Crowley's chest hurts. It's not a hurt from overgrowth,  but an ache one feels after hearing words he's been dreaming to hear for centuries. His arm pulls Aziraphale tight, an affectionate squeeze against him, his head resting against his. 

"Well," he clears his throat, "Gonna need you to clear those plants, then. Or I'm miracling you one of those frou frou drinks made with weed-killer."