caveofsapphires | red solo cup is cheap and disposable;

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red solo cup is cheap and disposable;

WHO: ِ Aziraphale [John Gates] & OPEN.
WHAT: After an invitation from a very nice man, Aziraphale heads to the Bar for some much-needed libation. Be aware that he is a hilarious drunk.
WHERE: The Bar [The Cave].
WHEN: Wednesday 11 April, evening.

-

Human he might be (and how quick had the transition been, really, not that he was willing to think too hard about that), but at the moment he was in a very figurative Heaven. After all, even absent the Rhône, the Bar served an excellent dry red.

He had been pleasantly surprised at the look of the place, actually. It was far cleaner than he'd expected, well-organized, not sticky, and he'd sat down at the bar without much trepidation, aside from the slight buzzing of nerves that came from a combination of new experience and social gracelessness. Which he'd likely never get rid of no matter how much he put his mind to it.

He could have done without the music, but it wasn't Queen and that was small favors.

It was so easy to immerse himself in the smell and flavor of the wine, to close his eyes and experience it with every nerve. (He swirled it around in the glass, too, like a proper wine snob, although if anyone confronted him about it he would say that he had a right to snobbery; he'd tasted nearly every wine there'd ever been.) He had missed this, very much. Sometimes they'd had trouble getting the right vintages to the cottage; there was much to be said for the convenience of urban life, even if urban life did take place inside an enormous cave. Although this experience was entirely new, it did bring back memories, and he allowed himself to toast to absent friends - friend - who would likely have sneered at him had he been watching in any case.

The day had gone better than expected - certainly better than his whirlwind of a first day. On occasion he caught himself wondering, Are you really just a man? Have you always been? It was so easy to slip into that mentality. There was the video, after all. But then he would remember his conversation with Owen, who'd seemed so off-kilter at first, so meddled with, and who'd voiced his doubts with such remarkable clarity. He had so obviously been struggling in the same way Aziraphale was that Aziraphale had found himself getting quite angry after the conversation was over and he was back in his tiny flat. It all smacked of messing about, which he heartily disapproved of.

It was odd, though. He'd never felt kinship to a human before. Adam had always been a bit . . . far removed, at once a child and omnipotent. He'd admired humans, for their skill and talent and intelligence, and he'd pitied them (Oscar Wilde had fallen into both categories), but never felt that he had anything in common with them.

This was all very new. He had never been good at "new". Drat.

But at least now he had wine and a bit of time to think. He smiled into his glass and ordered another. Really, it was wonderful.

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"That definitely sounds like a story." Owen drew his brows together, considering all of what Aziraphale revealed. It was a difficult thing — he wanted to press and hear the whole story, but he knew as well as anyone else did in the Cave that it was apparently Not Allowed. Bollocks to all that. Owen was a risk-taker by his very nature, but railing against The Man so blatantly in such an unknown situation rubbed him all the wrong ways. What was a man to do in times like these? "At least you look a young forty-two."

Here, Owen allowed himself a small smile. "Keep being yourself, mate. I'll do the same." Assuming he was being himself... doubt still gnawed, much as it had since Tuesday morning. He could only hope that it was only his name that seemed to be in question. "Seems like that's not what they want, anyway."

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.

"Another time?" suggested Owen. He wanted to hear it just as much as Aziraphale wanted to tell it. Their only issue now would be when they could speak freely... if that time ever came. Regardless, he tucked into the back of his mind to bring up later should the time ever arise. "Now you've got me hopelessly curious. I should think you wouldn't want to disappoint."

Considering, he tilted his head and gave an acknowledging shrug. "Perhaps. It's been an interest of mine to... be myself for quite a long time. You could say it was a matter of survival." Owen knew it was cryptic; there was simply no other way to explain himself under current conditions. Being a ghost for so long, the only way he could keep from degenerating into a mindless poltergeist or vengeful spirit had been to remember life. The best way he knew how was to simply continue living it. Having George (and later Joell) was more or less a godsend to his sanity. "That doesn't mean it's difficult, though. Just takes the right sort of motivation."

"Another time," Aziraphale agreed. "And you'll owe me," he added seriously, because though Owen had said less than he had, Aziraphale was still curious.

He sipped again, looking at Owen quizzically over the edge of his glass. "Yes, motivation," he said, placing it gently on the table. "However, part of being truly myself is not being able to talk for five minutes without putting my foot in my mouth." He did quirk a brow at the survival comment, nodding slightly so Owen would know he'd absorbed it, but let it alone in the end. Another time.

Giving a small, mischievous smile, Owen replied, "If that's what you want." He wouldn't try to skip out on his own story time either, not if Aziraphale was interested. It wasn't so much a secret as it was a fact of existence... Before all this, anyway. He didn't have to explain that he was a ghost or that he was actually nearer to his husband's age — but that was also when George still looked to be his proper 76. Now things were all needlessly complicated which both amused and confused him.

"Would you rather?" he asked. "Stick your foot in your mouth, I mean. I think we're having a lovely conversation without all that going on, and it doesn't mean you're not being yourself, either." He gave an amused nod toward the drink. "You haven't told me how that is, by the way. It's been a while since I've made it. That you're still drinking it is a good sign, I hope."

"I did knock over a full glass of really excellent wine a few minutes ago," Aziraphale said wryly. "Not technically sticking my foot in my mouth, but close enough. Unless you'd forgotten about that somehow, in which case, please continue having forgotten about it." After another sip, he bit the inside of his cheek in thought before saying, "But this never happens, you see. That is, it might be the drink, but it also seems as though - " Frustrated, he huffed. "You'll laugh. But I wouldn't be talking to you this way if you didn't seem so damnably familiar." He pointed accusingly. "This is entirely your fault, sir."

Looking down at the - he still didn't know what to call it - the drink, the drink thing, he was surprised to notice it was mostly gone. "Well, clearly it was good," he said. "Different. But good."

"Clumsiness is not the same as making an arse of yourself," Owen excused, giving a quick point halfway between Aziraphale and the ceiling before crossing his arms back across the tabletop. His head tilted just enough to emphasize his amusement when he continued, "Though they often coincide."

Claims of familiarity caught Owen off guard, and he could do nothing to stop the pleasantly surprised laugh. "Suppose I ought to take that blame gladly if it's gotten you to open up so much," he mused. "Glad you approve of the drink, but—stepping back for a mo'—might I ask who or what I remind you of?"

"No one in particular." Aziraphale shrugged. That was the odd thing. It was a different sort of familiarity. "It's more as though . . . I met you several hours ago but it seems as though I've known you for years. Just - that's all."

In a way it was more that he didn't remind Aziraphale of anyone that threw him off. There was a touch of playfulness that was familiar, distinctly human as opposed to Crowley's teasing and Adam's . . . creativity. But what was distinct was that, despite all the oddness around them and the pain and confusion that Aziraphale had glimpsed earlier, Owen was simply and straightforwardly kind.

"No agenda," he said into his glass, and drank the rest.

"Guess that means we're compatible, John." His amused look gave nothing away, rather the teasing in his tone doing enough for him. "It happens when both ends are open to the possibility of making friends."

Part of him questioned why he was explaining this. Surely someone of Aziraphale's age should know or would at least be offended at Owen's presumptuousness, yet he seemed as content to follow the conversation as Owen was to lead. There wasn't really any sort of judgement or inequality in the interaction, just a simple flow. Owen appreciated the dose of normalcy more than he could probably express.

"Bah," he said abruptly, waving a hand vaguely before settling it back again. "Who needs agendas? Nothing wrong with just enjoying yourself."

His smile, bright and vague at first, bled into the briefest of smirks at Owen's comments, then back again. "Good," was all he said. Owen wasn't the only one who appreciated having an actual conversation. Millennia of waving vaguely as history passed him by, then a week of tremendous excitement, then five years of sitting with it all followed by - this. He would take a few moments to enjoy the opportunity for an ordinary conversation, thank you.

Nodding, Aziraphale pointed at Owen again. "Precisely. People ought to calm down and simply enjoy things. That's all I ask. Thank you."

He placed his hand flat on the bar. It was cool and pleasant. Odd not to be able to control his level of inebriation. It had always been a nice luxury, but . . . he was supposed to be chilling out.

Right, then. He would admit that he was possibly perhaps getting towards a bit drunk. And he couldn't do a thing about it. He smiled happily at nothing.

Owen continued to smile, but then disrupted the mood with a shrug. "Not sure I can blame everyone who's all wound up right now, though." They weren't exactly in the best of circumstances, surrounded by confusion and dreams (or lack thereof...) and fake lives. "Just glad I'm not the only one seeing the silver lining."

He spared a glance toward Aziraphale's contentment and grinned in reaction. "Something funny?"

"Of course not." Aziraphale nodded vehemently. "But in general. When you can enjoy something, enjoy it."

He blinked owlishly at Owen's question. "Not particularly. Just pleased. Maybe a bit drunk. Sometimes it's difficult to tell the difference. However." He raises his eyebrows haughtily. "It's your turn to talk about whatever you'd like. As long as it's not sport. I'm very serious about it not being sport."

"If you'd some more help discerning," Owen said with a pointed look toward the glass, "you need only say the word. That's my job here, after all."

That earned Aziraphale a considering look from Owen. "Assuming you mean to include the bedroom sort under that blanket... Do you know what the Perseids are?" It was a question worth asking; if Aziraphale knew of Oscar Wilde, then chances were they shared other common denominators. That didn't mean the other man knew anything about astronomy. "One of my favourite times of the year, that would be."

"That would be delightful, if you don't mind." He certainly didn't plan on stopping anytime soon.

"All sport," he said severely, then brightened a bit. "The tears of St. Lawrence!" What a jolly martyr he'd been. Odd but so funny. "They're difficult to see in the city nowadays, but in the country - lovely." He pounds his fist on the bar, slightly harder than he'd meant to. "The sky is what we need, I believe I've mentioned this."

"Couldn't agree with you more." Head dipping briefly, Owen sighed. Oh, but how he missed the ability to be anywhere he wanted as soon as he wanted to. It was a particular kind of torture to be stuck with two legs and nowhere interesting to even walk to. George had it even worse, always had, and it pained Owen that even though George had been returned his youth, his limp had apparently followed him right outside of his dream.

Owen gave his head a quick shake and returned to the topic at hand. "Haven't missed them once since—well, since I was a lad." Rather, since he had died right underneath the amazing phenomenon. Now he could only wonder what would await them in the sky above, outside of this gloomy and disconcerting cavern. "Sure beats looking at a ceiling of sapphire all day."

"Well, we'll be seeing something new soon enough. For better or for worse." Aziraphale smiled. "Maybe it won't be so different, you know."

"That's just it, isn't it?" Owen shrugged, standing and taking Aziraphale's glass as he moved back to the bar. "All the maybes and who-knows-whats and everything else we don't know. It's exciting and, frankly, terrifying at the same time."

"Everything worthwhile is," Aziraphale said. "When you really think about it." He thought about giving Eve that sword, so many years ago, and realized that, yes, that was the first worthwhile thing he'd done, and yes, it had been terrifying but he'd felt the tiniest spark of the nearest an angel could get to adrenaline. And it had been the right thing to do, more or less.

"Difference from that is how we usually have a choice, that's why we get nervous." Sliding his card through the reader so he could get access to the rest of the stock, Owen glanced over his shoulder. Fundamentally, it was something he could and did agree with, yet there was a distinction to be made in this scenario, one he couldn't so easily overlook. "Somehow I get the feeling we won't have that freedom when the time comes. Do you?"

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? That was the fundamentally bothersome aspect of this place. If you thought and acted one way, you could continue as before. If you were curious, or didn't like obeying orders, or weren't convinced by the idea that you'd been asleep for years and dreamed an entire life, you got some vague punishment and . . . what? What then?

He found himself, for the first time, wishing the Antichrist was there.

"Well," he said firmly. "We'll just have to ensure that we do."

"Amen to that," Owen agreed under his breath. He went silent momentarily as he recalled how to make this next drink, a mixture with more of a flavourful kick than before, while still keeping the alcohol content fairly low. Those were the sorts of drinks he was used to making, over any type of hard or especially intoxicating blend.

He returned soon after, setting the drink down while he reclaimed his seat. "Rather think we should keep our heads low 'til then, though."

Rather than drinking straightaway, Aziraphale looked at Owen for a long moment. How long were they meant to wait, though? Aziraphale had waited thousands of years for answers - all the while entirely certain that they would come in one form or another, or else that he didn't need to know the Plan - and he had grown to love his planet and his humanity. The answers he had ultimately received had been crushing.

He ran his fingers across the bar, allowing it to catch briefly in the ring his last glass had made. No promises, he thought, but said, "I'm not likely to start any riots, my dear, look at me," and gestured to himself.

"Perhaps not," agreed Owen with a knowing smile. Starting them, no, but it didn't take much to get swept up in another person's ideal or fervour. "Let's try and keep it that way. We don't know enough to really do anything yet, anyways."

Aziraphale lifted his glass. "To biding our time?" he suggested.

Though he had no glass to lift, Owen tilted his head in a poor imitation. "To biding our time," he agreed.

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tartanisstylish - 2012-04-16 19:13 (UTC) - Expand

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