Crowley isn't expecting anything further. Why would she? Dinner and a show, and an unspoken but safe to assume promise of several hours of shared passion afterwards. That's more that enough to spoil any demon rotten (if it's possible to spoil a demon). Add in the intensely personal aspects of that particular show, and Crowley honestly can't imagine a better evening.
She wouldn't notice the change on her own. How often do you really look up at the sign above a well-known shop? Especially at night, especially when you live there? Especially when you're much too busy filling your eyes by looking at the most beloved being in the universe?
Crowley probably wouldn't notice on her own. But she notices Aziraphale noticing, wonders what's causing the odd note of satisfaction in his face, glances up.
It takes a few seconds to sink in, to recognize her own name there. Next to his. On his shop, his home. A home she now shares, but which has still mostly been his, two hundred years of ownership versus a few paltry months if squeezing her things in next to his, squeezing herself into his life, invading, invited and welcome but still invading and almost pitifully grateful for the privilege. And now her name is above the front door.
Crowley stops dead in her tracks, staring up at it with her mouth open. Behind her sunglasses there are tears in her eyes. Not many. But they're there.
Haven't seen it but the reviews are hilarious. Also crowley.exe has crashed.
She wouldn't notice the change on her own. How often do you really look up at the sign above a well-known shop? Especially at night, especially when you live there? Especially when you're much too busy filling your eyes by looking at the most beloved being in the universe?
Crowley probably wouldn't notice on her own. But she notices Aziraphale noticing, wonders what's causing the odd note of satisfaction in his face, glances up.
It takes a few seconds to sink in, to recognize her own name there. Next to his. On his shop, his home. A home she now shares, but which has still mostly been his, two hundred years of ownership versus a few paltry months if squeezing her things in next to his, squeezing herself into his life, invading, invited and welcome but still invading and almost pitifully grateful for the privilege. And now her name is above the front door.
Crowley stops dead in her tracks, staring up at it with her mouth open. Behind her sunglasses there are tears in her eyes. Not many. But they're there.