A tall, gaunt form undulates towards the Pearly Gates, its gait shuffling and uneven, as if it had too much to drink. Its wings have seen better days, and the left one seems to be... lopsided, somehow. Which is, of course, categorically impossible, because everyone knows angels are divine embodiments of perfection. So... there’s probably just something wrong with thine eyes, mortal.
As it lurches nearer to the Saint at the Gates, one might even think one hears noises coming from its belly, which is, we must stress again, just not possible, since angels are His Will given form. Their bellies, which do not exist, can, therefore, not rumble, or make any other noises. Especially not noises like this.
“Ow! Your talon is in my ear, Azzy!”
“Stop sucking on my tail, Bel! Now is not the time!”
“Fuf oo fige it!”
“Girls, quiet! We’re almost at that Saint guy! Pecker!”
“I’m not sure that’s right. I think it was... Feet Guy?”
Thou must still be discombobulated from thine journey up. It’s fine. Happens to everyone. Well, not everyone, but some people. All part of His Great Plan. Don’t worry about it. Which thou won’t, forevermore, now that thou art here! Unless, of course, thou art sent away and go to The Other Place. Anyway, cheer up, we’re sure thou willst definitely get through. Maybe don’t mention the fact that thou art seeing and hearing things however, yeah?
The form comes to a stuttering halt in front of the Great Gates, and awkwardly turns towards the bald, bored, bearded Saint checking people’s identities and marking them off in The Great Guestlist, an unenviable position he’s had for almost 2000 years now. And it seemed like such a great offer at the time. Recognition. An important position. Which it was, of course. But...
He could really use a break from the monotony, is all we're saying. Which, of course, might have just been provided. All part of The Great Plan, you see? It must be.
Aware of a looming presence, Saint Peter looks up. And up. And up. Blinks. “Yes? Can I help you...” His eyes flick up and down the robes that look suspiciously like none-too-clean bedsheets sewn together by someone that has little if not no experience with this kind of sewing. The flakes slowly peeling off the halo. The wing that creaks dangerously. “... your eminence?”
There’s some movement beneath the ‘robe’, as if someone can’t contain their glee that they’ve gotten this far. As if someone else is desperately trying to keep them still. Stop them from falling off. Surely not. Death does things to mortal eyes, and the adjustment period can take a while. Cause them to see strange things. Improbable things. Unthinkable things. So better stop thinking about it.
The figure squeaks “We–” Winces, as if hurt. As if being pinched. Starts over, in a much lower, surprisingly sultry voice. “I mean... we are the angel...”
The Saint can feel the panic oozing from the frozen apparition. As if someone forgot their lines. Ignores the heated whispers. Waits patiently. He has all the time in the universe, after all, and at least this is something new. Something interesting. Not boring.
The figure finished their sentence with “... Notfromhell?”, their voice inflecting back into a gaspy squeak again at the end, as if they themselves can’t believe they’ve just said that. Or someone else punched them somewhere very sensitive.
The whitebeard – for all beards in Heaven are pristinely white, of course – coughs, trying to stifle laughter, and nods. “Of course. And how may I help you, master Nathaniel?”
“Yes. Good. Nathaniel. That’s what I said.” the wobbling figure repeats. “Ahem.”
There are no disembodied voices. No heated whispers without a visible source. Those are a speciality of The Other Place. Thou must be mishearing the cherubic choirs, singing His praises. Thine transition must have been really rough. Maybe thou shouldst sit down for a bit. Thou hast all the time in the world now, after all.
“Ask him where the puppies are!”
“Remember, Grezayla said we needed to be nice to Feet Guy! He's like, a big deal! Or something.”
“Wait, I thought the plan was to stay hidden in the bedsheets? Although I guess we do already have the bedsheets...”
“Not like that! Just, you know, thank him and stuff. With words.”
“Will you two shut up? You’ll blow our cover!”
The angel Nathaniel – because of course that’s who the figure is, who else could it be? – sways in place, as if wrestling with internal demons. Which, we must stress, hasn’t happened since The Fall. No angels have fallen since. None. Not a one. Truly, is thy name Thomas, that thou doubts thus?
The Saint looks left. Right. The same immaculate scenery, for thousands of years. Nobody else in sight. Why would there be? The Saint keeps the Gates. Not even a single visit from any of the others. Bastards.
He beckons to the figure, who leans over quite precariously.
Again with the questions. Angels do not have spines, and reshape their bodies at will. Yes, even into that shape. No, you didn't see a tail peek out from underneath the robe's hem. Now hush.
Eyes twinkling, Peter whispers “Second ring in, follow the signs. You can’t miss it.“ Winks.
“Thanks, Feet Guy!” the angel Nathaniel calls cheerily with an awkward wave that bangs against its wing – which is definitely not made of wood – before majestically striding through the Gates. Sailing gracefully. Okay, fine. Shuffling dodgily.
The chuckling Saint shakes his head, and silently wishes them luck. Looks out at the line of hopeful mortals. “Next!”
Featuring @SpectreWrites' lovely Azaerixia, and inspired by comments we made on this story. You should go read her stories, they're much better.
Yes, I started with a story. I was lucky this recent prompt fits-if-you-squint.