivered slightly. "Well," he said slowly, "there's never been much wear and tear - lived a rather comfortable life, so to speak." Un-life? Super-life? Sub-life, perhaps, graduating to quasi-life after what Didn't Happen. "I shouldn't tell you anything more," he mused, glancing at Owen with some concern. "But I do want to."

With a quick nod, he acknowledged Owen's words. Yes, be yourself. Even if one doubts oneself quite often and is not entirely certain whether one qualifies as ethereal or supernatural or human or just sort of there, and also is not sure about qualifications re: virtuousness and so on. "You might be better for it than me," he mumbled, and fiddled with a napkin.