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Aziraphale stood on the edge of the Seven Sisters, looking down the cliffs into the churning foam of surf below. His beautiful white wings shone in the full moon’s light, their feathers trembling slightly.
“Crowley, what if everything isn’t healed, and I can’t fly?”
The last few months were laced with worry for both Aziraphale and Crowley. During one evening flight, Aziraphale had encountered the strong downdraught that preceded a powerful storm, the ominous dark clouds catching him and Crowley by surprise during their monthly flight. The air current knocked him out of the sky, pushing him into the ground like the hand of a giant had swatted him down. Unable to correct his flight, he tumbled down hard upon the grasslands of the South Downs, shattering one of his delicate wing bones.
Crowley, who had been too far away to save him and carried around a little guilt about it for several months, swooped down to tend to his wounded angel. He had checked over every centimetre of Aziraphale’s body, paying very close attention to his wings, which every angel and demon knew sustained damage easily. The break was located and healed in a matter of seconds, Aziraphale barely even registering any pain after the shock of falling.
But miracles weren’t always perfect. A tiny fracture remained. Crowley swathed Aziraphale’s wing in bandages back at their cottage and doted on his angel while keeping him in strict convalescence. Wings were not something one messed around with if one wanted them to heal perfectly. Just when Aziraphale was about to go mad with the forced inactivity, Crowley had him start wing exercises to strengthen it again, all to prepare for this first flight. They both adored their clandestine night flights and would sorely miss them if they had to give them up.
“You’ll be fine. You just need the confidence to jump off that cliff.” Crowley stood behind him. He pulled out Aziraphale’s wing for examination, comparing it carefully to the other. “Everything looks good, angel. All you need to do is take a flying leap. Literally.”
Crowley snort-laughed as his own joke. Aziraphale was a little less amused and a little more nervous. He fidgeted, twisting his fingers together before he caught himself and clasped his hands behind his back.
“What if I fall?” He gazed upon Crowley with concern filling his blue eyes.
“I’ll catch you. You have nothing to be afraid of, angel. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you again. We won’t fly up in strong currents, just at nice, low levels where it’s safe. And I’ll stay close.”
Crowley jumped off the cliff and beat his great, black wings just enough to hover at the level of the old chalk grassland upon which Aziraphale anxiously stood. Silhouetted by the rising moon, he held out his arms, encouraging Aziraphale to spread his wings and sail into the night sky. Aziraphale crept closer to the edge until his toes hung off the crumbling chalk at the sharp drop-off. There, he stared at the waves breaking on the exposed chalk below. Aziraphale was sure he’d fall straight into the shallow water below, sustaining God knows what gruesome injuries. He’d read once that hitting water from certain heights was like hitting concrete itself. He certainly wasn’t interested in learning if a cliff was high enough to make that happen.
“Oh, dear…” His anxiety reached peak levels, causing him to back off again. “I can’t!”
“You can! This is nothing, angel. We’re meant to fly, remember?” said Crowley, waggling his fingers in a “come here” gesture. “I’m here. You won’t fall again. I won’t allow it.”
He is right. We were meant to fly or we wouldn’t have wings. It is now or never , thought Aziraphale. Apprehensive, he retraced his steps, moving one hesitant footfall at a time closer to where the cliff met the air. When he could go forward no further, he closed his eyes, then after exhaling a large breath, leapt.
Even with Crowley’s encouragement, he expected to drop like a stone into the surf beneath him, where the Channel’s waters would beat him painfully against the exposed chalk. Instead, his wings kept him aloft. His erratic flutter maintained him at about cliff level, his wings pumping with a frantic beat. Taking a deep breath, he steadied their erratic movements and rose, gaining confidence enough to fly to Crowley, who was waiting just off his wingtip, close enough to catch him if he faltered. Aziraphale took hold of one of Crowley’s outstretched hands, clasping it in a loving squeeze.
He laughed, the sound of his joy echoing off the chalk cliffs behind him. “It worked! Crowley, it worked!”
Crowley beamed at him with pride. “I told you. We’ll take a short flight…not too far. We don’t want to overdo it. But first, give me a moment…”
He took off, doing a barrel roll as he sped across the sky before returning to collect his angel. Crowley hadn’t flown since Aziraphale’s accident out of solidarity. It was obvious he missed it.
Still laughing, Aziraphale followed his demon, the wind in his face reminding him how exhilarating a good flight could be. Yes, Crowley was right. They were meant to be in the air, and his accident was only a setback if he allowed it to be. The fear he felt melted away as the two of them glided out over the Channel, hand in hand, with the lovely moon shining its light over them.
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