It's a very short conversation.

Aziraphale attempts to cling to every second of it as it passes by him, but that's like trying to relish in a single piece of sushi—no matter how determinedly you enjoy it, there is no way to avoid the fact that it is not enough to fill you up. Not even close. Aziraphale is a stranger to the feeling of hunger, but he still loves the feeling of a full stomach, more so than he should be (or so the Archangel Gabriel seems to think).

There's a pause on the other end of the line.

Aziraphale doesn't delude himself into thinking Crowley is distracted by something—no, he knows that hearing Aziraphale's voice for the first time in six years is likely doing a number of Crowley just as much as vice versa. Or maybe nearly as much. (Just as much seems unfathomable.) Aziraphale is once again confronted by the unavoidable truth that he does not know how to handle being cared about.

Crowley says, yet again, "Aziraphale," this time as if he's at a loss. Like he called and then immediately forgot the reason for the call. Which is ridiculous, because it is Sunday, the 16th of January, 2039, and Soul-Mates™ has just been released by Heaven and there is literally nothing else near as important that Crowley could possibly be calling about.

So Aziraphale prompts, after a loud, shaky breath that these extremely advanced human cell-phone microphones definitely can pick up, "Uh. Today's the day, isn't it?" He means to inject his signature pep into his voice, but it comes out false and high, like he's trying and failing to sound like a woman.

"Today's the day," Crowley confirms with his usual flat drawl. It's so good to hear, it makes Aziraphale's eyes sting and his vision begin to blur wetly. Even a supernaturally enhanced memory is no match for actually, truly hearing Crowley speak—the gravelly drag of his voice and his particular inflection that feels a little bit like "I love how stupid you are" and a little bit like "can we get on with it?" At least, when he speaks to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale not sure what he's going to do with himself when Crowley hangs up. He wants to freeze time, but he's never tried to before and anyway—

"Just wanted to, uh, check, you know." Crowley's attempted nonchalance is the worst performance Aziraphale has ever heard from anyone, ever. "Do you—uh, just wanted to call and find out."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says wetly into the phone. "Oh, I have missed you."

There's a fumbling sound. Crowley says, "Oh… yeah…"

Aziraphale says, "It's you. Of course."

Crowley's voice pitches high, mocking. Not malicious mocking. Just… mocking. As a demon does. "Of course." He makes a sound that sounds faintly disbelieving. "Mine is too. Not my name, I don't have my name, I mean, it's you."

One might expect that since Aziraphale has already irreversibly mucked it all up between them, he wouldn't be terrified of mucking it up. The ship has sailed, as they say. But this is untrue, because thoughts and feelings don't always align themselves perfectly, leading to situations such as the current one, which sees Aziraphale clutching the phone close to his ear, his heartbeat racing in his chest, the terror of saying the wrong thing clogging up his throat even though he's fully aware there is no right thing to say.

Aziraphale makes a little cough to get around that lump in his throat. "Ha! Would be funny to get your own name, wouldn't it." He makes a little laugh sound next, to diversify his little sounds, but his attempts at pretending to laugh have never been very good. Maybe angels are just bad at deception. In any case, it clearly doesn't fool Crowley, because he doesn't get so much as a huff through the phone. He continues awkwardly, "Well, that's dandy. Good to know Heaven's comeback is working out to a tee, no hiccups anywhere."

Silence stretches one second, two. "Yeah, that'd be good news for you, wouldn't it."

So, yes, it is possible to say the wrong thing even when you've already dug yourself in a hole so deep, you're effectively already in the pits of Hell.

"Wh—I just—I didn't mean—"

"No, yeah, Heaven's on track, the Greater Good is flourishing with splendor and holiness, I get it. Just wanted to call and make sure." Crowley's carelessness is what really takes the cake. He only affects this sort of air when he's very upset.

It's an upsetting day.

"Well, that and—" Aziraphale has half a second to consider how to deliver the next two words. He has so many things he wants to convey in these two words: I'm happy about it! I'm hopeful about it! Also, I would love to talk about it more, and I would love to see you in person and maybe see if this could work out, somehow. I very much would like this to work out. Maybe we could grab a spot of lunch? "—We're Soul-Mates!"

He overdoes it. He sounds like he's a salesman pitching the Crowley-and-Aziraphale friendship at Crowley. Extremely, falsely, and impersonally optimistic.

"We're enemies too."

Oh, said some video Aziraphale once saw on a mobile device, how the tables have turned. The clip plays in his mind now. He feels it's applicable.

"Well, I'm not really sure how that works out," Aziraphale says, in a voice that suggests maybe finding out together. "Isn't life funny."

Crowley makes a gravelly clearing-throat noise on the other end of the line in a way that says, no, thank you. "MmMMmm not really. Stories about star-crossed lovers are all rubbish anyway. I regret ever giving Shakespeare an audience."

Aziraphale's heart sinks. "I rather think—Well—" He gets the urge to hide his face, even though he knows Crowley can't see him. "Well—I was thinking. I mean, I've been thinking, for a while, actually, I mean. It—well. You don't think there could be a chance, perhaps, that one of them is wrong?"

"Wrong," Crowley echoes flatly. And then, with exaggerated emphasis, "Oh, you don't think they could have given us false names, do you? Is that what you're suggesting? It couldn't be."

"Yes, I know," Aziraphale moans sorrowfully. Aziraphale wonders when humans will invent time travel. Why aren't angels able to time travel? They could do so much good if they could time travel, like prevent the rise of Hitler, or stop themselves from hurting their best friend's feelings by repeatedly suggesting they're inherently, unavoidably enemies. For example. "I was an idiot."

"Which one do you think is false?" Crowley asks, clearly not in good faith.

Aziraphale just makes another pitiful noise into the receiver. "Uh. Oh. Crowley. I. Oh. Crowley."

"You know," Crowley suggests rather nastily, "Maybe Heaven's giving out false matches, you never know."

"I do know," Aziraphale says miserably. "They are."

"Ha," says Crowley.

He doesn't say anything else. Aziraphale really, really wants him to say something else—anything else. Whether he's tried oysters yet. More Romeo and Juliet slander. Whether he hates Aziraphale's automated voicemail message, or the fact that he's still decades behind the times. A recounting of what he did to make the M25 so atrocious, or what he did to keep it churning out low-grade evil even as people transition away from cars.

Whether he's had a good six years.

"Is there anything else I…?" Aziraphale realizes too late that it sounds as if he's hinting he'd like to get on with his day. There is nothing he'd like less, nothing at all. He doesn't care that Head Offices will be extremely put out by his lack of punctuality, and will probably give him a very long, patronizing reprimand ending in "remember, being late is a mark of sloth, which is one of the Seven Deadly Sins," or else, ending with yet another quote from The Sound Of Music. Perhaps, "You're always late for everything, except for every meal." In fact, he'd rather never eat again than end this call. He'd rather find out that Satan has had another Anti-Christ child. "Not—not that I want to go do anything else. Not that, uh, I mean, you don't even need a reason to stay on the line, really, feel free to stay for—"

"No, that was it," says Crowley, and then the phone begins to beep-beep-beep.

Aziraphale has been hung up on.

For a moment, Aziraphale stands in his bookshop, staring at the phone in his hand, which reads clearly, Call Ended, as if he has suddenly lost the ability to comprehend English writing. He feels as if the life has left him, as if his heart has stopped pumping blood and started pumping seawater: cold. Sick. Empty, bereft, unable to stand upright.

"Right," he says to his phone. "I'll see you in a minute."

Then, he puts it back in his pocket and goes back behind the register, where he keeps his matches and his candles. He's got to speak with upper management, immediately.