Author's note: Crowley and 'Zira don't belong to me, but they were introduced to me by the lovely duo of mssrs. Gaiman and Pratchett. I just borrow them for good fun. This story is the result of me being incredibly bored in Art History class while looking at slides, one of them being Albrecht Dürer's Four Horsemen piece (funny...am fairly sure that piece is actually mentioned in Good Omens too...). In any case, this is just a bit of fluffy fun, and very vaguely slashy to boot. I tend to slash characters in my head and then not actually write slash about them, resulting in things like this, which are slashy only if you squint a little and look at them upside down. I love feedback even more than I love my own sunglasses (which is quite a lot, actually).
"This is boring," said Anthony Crowley, but his companion did not listen.
Aziraphale peered closely at the display in front of him. "Hmm," he said. "Well," he said. He fished in his pocket and after a moment of fumbling, he placed a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his nose. "Ahh," he said. "Look at the detail on this. Engraving is such a difficult process. This is quite exquisite. Crowley, look at this."
Crowley looked. And hissed. And backed away. "You're sick, angel."
"It's by Albrecht Dürer. He was quite talented, you know."
"It's the bleeding Four Horsemen...persons! Nothing I want to be reminded of."
"You're being silly."
"No," said Crowley. "I'm being bored."
"Nobody dragged you here."
"You said we were going to lunch. I wanted to go to lunch. I didn't want to come to a bloody boring art gallery and stand around for an hour."
"We'll go to lunch later," said Aziraphale cheerfully. "But this is my last chance to see this exhibit."
"Boring," Crowley repeated. "Let's go."
"Fine," said Aziraphale.
"Good," said Crowley.
They went, making their way through crowded streets until they reached a small bistro.
They went in.
They sat down.
They ordered.
They waited.
Aziraphale hummed. Crowley glared at him.
Crowley tapped his foot. Aziraphale smiled at him.
Crowley noticed the glasses that were still perched on Aziraphale's nose. He reached over and tapped them gently. "What's with those? I know you don't need them."
"I got them last week. What do you think?"
"Mmm. Cute," said Crowley, as if it was the least complimentary thing he could have possibly said.
Aziraphale sniffed. "I think they make me look intelligent."
"Vanity of vanities," Crowley muttered. "All is vanity."
"You should talk. You never take those things off."
Crowley touched his sunglasses defensively. "I'm used to them."
Aziraphale pulled his glasses off and held them out to Crowley. "Let's trade."
"What?"
"Come on. Let's trade. I want to try yours on."
"This is stupid."
"It'll be fun," said Aziraphale with the smile of someone whose idea of fun consisted of spit-polishing their best shoes every Thursday night.
Crowley was unsure about the entertainment factor, but he knew Aziraphale well enough to know that the angel would not stop nagging until he, Crowley, played along. Aziraphale leaned closer, that familiar, annoying, irresistible smile on his face. He jiggled the glasses invitingly, and Crowley, sighing, took them.
Crowley took off his glasses and blinked furiously. "It's too bright in here."
"Dear," said Aziraphale, grabbing Crowley's glasses, "this is quite possibly the darkest restaurant I've ever been in."
"I have sensitive eyes."
"Mmm hmm. Put on the glasses."
Crowley did, still squinting in the light.
A waiter came over, setting their food on the table. He gave Crowley an appraising look. "Nice contacts."
"Thanksss," hissed Crowley, flicking his tongue. The waiter quickly left.
"That wasn't necessary," admonished Aziraphale.
Crowley ignored him. "These glasses make me feel like a git."
Aziraphale peered over the top of the sunglasses. "Mmm. They bring out the gold in your eyes." He hid behind the sunglasses again, and Crowley found it hard to tell if he was being laughed at.
It was strange to see his sunglasses on Aziraphale. They did not go together. Aziraphale was wearing a rather atrocious sweater to protect himself from the cold day, and a beige trench coat was hung on the back of his chair. The glasses did not belong. "You look like a spy on holiday."
Aziraphale appeared to be enjoying Crowley's sunglasses. He looked around the room, then settled back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Do you like the world to be this dark?"
Crowley shrugged. "I'm used to it."
"It's like night in here. Is it like that everywhere?"
"I guess. I don't really notice."
"Hmm," said Aziraphale. "All the colors in the world, dulled. Everything in shadow. Well." He took the glasses off and hooked them on the top of his sweater.
They ate in silence, Crowley eyeing his sunglasses. The light did not bother him anymore, but he wanted them back. They were comfortable, they were part of him. He felt exposed without them, and he did not like feeling anything but confident. Seeing that Aziraphale was not watching, he leaned forward to grab the glasses. Aziraphale noticed and slapped his hand away.
"You'll get them back when we're done." Aziraphale grinned. "I rather like mine on you. They're cute."
Crowley fought the urge to stick out his tongue and finished his lunch. Aziraphale was still eating. Again, Crowley leaned forward, and this time Aziraphale did not see. Snaking his arm around the angel's shoulders, Crowley grabbed his glasses as Aziraphale sputtered, trying to get away, but with no success.
"Much better," said Crowley, putting his glasses back on and leaning back in his seat.
"Fair's fair," Aziraphale said. "Give me back mine."
Crowley grinned wickedly. "Only if you beg."
"Please?"
"On your knees," Crowley said, putting the glasses in his pocket.
"Crowley!"
Crowley put on his coat and headed out the door. "You're coming, aren't you?"
Aziraphale followed, frowning. "I just want them back."
Walking outside, Crowley noticed that it did look like night through his glasses, everything a shadow. He was annoyed that it bothered him, and pushed his glasses slightly down on his nose so that he saw a little light. He looked over at Aziraphale and saw that the angel's cheeks were red from the cold.
"Crowley?" Aziraphale tipped his head to the side and smiled sweetly. "Please?"
"Not on your - " Crowley began, but stopped when his stomach made a queer little flip. That stupid, irresistable smile. He sighed and tooked the glasses out, tossing them to Aziraphale, who caught them awkwardly. "Stop looking at me like that. It's disgusting."
Aziraphale did not stop, but Crowley did not really feel like telling him to again.