It's odd, you being physical like that. You were never physical as an angel. Touching was something you did out of necessity, to heal him, to hold him back, to get his attention, to punch him in the face when he let you down. He can't remember if they ever hugged. They definitely never held hands. It's—not bad. It's slightly awkward, but feeling your fingers clasp around his, the rough fabric of your fingerless gloves against his palm, it's not an unpleasant feeling. As far as favors go, it's far from the worst anyone's ever asked of him.

He just sits there quietly as you tell him you've missed him, holding your hand with one of his, the other wrapped around the whiskey mug. Turns his head a little when you continue—he's not sure what you mean by that, but he doesn't want to ask. Traces the creases and streaks of dirt on your jeans, wonders how many pairs you have. If you have more than one. If someone showed you how to wash your clothes or if you learned it by yourself. There are a lot of things you would have had to learn. He hopes you had some help with that, back in your world.

He does glance over at you when you tell him they should take the Impala tomorrow. Starts to shake his head—they can't do that, Frank said it's too dangerous, and while Frank's got a few screws loose, when it comes to being sufficiently paranoid, he's the best—but then stops when you suggest to go for a drive.

"Now?" He thought you wanted to go to sleep. Play house. Pretend to be in a relationship with him. But your expression seems to suggest that you do mean now, that you'd like to include going for a drive in his car in your last-night-on-Earth program.

It is what he came here for. He nods. "All right. I'll have to put the ignition back together first."

He's not going to hotwire his baby. Not when he has the keys right there in his pocket.