"You're reading a magazine, angel?" Crowley asks, surprised, leaning over the couch Aziraphale is settled in.

Aziraphale hums and doesn't look up. "Yes. I think it's nice to branch out sometimes, dear."

He leans over some more and sees what Aziraphale is reading, exactly— there's dates and twelve different paragraphs, different constellations in the side of each paragraph. He raises a brow. "Horoscopes, angel? Really?"

Aziraphale shrugs, still not looking up as he savors every word in those made-up reports about the fate of humans based on their dates of birth. "I just appreciate their creativity," he says.

"I mean, yeah, that's why you had all those books before your bookshop burned down," he says, "But like, it's the lowest hanging fruit in terms of human creativity. True human creativity is Queen's A Night at the Opera album. Now that's something worth talking about."

"I like the lowest hanging fruit," he says, looking up at his love, a small smile settling on his face. "Eve did too, as far as I'm aware, dear."

Crowley sputters. "Sssshut up!"

He laughs in earnest. "Yes, I know, you're sssensitive about the Original Sin."

He groans. "Shut up. So, anyway..."

There's silence for a few moments, Crowley still hanging off from the back of the couch, Aziraphale still smiling at him toothily. After a few moments, Crowley gives up and stops, turning and settling in one of the armrests, making Aziraphale turn up his nose.

Aziraphale asks suddenly, "What's your horoscope?"

Crowley blinks, taken aback by the question. "Angel, you know we don't have birth dates. We existed four thousand years before the Gregorian calendar even started existing, dear, I—"

"I know." Aziraphale puts the magazine in Crowley's thin hands, the awfully applied black nail polish rubbing off on the cover a little. "But that means we get to choose." He takes one of Crowley's hands and flips the page towards a quick guide on the personalities of each sign. "Go pick one, dear."

Crowley draws in a breath and looks down at Aziraphale's perfectly manicured nails, pink nail polish and all. After a few seconds he looks at the page. "I'm a Leo," he proclaims after mere moments of reading through the list.

"A bit egocentric," Aziraphale reads off with a small smile, "Brave, loyal, determined. Intense. The sun itself."

"Oh, Aziraphale," he breathes, a hand on his love's thick coily hair. "You are a romantic."

"It's what I know about Leo," he tells him. He grabs the magazine back, running his fingertips along the words, savoring each one as he gets through the signs. And then he gets to Virgo.

"I'm a Virgo," Aziraphale says.

"The Virgin," Crowley reads off the newspaper in its fine print. A crude smile makes its way into his fine factions. "Doesn't sound like you, angel, not at all."

He groans and leans his head against Crowley's arm. "Metaphorical, my dear."

"You and your metaphorsss— it's still clear you're not anything of a virgin."

"Crowley," he grumbles, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. He takes the magazine more firmly and reads off. "Analytical, neat, loyal, kind, self-critical."

"Does sound like you," Crowley admits, pressing a kiss to the top of Aziraphale's hair. "We are both loyal, if our chosen signs are any indication."

"Mm," he agrees. "Loyal to each other."

Crowley pulls him up by the collar of his sweater, kisses him. "Loyal to each other, angel." He lets up and Aziraphale turns a page back to the horoscopes. "Are you going to look for our luck?"

"Well, our luck is very ineffable, but we can always see humans try."

"We can always see 'em try," he says, looking through it. "You'll have good luck in love this week," he reads.

"'s that for you or for me?"

"It could be both, dear," he says, "But for you."

"Sweet!" he exclaims. "That means you'll be up for some rough—"

"It means we'll cuddle," Aziraphale cuts in.

Crowley pouts and leans in to kiss that space beneath one of Aziraphale's ears. "It means we'll cuddle. Where's the, uh, yours?"

Aziraphale looks down and reads off, "Keep your cards close, for money might be tight in the near future…"

"They want you to go yell at Heaven," Crowley interprets without missing a beat, a crooked smile on his lips.

"Dear, they always want me to go yell at Heaven."

Crowley laughs. "I know. And I always want me to yell at Hell."

Aziraphale pulls him down, giving him a quick kiss on the corner of his lips. "D'you want me to tell you what I know about astrology?"

"Of course." He gets cozier in the armrest, humming contently. "Tell me all about those made-up reports, angel. I'll tell you about Queen's A Night at the Opera's irrefutable truth right back."

He smiles and miracles a heavy book about astrology into his lap, getting rid of the magazine. "Let's do. just that, then, dear."

They spend the rest of the day sharing that couch.