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They most often approach the notion of physical touch during the inherent privacy of night.
It still feels a bit dangerous; the existence of any intimacy at all is a great vulnerability for them, something they’ve always been ordered to quash and forced to hide, something that requires appropriate preparation and protection. If they’re physically and psychically wrapped up in each other, then who will be the lookout? They don’t even come close until they are the only two beings in the universe who know what is transpiring between them - except, perhaps, for some potted plants and God Herself, but they've made their peace with that.
Sometimes, it happens in the luxurious velvet black of Crowley's bedroom.
They have a little routine on evenings when Aziraphale stays at the flat: Crowley turns in for a sleep, and Aziraphale reads a book beside him in bed. But every now and again, the mood strikes the angel to be closer for a while, and he shuts off the light, nestling under the covers in the pitch darkness. Crowley receives him without a word, his spirit an irrepressible heat like a hearth’s fire casting its warmth on Aziraphale.
In this full-body embrace, with Crowley’s hand cradling his head close, Aziraphale feels important beyond measure. The comfort of being truly safe and deeply wanted by his best friend has finally seeped in through the layer of Aziraphale that had once believed this would be unwise and impossible besides. He winds his fingers into Crowley’s hair, his arm around Crowley’s waist.
This is never a moment for talking, always for different kinds of conversation: the pressing of Aziraphale’s face into Crowley’s chest, the caressing of Crowley’s hand on Aziraphale’s back, the occasional contented hum from each.
Sometimes, it happens in the dusty gold of A.Z. Fell & Co.
They have a little routine on evenings when Crowley stays at the bookshop: Aziraphale starts his favorite music on the gramophone, sits on one side of the couch, and puts his feet up. Crowley sits on the other side of the couch, spine at some preternatural angle, poking and prodding at humanity on Twitter. But every now and again, the mood strikes the demon to be closer for a while, and he slouches over to lean on Aziraphale. Aziraphale leans right back into him.
Tentatively, as though it's the first time every time, Aziraphale weaves their fingers together. As they settle in, he radiates affection and grins like the cat who ate all the cream, like he’s helped himself to the very best secret in the world.
Despite being the Serpent of Eden - rather known for spilling the world's first secret - Crowley is completely intoxicated by the notion that this time he is the secret captivating his best friend. They end up with their heads leaning together, temple to temple and cheek to cheek. Aziraphale closes his eyes, pleased by the music and the clasp of Crowley's hand; Crowley closes his eyes, pleased by the soft couch and Aziraphale's body heat.
Sometimes, here, they do talk. They whisper, about the music. Or people. Or anything else in the world. It’s less about the subject at hand and more about each wanting to listen to the other speak in his most hushed voice.
If either one turns his head in one of these moments, their lips will meet. Both are careful, and it doesn’t happen the first or the second or the tenth time, but eventually, they do turn toward each other in tandem. Deep in the night, Crowley and Aziraphale’s very first kiss is a delicate, cautious staccato of soft presses and sighs.