Death on two legs

Purgatory

The air conditioning sighed, and with help from the muted grey colour scheme, it created a sparse and soulless atmosphere; he had thought that was funny, ironic even. The room was timeless and allowed for practising jokes. "Always late..." he murmured languidly. There was a plant in the corner of the room, the only permanent life for miles, it added a splash of colour to the waiting room. Crowley made sure to arrive early to water it. Crowley's hand flitted across the sofa, it had been a while since he touched a material object and he missed the sensation of cloth on his fingertips.

They were stretched, stagnantly across the sofa. Crowley was all 'demonic' qualities considered, very beautiful, unlike his fellow fallen angels who seemed to display their eyebrows as if they were slapped on in the dark, or had warts like erupting volcanoes. He was tall and supported a slender face; he had a slightly burly figure with hair as black as space; his natural hair colour had returned after he had bleached it in the 1980s. Thank goodness. Why did no one tell him it looked dreadful? Crowley was often presumed to be hostile and rebellious. However, his time spent on earth proved that it only took around sixty centuries to gain some good qualities.

Wasn't Purgatory dull? What people said was correct; it truly was a wasteland.

Thump! There was the sound of hurried footsteps outside. Then, in a sudden flash of scrambling white brilliance, his partner burst through the door. Aziraphale was rounder than Crowley, a face smooth and kind. Typically, he radiated reassurance and security, but that was mostly when his face was not sparkling red, or when he was not taking shallow, laboured breaths. Aziraphale was equally very tall, but not as as gangly and stooped. He was an incredibly considerate person, always doing things in other people's best interests and giving helpful advice. It would be easy to mistake Aziraphale as organised and measured; however, he was, in Crowley's opinion, somewhat of a buffoon, victim to the vice of being too kind. Aziraphale always liked to carry a small briefcase with him when doing judgment. It was a little quirk he had picked up when wandering the streets of New York in 1973, and he enjoyed the professionalism of it. Crowley stretched his stubby fingers as his wings spread behind him, plumes of dark feathers spilt off to reveal the leathery, filmy and veined texture that lay beneath; he took pleasure in Aziraphale being slightly panicked. Aziraphale took a deep breath and threw himself onto the seat of the grey sofa beside Crowley. Unlike Crowley, the Angel had great woollen wings with feathers like a swan.

Additionally, the pair had different interests, Aziraphale liked petit fours, quills and cooled marble, whereas Crowley had a penchant for red wine, smoke and velvet. They were two different centuries walking side by side in another. Despite being opposites, there was a great comradery between the two. They had been together since Genesis, occasionally reflecting on their days in Eden and Galilee. It was often fatalistic that the poor person the pair were given ended up below, it was hard not to break all of the commandments, and Crowley was an expert negotiator. He was able to manipulate Aziraphale into handing the person over to his possession, persuasion being a natural talent of the swarm below. Aziraphale tried, but it was often in vain (and he tried to stay away from anything associated with vanity).

The knell sounded. Was it time already? Both of the Angels acknowledged it in unison, one looked up and the other down. It was time; the silence was deafening; both always found this moment slightly uncomfortable. It was awkward to discuss pressing matters such as work; the pair had an amicable relationship and found that years of battles and disgust between the two sides had continuously interrupted it. An adenoidal voice whispered a name over the intercom, and a freshly written piece of parchment crawled out from under the door- the cursive writing was smudged, leaving waves of freshly pressed ink all over the page. Ten Commandments, Seven Deadly Sins, that was agenda. If the person was to be taken into Heaven, they must have followed the Ten Commandments and lived a good and virtuous life. If the subject was to be taken below, they were biased towards the Seven Sins. The population of the two sides was reasonably even. It just depended on how persuasive the Angels were.

Purgatory was an incredibly dull place. Aziraphale concluded that the reason it was not mentioned in detail in Holy Books was that it was so unarguably boring it often pained people at the idea of putting pen to paper to record it. Who on earth would want to spend their time loitering in such a slow and tedious place? Well...no one on earth had to. That was one of the disadvantages of being an Angel, a downside to immortality. Crowley threw a smirk towards Aziraphale. The Angel was a professional, he knew when play stopped, and work began.

A terrified and meek human appeared before both of them. The pair liked living things. They so quickly made mistakes but were also able to learn and grow. Aziraphale looked at the parchment; this one was pure. He had: sought after others, showed kindness to all and learned to forgive; he had made mistakes (many mistakes), but his response to them illustrated his golden heart. Aziraphale returned this smug glance and Crowley instinctively knew what this meant. Before Aziraphale could even open his mouth to speak, Crowley folded his arms and gestured gracefully towards the human, rolling his eyes and slumping back into the sofa. The sparse and soulless atmosphere began to fill up with vibrant life, just one being's emotions could easily change the dynamic of the room.

"Chin up, there will be plenty more!" Aziraphale offered with a sympathetic tone.

Crowley took a long and arduous sigh, harmonising with the air conditioning. That was the problem with heavenly angels; they were always too kind...