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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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?"

Pursing his lips, Aziraphale wondered, "Years of experience versus years of actual physical life in this body are very different things . . . It's so odd to consider being an age, which will advance. That being as it may . . . " He pulled the new thing towards himself, eyed it dubiously - no umbrella, small blessing - and took a sip. (It was good. Of course it was.) "I suppose I have looked forty-two for quite a long time."

When he looked at Owen, his eyes were troubled. "Depressing, yes. Oppressive, yes, as well. I would help if I knew what to do."

"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."

red solo cup is cheap and disposable;

he is an excellent friend

bestest of them all

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