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I’m sssleeping, the serpent hisses.
“Really?” Aziraphale inquires, politely skeptical.
Obviousssly.
“Do you plan on awakening?”
Only if you make me.
“Is that a challenge?”
Sssure.
“Accepted.”
Aziraphale snaps his fingers. Crowley parries the miracle, still feigning sleep.
New strategy. Aziraphale bends, twining his arms in Crowley’s coils, and heaves. Crowley is far heavier than anything of his size has any right to be.
Aziraphale could respond in kind, with miraculous strength. But this is a challenge for wits, not muscles.
Instead, Aziraphale disentangles his arms and stands back. Time to play his ace. “Well, since I have nobody to keep me company, I’ll just go to the Ritz alone…”
Crowley starts to uncoil, a suddenly seething, outraged mass of scales, pretense of sleep abandoned. You would never!
“Of course I wouldn’t.” The Ritz is their place. What would be the point in going alone?
Crowley glares. Bassstard.
“But I won.”
By playing dirty. Okay, I’m awake. What now?
“I’m quite content with your company.”
Then sssit.
“Make me.” Aziraphale arches his eyebrows.
If you sssay ssso.
Crowley slithers, creating a comfortable-looking, Aziraphale-shaped space amid his coils.
Aziraphale holds out approximately thirty seconds. Crowley is, after all, an experienced tempter.