Note: Originally written on February 20, 2014.

The Greatest of These

A thick, scaly coil tightened snuggly around Aziraphale's neck, not constricting enough to cut off his breathing* but taut enough to grab his attention. With methodical precision, Aziraphale carefully placed the last ceramic mug on the drying rack and quickly dried his plump hands with the dishcloth. Then he gently reached up and ran a finger a few inches along Crowley's smooth side, feeling the muscles beneath the skin ripple majestically in contentment.

The days where Crowley returned to his serpent form were few and far between,** but when they came, they were usually not like this. Blistering summer heat – the kind that brings all of London out to sit on their blankets amongst the trails and stone monuments of its parks – was as attractive to Crowley's cold-blooded nature as a pin to a magnet, but today Soho had been pelted with a nigh-Apocalyptic mix of rain, hail, and snow that had left the sidewalks an abominable sloshy mess. It was frigid outside, particularly for this late in February, but Crowley had nevertheless slunk his way into Aziraphale's bookstore and back into his modest kitchen. Aziraphale had nearly leapt out of his corporation at the sudden, sinuous weight of a grumpy six-foot-long, black-and-red serpent across his legs; he'd been at his kitchen table, engrossed in a newly-acquired manuscript, and hadn't noticed Crowley come in.

The demon had been unusually retentive all day, quietly hissing to himself and only speaking when Aziraphale forced him to answer a question. He'd even declined tea, settling for wrapping his tail a bit tighter around Aziraphale's soft waist and flicking his forked tongue at a ticklish spot on the back of the angel's neck. Since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley had certainly dropped by more and more often, and the angel could admit to himself that he was glad for the demon's company; so while the whole serpent bit was rather odd, Aziraphale was quite content with having his near silent companion draped around his body, across his back, and in a twist around his neck.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley must be enjoying his angelic body heat, using him to fight off the outside chill, as there was no other good reason for this sudden and rather extreme physical closeness. He ran a finger once more along the dappled snakeskin, marveling at the softness of Crowley's white underbelly. Such a beautiful serpent; no wonder, really, that he was such a natural tempter. Aziraphale smiled slightly and continued his gentle petting.

After a few long moments of this contentment, however, the angel found himself frowning. Though he could feel his companion's life force strongly from within his mortal form, Crowley wasn't moving. His coils remained in place, locked around Aziraphale's body. After an uncertain pause, Aziraphale drummed his fingers lightly against the serpent's neck. "Crowley…?" he whispered. "Er… my dear? Are you… quite alright?"

Crowley didn't answer. Aziraphale had almost determined to start panicking when an absentminded flicker of the serpent's tongue made him realize what was going on.

"Asleep, eh?" the angel murmured quietly, and chuckled. "That storm must have really worn you out." He took even more care as he glided his hand along Crowley's scaly neck, not wanting to wake him. The serpent wiggled in unconscious appreciation, coils flexing; it was almost ticklish and Aziraphale had to bite back a laugh. "Well, I don't know what possessed you to deem me an appropriate source of warmth, but-"

He stopped. Aziraphale was quite familiar with Crowley's aura – only his own was better known to him – and it was, as to be expected from a demon, full of all the usual dark vices of greed and pride and lust. It had its own flavor, too, hinting at car leather and sunshine through the leaves and limes over ice, such a potent mix. Angel though he was, it had been centuries, perhaps millennia, since Crowley's demonic aura had caused pain to Aziraphale's angelic one, and vice versa. But now there was something else within the unique cocktail that was Crowley, and sheer disbelief at the rather scientific possibility of it made Aziraphale almost miss its true nature.

Curled up in a tight serpentine embrace around the angel, Crowley was not only feeling perfect calm and contentment, but…

Love. So much love. And not from another, some byproduct of hanging around the Enemy too long. It was all from Crowley, self-generated and self-sustained, from a being who was not supposed to be able to comprehend such a thing, let alone feel it. And, oh, what strong love it was! Full of devotion and admiration and, oh… it was too much.

How could he have missed this? How long had such a miracle been residing, metaphorically, in Crowley's breast?

It was only after his glasses fogged up that Aziraphale realized his eyes were shedding rather angelic tears of joy. He dabbed them away with the dishcloth, careful not to pester the serpent with the edge of the rag. That replaced on the counter, Aziraphale quaveringly scratched the skin right behind Crowley's flat head and the sleeping serpent writhed in delight, the love in his aura pulsing with a thrill. Aziraphale smiled to himself.

He would let Crowley sleep a little while longer. It would give him time to fix them tea and figure out what needed to be said.

*Not that he needed to breathe in the first place, but the old human inhale-and-exhale business had become a bit of a habit for the angel, and it almost hurt to have the ability cut off in such a manner.

** Especially given his fear that, once transformed, he would be unable to or forget how to change back to his preferred human shape. Though he'd taken other forms in the past, Crowley usually just stuck with these two nowadays.