Aziraphale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tartanisstylish) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
caveofsapphires2012-04-11 03:04 pm
tartanisstylish) wrote in caveofsapphires2012-04-11 03:04 pm
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.
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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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."
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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.
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He spared a glance toward Aziraphale's contentment and grinned in reaction. "Something funny?"
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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."
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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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."
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He returned soon after, setting the drink down while he reclaimed his seat. "Rather think we should keep our heads low 'til then, though."
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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.
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