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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The warm reception allowed Owen to relax just the small bit he had been holding out. So he was reading Aziraphale correctly — good to know. He affected mock incredulity when he asked, "Never? Talk about impossibility, right there. How's a guy like you go so long without talking about sport with anybody?"

He gave an exaggerated shrug. "It never seemed relevant," he said. Beyond that one incident of divine inspiration at a rugby match, but he'd never actually talked about that. "Perhaps I've just been socializing with the wrong sort."

"The completely wrong sort," Owen agreed enthusiastically. "We can fix that right quick, though, don't you worry. On the other hand... not many sports to talk about around these parts. We'll figure something out." He waved his hand widely, taking the opportunity to lean back into his seat in what looked like a very comfortable position were it not for the stiff seating in the Bar.

Aziraphale imagined a person who would discuss sport. Then he imagined himself, and tried to put the two together. It didn't work, and he vaguely felt the universe laughing at him for trying. "Somehow I think you might be fighting a losing battle there, my dear."

"Oh, I haven't lost yet. We'll just have to find something just as exciting as sports to get your interest and go from there," Owen explained through a chuckle. "Itty-bitty baby steps."

"And what, in your mind, is as exciting as sports?" Aziraphale felt he would need more wine. Quite a bit more wine. He was not sure he would enjoy steps of any kind, no matter how many babies were involved.

With a devious smile blossoming on his face, Owen pretended to think about that answer. The façade didn't last very long. "There's always bedroom sports, but that generally doesn't make for good dinner conversation."

With a cough, Aziraphale promptly knocked his wineglass over - it didn't break, thankfully, but a puddle of wine slowly spread along the counter. He covered his face. Mortifying. Mortifying. What an inappropriate thing to say and yet he was the one who was mortified.

"Please tell me that a rag will appear in front of me by the grace of God so that I might clean up this mess without ever having to look you in the face again," he said, voice muffled by his hands. "Also: sorry." The tips of his ears felt hot.

Owen's first reaction was to immediately scoot back in his chair, away from the seeping wine that had spilled all over the table. Laughter followed far too quickly and even as he pulled the towel out from its placed tucked into his belt loop, he was helpless to the mirth.

"No, no, my bad, mate," he said as he sopped up the mess. Hard to tell if he was sincere or not through the chuckles. "You just opened yourself right up to that one, I had no choice."

"I don't think I did, the two aren't even connected, and - " He righted the glass in a huff and glared righteously at Owen. "You are enjoying yourself far too much!"

He stared very hard at his empty glass, willing it to refill of its own volition. Once upon a time it would have worked. Now he turned his gaze to the ceiling - give me strength - and remarked, "If you're quite finished, I will have something significantly stronger than wine as quickly as possible." He did, after all, have the money for it - and apparently the need.

Pushing away from the table to stand, Owen gave Aziraphale something of a more sedate smile. "Coming right up." He excused himself to fetch another towel for himself and retrieve something with more of a kick for Aziraphale. He used the brief moment to even out his breaths, making sure he didn't end up choking on nothing or just plum forgetting.

When he returned, he did not sit back down, although he seemed to very much want to. "Here you are. Fancy a bit more conversation, or shall I duck out before you throw that empty glass at my head?"

His glare was somewhat watered down by this point. One can only glare for so long. "I'll take the conversation," Aziraphale said, gesturing to the seat. His fingers itched to stretch toward the glass Owen was holding. "Also," he added, resisting the urge, "I would like to make it clear that I am not a violent man unless it is an accident, and that was an accident, even though I was provoked."

Owen quickly retook his place, setting the glass out for Aziraphale as he did so. Instead of leaning back as he did before, this time he sat forward with his arms on the table, amusement colouring his expression as before. "I'd hardly call spilling your drink all over the table violent," he replied. "Clumsy, definitely, but not violent. However, your remark is duly noted."

He took a sip. Blended Scotch. Though he rarely drank whiskey, he'd certainly take it. "Thank you," he said with as much dignity as he could muster, and took another swallow. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, "Is it a universal task of friends to make each other as uncomfortable as possible? I don't think I'm very good at it."

"That takes practice. Having siblings helps," he mused, head briefly tilting as he considered, "but they're not necessary. Besides, the rest of the time, friends just try to make each other laugh... or offer our shoulder or ear if need be. It's not all about pissing about."

Aziraphale still felt red around the ears, so he drank again. "I'm not actually offended," he confessed, "not really. I just find it curious, the give and take of it all. Perhaps it comes more naturally to others, or perhaps - lack of practice."

He was reminded of Crowley (who was crueler than Owen, who would still be laughing at him, and who would almost certainly bring it up later). "I've been told," he mused, "that I should - what was it? - 'chill out'." The last two words were enunciated precisely. As he felt silly saying them, he drank again.

"I'd say it's part nature, but it's many more parts practice," teased Owen. He reached out and patted John on his free hand before pulling back. "You'll get the hang of it if you want to."

His hand came up in a grandiose point toward the ceiling, a smile lighting up his features. "Chilling out," he began, before the finger came down and directed itself toward Aziraphale, "is exactly what you need to do. If not with the situation, then at least with your friends." Eyes sliding away, just for a moment, he then turned back and let his smile fade to something softer. "No reason to make all this harder on yourself, aye?"

He gave John a brief smile at the touch. The oddest things about this situation were that he did find this man easy to talk to and that, as a result, he greatly wanted to be easier to talk to himself. Even if that meant being messed about a bit, or doing the same to Owen. It appeared all in good fun, which he felt was a type of fun he had earned after all these years.

"How does one chill out?" he asked earnestly. "I was hoping the drinks would help, but . . . " He spread his hands wide in a shrug. "It's still me, unfortunately.

"Tell me about something," Owen suggested. One shoulder shrugged and he tilted his head in interest. "Tell me something you really like to talk about and then don't worry. That's your first step right there."

Something he liked to talk about. Don't think about it. All right.

"I met Oscar Wilde once," he said slowly. "If you know who that is. He signed my first edition of Dorian Gray and sort of looked at me sideways and left. I still have it somewhere." Next to his bed, every night. "I could sell it for millions." Though he never would. "It was quite a good day," he mused, although I was laughed at later for being so excited." He shrugged and shook his head. "Tremendously dull?"

"Oscar Wilde?" asked Owen, obviously surprised. He wasn't put off by the fact that Aziraphale had some sort of collector's edition item (he seemed awkward enough to be a collector, all told), but to have acquired it personally from a man who had passed before even Owen had been alive?

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped. The idea that someone could have dreamed themselves from another era entirely hadn't quite occurred to him yet. "That's quite the accomplishment. And, no, not dull at all. You weren't kidding about your age either, mm?"

Aziraphale beamed at Owen. "No, I am actually rather ancient," he said, chuckling. "Quite a lot older than you, I'd imagine. But I think it would quite spoil the fun if I was any more specific."

That had nearly been a joke. He was approaching happiness, the haze of alcohol covering over his recent case of roiling nerves. He was meant to chill out. Live in the moment. And drink, obviously.

He peered into his glass, then tilted it back and swallowed the rest. "Hm," he said, considering, and then, "I hope there's things to do in the City, when we get there. More than this. Not that I don't enjoy this, here, now, but it's not a real City."

Well, that settled that. Maybe. Owen did not miss the implication of the supernatural (he would have had to be blind and deaf to miss it), yet now he wondered what sort this man fell under. "You might be surprised at that," he replied with a knowing smile. Now that he was dealing with someone not quite human, assuming that he was younger was probably the safer bet; being in your eighties, while very impressive to other humans, had nothing on most other supernatural creatures.

"Caves aren't the best places to try and make cities, true. What are you looking forward to finding in the Diamond City, then? Or hoping to find." Owen paused, then pointed toward the empty glass. "Care for more? It looks like it's helping."

"Oh?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Surprises can be interesting. Although it might be a moot point now, as I am apparently - " He tried to remember, squinting at the ceiling. "Forty-two? Forty-three? Somewhere around there." He wondered if he would age. He'd never aged before.

Shrugging, he spreads his hands palms-up. "Something. More than this. Less fear, more living. Here, it's less disconcerting that there's not, I don't know, theaters and schools and things and more that everyone seems so uncertain. It's not right." He pushes his glass forward. "And I will if you don't mind. Your choice." Trusting Owen seemed to be working out fairly well for him.

Owen laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "If you're forty-three, then I actually am twenty-six." Not a complete disagreement with the facts, hopefully, but enough to keep the conversation going. Now he was interested.

With a nod, Owen excused himself with Aziraphale's empty glass and moved back behind the bar. He wasn't a bartender by trade (except that he apparently was, in this strange, strange place), but over the years he had picked up a few tricks and mixes. When he returned, it was with a concoction bearing a sweet, tangy fruit flavour to compliment the liquor without being overly girlish. "Tell me how you like it," he said as he made to sit once again. "As for this place... it does have a depressing atmosphere, doesn't it?"

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yes, Aziraphale, get more wine

WELL HE NEEDS IT NOW thanks liam >:(

LIAM IS NOT SORRY well okay maybe an eensy bit

THAT ICON DOES NOT LOOK AT ALL SORRY

HE CAN BE SORRY AND AMUSED AT THE SAME TIME

so ruuuude

welcome to friendship with Liam

he is an excellent friend

bestest of them all

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