Philosophophy
Sep. 4th, 2010 06:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnyGood Omens fic
almost gen
"Am I a butterfly," Aziraphale asked the rather nice chablis that had agreed to be his friend this evening, "dreaming itself to be an angel, or rather an angel dreaming that I'm a man?"
"What?"
That wasn't the chablis, obviously. That was Crowley, slumped in a wickerwork chair on the other side of the table and glaring at his own wineglass as though it had done him a terrible mischief. It had got him drunk, admittedly, but it wasn't as though that was entirely without his participation.
"Old philosophiphophical question, dear boy," Aziraphale said, rather proud of himself for successfully navigating that frankly tricky sentence. "Am I an angel who occasionally dreams of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it's a - " he groped for the conclusion, rather certain that the first iteration hadn't gone entirely right.
"Wineglass," Crowley suggested.
"Wineglass," Aziraphale agreed uncertainly. "Or, or book, or something. Or - did it have to be able to dream?"
"Don't think butterflies can dream," Crowley said. "Not about being people, anyway."
"Or wineglasses," Aziraphale pointed out, and Crowley conceded the point with a brief wave of his hand.
"Or wineglasses. Question of perception, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Aziraphale asked absently, his focus rather more on closing one eye so that the bottle and glass would line up.
"Stands to reason," Crowley went on doggedly. "Butterflies are all - all smells and things, right? Scent trails and pollen and - am I thinking about bees?"
"I like bees," Aziraphale said, perking up. "Delightful honey machines."
"Right, but you wouldn't accuse a bee of dreaming in full 3-D technicolour, would you? It'd all be flowers and pollen and complicated communication dances, not - " he cast around for something suitably human, and landed on - "those Tesco self-service machines and Eastenders."
"Maybe a butterfly has a very active fantasy life," Aziraphale protested primly, managing to get back to the original point through sheer force of will.
"Maybe, but then why would it be dreaming it's you?" Crowley's train of thought was getting more sensical by the moment, his speech likewise. "No offense, angel, but you're not exactly the stuff of wild fantasy."
"No," Aziraphale said after a moment, sounding... if not less drunk, then at least entering the maudlin stage thereof. "I suppose not."
"I mean, if you're a butterfly who's dreaming about personhood, you're gonna go with," Crowley flapped his hand again, searching for a reference that Aziraphale'd have some hope of understanding, "with Helen Mirren or someone, right?"
"Or Lady Gaga," Aziraphale agreed, a trifle mournfully.
"When have you heard of - " then again, he probably didn't want to know. "Or Lady Gaga," he agreed instead.
"Hmm," Aziraphale agreed, but he didn't sound happy with it, staring into his glass of chablis dolefully.
"You'd only be fantasy material," Crowley said after a moment, "for someone completely unlike a butterfly."
"Or a wineglass," Aziraphale said, and dredged up half a smile. "Yes, probably you're right. It was a ridiculous line of - "
"Someone who'd seen a lot more excitement than a butterfly," Crowley continued, irrepressible. "Someone who'd had enough of the high life, and the hedonism, someone who needed something a little more ordinary and middle of the road and soothing to complete them."
"Yes," Aziraphale said snippily, grabbing hold of the wine bottle again and frowning in concentration as it would insist on shaking a little, "thank you, Crowley, I get the - "
"Someone like me," Crowley interrupted, closing his hand over Aziraphale's and helping him pour his drink.
almost gen
"Am I a butterfly," Aziraphale asked the rather nice chablis that had agreed to be his friend this evening, "dreaming itself to be an angel, or rather an angel dreaming that I'm a man?"
"What?"
That wasn't the chablis, obviously. That was Crowley, slumped in a wickerwork chair on the other side of the table and glaring at his own wineglass as though it had done him a terrible mischief. It had got him drunk, admittedly, but it wasn't as though that was entirely without his participation.
"Old philosophiphophical question, dear boy," Aziraphale said, rather proud of himself for successfully navigating that frankly tricky sentence. "Am I an angel who occasionally dreams of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it's a - " he groped for the conclusion, rather certain that the first iteration hadn't gone entirely right.
"Wineglass," Crowley suggested.
"Wineglass," Aziraphale agreed uncertainly. "Or, or book, or something. Or - did it have to be able to dream?"
"Don't think butterflies can dream," Crowley said. "Not about being people, anyway."
"Or wineglasses," Aziraphale pointed out, and Crowley conceded the point with a brief wave of his hand.
"Or wineglasses. Question of perception, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Aziraphale asked absently, his focus rather more on closing one eye so that the bottle and glass would line up.
"Stands to reason," Crowley went on doggedly. "Butterflies are all - all smells and things, right? Scent trails and pollen and - am I thinking about bees?"
"I like bees," Aziraphale said, perking up. "Delightful honey machines."
"Right, but you wouldn't accuse a bee of dreaming in full 3-D technicolour, would you? It'd all be flowers and pollen and complicated communication dances, not - " he cast around for something suitably human, and landed on - "those Tesco self-service machines and Eastenders."
"Maybe a butterfly has a very active fantasy life," Aziraphale protested primly, managing to get back to the original point through sheer force of will.
"Maybe, but then why would it be dreaming it's you?" Crowley's train of thought was getting more sensical by the moment, his speech likewise. "No offense, angel, but you're not exactly the stuff of wild fantasy."
"No," Aziraphale said after a moment, sounding... if not less drunk, then at least entering the maudlin stage thereof. "I suppose not."
"I mean, if you're a butterfly who's dreaming about personhood, you're gonna go with," Crowley flapped his hand again, searching for a reference that Aziraphale'd have some hope of understanding, "with Helen Mirren or someone, right?"
"Or Lady Gaga," Aziraphale agreed, a trifle mournfully.
"When have you heard of - " then again, he probably didn't want to know. "Or Lady Gaga," he agreed instead.
"Hmm," Aziraphale agreed, but he didn't sound happy with it, staring into his glass of chablis dolefully.
"You'd only be fantasy material," Crowley said after a moment, "for someone completely unlike a butterfly."
"Or a wineglass," Aziraphale said, and dredged up half a smile. "Yes, probably you're right. It was a ridiculous line of - "
"Someone who'd seen a lot more excitement than a butterfly," Crowley continued, irrepressible. "Someone who'd had enough of the high life, and the hedonism, someone who needed something a little more ordinary and middle of the road and soothing to complete them."
"Yes," Aziraphale said snippily, grabbing hold of the wine bottle again and frowning in concentration as it would insist on shaking a little, "thank you, Crowley, I get the - "
"Someone like me," Crowley interrupted, closing his hand over Aziraphale's and helping him pour his drink.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-04 07:04 pm (UTC)In other news thank you for mentioning your dw id - you were really the last thing keeping me at LJ. I know you may not post here as much but tis very nice to come here and find new things!