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The prayer reaches Crowley’s metaphysical receptors with the usual sensation, simultaneously startling and familiar: blended tingle, tickle, caress, and just enough raw trust to never fail at taking his breath away.
Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, may it be your will to hear my prayer and grant my petition. Um. Hello there. This is Aziraphale. Can you hear me?
There aren’t many who pray to demons these days, with the possible exception of the odd order of Satanists that Crowley does his best to avoid (though even those groups tend to default to summons and bindings over prayer, more’s the pity). Still… once of celestial stock, always of celestial stock, and you don’t lose a core capacity just because you got a sulfur-flavored demotion.
Crowley concentrates. The thing about prayer is, while a fine method for outgoing communication, it’s a bit more iffy when it comes to two-way exchange. Of course, usually that’s not an issue, since most people don’t expect a direct, verbal response to their prayers. It’s designed to be a one-way channel, with responses (if and when there are any) coming in the form of signs, miracles, inspiration, or simply life.
Which means that, in order to answer this one, Crowley will have to pray right back. He concentrates, and reaches into his heart for the well of unremitting faith that he holds reserved for one being and one being only.
Angel Aziraphale, yo. Crowley skips the rest of the petition formula; it’s the sentiment that matters, in the end. Yes, he assures, of course I hear you. What’s up?
He switches his metaphysical mode from outgoing to incoming just in time to receive Aziraphale’s answer, accompanied by a slight taste of chagrin. Got myself into a spot of trouble, I’m afraid.
Crowley can’t quite hold back a smirk. He suspects he isn’t the only one for whom the prospect of staging a dramatic rescue scene — perhaps, even one that results in dinner or drinks before the night is out — is far from unappealing. What sort of trouble? he asks.
Erm. There’s a pause, and the connection cuts out for a moment — Aziraphale presumably turning his focus to something happening in his physical environment — then it returns, a bit more nervous. Possibly head-cutting-off sort of trouble. Er. O Demon Crowley.
Bugger. The humans are at it again; this is why he’s been procrastinating on checking out the reason for his most recent commendation. Crowley grimaces. Angel. You in Europe?
Paris.
Well, that’s convenient. I’m in France too. By the time Crowley finishes the prayed sentence and lands, only slightly off-balance, in a random alleyway across the channel, it’s true. Hastily, he modifies his attire accordingly. Hang on a minute…
Switching modes again, he traces the source of the invocation, following the thread of essence and intent through the metaphysical realm, out of the firmament, and into actual physical geography.
Ah. And yes, there it is, that well-known spark of ethereal energy, a short distance westward of where Crowley is right now. Should be simple enough to—
—there’ll be paperwork! Crowley catches the tail end of a spike of now unmistakably genuine alarm. Whatever is going on where Aziraphale is, it’s about time Crowley got there to stop it from going any further.
He tunes out the words and focuses once again on that celestial spark, the tendril of connection, the certainty of the location where Aziraphale is, where Crowley imagines with all the force of miracles that he is too…
Help will be here soon, I promise, Crowley prays with all his heart and soul. And as he does so, he teleports to the location that he has just persuaded his corporation to believe is here.
“Animals!” Aziraphale is saying irritably just as Crowley arrives at his destination, freezing time with a wave of the hand.
“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”
“Crowley?” Aziraphale exclaims, doing an impressively bad job of hiding a smile. “Good lord.”
Demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, the angel’s prayer resonates in Crowley’s metaphysical receptors, even as in physical space they discuss head-cutting machines and strongly-worded notes and crêpes. It’s very good to see you, dear.