"Mmmm," Crowley says, and closes out the screen so he can pick up his glass of wine again -- take a slow sip. Dutch courage and all that.

Then, carefully, Crowley untwines the fingers laced through Aziraphale's. A slow, cautious move so it won't be construed as rejection. Instead, he moves to slip a tentative arm around the angel's waist. To draw him just a little closer so they can press side-to-side properly. So they can soak in each other's warmth, get used to being able to hold each other. To being... this close, at least, for a start.

"Maybe we can grow some in our new place."

If it has a garden, or even just window boxes. Anything works.