1/17/05

"On the Wing"

In the last stretches of spring, England is a sight to behold.

Through careful prodding, even Crowley was forced to acknowledge this fact; Aziraphale wouldn’t have it any other way. Really, it seemed straightforward enough.

It was one of those unusual days in which the sun shone with an embellished brightness, dashing through the high clouds and casting pools of light and shadow across the land. The ground was still damp with the previous evening’s rain, though the long, windswept grasses of the hillside seemed to glow as though each strand had been dotted with vitality.

Aziraphale sighed, imagining how the day would have turned out if he had been left alone in his study, eyes grazing across this illuminated manuscript or that enchantingly dusty old tome.

There had been a knock upon his door shortly after he finished his luncheon. It was deceptively restrained at first, though it soon grew louder and more insistent as he answered it, and he couldn’t help but be relieved at the sight of Crowley. He was dressed in a very fine, dusky suit of clothes, his cravat all the more startlingly white against the pale curve of his cheek. Crowley grinned, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, and left all pleasantries hanging in the open air as he anxiously tugged upon Aziraphale’s arm and led him outside and into a coach-and-four.

Such circumstances were enough of a frequent event in Aziraphale’s existence that he knew to only think twice rather than three times about following Crowley’s lead [1].

Today the angel had smiled serenely, patiently nodding and providing words of support or admonishment at appropriate moments. They were, after all, very soon to arrive at their destination, and now walked at a brisk pace through a softly shaded glade.

Although Crowley’s promise of a surprise had indubitably gone through the usual channels and piqued Aziraphale’s interest, he was still hesitant to admit it. One had to uphold some small pretense of decorum, even in this decadent and admittedly indecipherable day and age.

Such things were expected of him, and one could only take the present passion for illumination with a grain of salt.

It was the suspense that was a bit harder to endure.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked.

“Don’t get your precious petticoats in a twist, angel,” Crowley grumbled in response, glaring at the mud that clung to his boots. “We’ve been over this so many times during the last fifteen minutes that I seem to have quite lost count, and really, I would consider it a personal favor if you would kindly just stop talking altogether.”

“I simply can’t understand why all of these theatrics are necessary.” Aziraphale gingerly stepped over the overturned form of a humungous, water-logged beetle. He frowned. “In fact, it seems to me...”

“Mm?”

“Your lovely carriage would have got us here in half the time. Even horses on their own are wont to do the trick, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No.” Crowley shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But really, shouldn’t we--”

Crowley glared over his shoulder, stopping in his tracks. “Yes?”

Folding his hands together placidly, Aziraphale stood beside him. “Really, my dear, you oughtn’t to be so cross.”

“I’m not--,” Crowley paused to take a deep breath, “--cross.”

“Then by all means, let us proceed,” the angel replied in a tone of jesting irony.

They had scarcely taken another ten paces before Crowley halted, his fists clenched at his sides as he scanned the horizon. Aziraphale stood beside him, frowning lightly as he tried to follow Crowley’s line of focus, though there was nothing to be seen. He couldn’t help but chuckle quietly, placing his hand on Crowley’s shoulder with the sort of understanding that comes only after such a fully-realized term of acquaintance. It had been millennia, Aziraphale knew, and Crowley was still as prone to err-- oh.

Of course.

There it was: a billowing swath of fabric that was connected to a large, intricately woven basket, each seeming to be held aloft by the flame of a central burner. Red and yellow stripes hung poised across the sides, latticing and breaking apart to reveal the careful depiction of a near-sighted lion who was preparing to play backgammon with a burly, ill-tempered unicorn.

Aziraphale gasped faintly.

“Perfectly marvelous,” he said, taking a step back. “Is this an, er...”

“Oh, come. Do you mean to tell me you don’t know what it is?” Crowley shook his head, visibly affronted. “I had expected better of you, angel. How can you possibly go around claiming to be an enlightened being and yet not bother to keep yourself familiarized with even the most important of mortal discoveries? I say, if it wasn’t for my intervention, you would still be reading Aristophanes by candlelight.”

“I do still read Aristophanes by candlelight, my dear.”

“As you like,” Crowley sighed. He raised a hand to his temple as though imagining away the onset of a rather nasty headache, and finished gruffly, “It’s a hot air balloon.”

“Oh, my word,” Aziraphale laughed, looking up at it once more. “So it is.”

Crowley snorted and narrowed his eyes before approaching the pilot. “Good afternoon to you,” he drawled, a sly grin spreading across his mouth. “Is this your balloon?”

The pilot frowned, nodding. “Why, yes.” His eyes traveled skeptically away from Crowley, trailing to Aziraphale, and back again. “Yes, it is. I was just making the final preparations for a holiday in Kent.”

“That’s quite a long way away for such a small model, is it not?”

“Oh, no,” the pilot said, gazing fondly at the balloon. He pulled a worn, oil-stained cloth from his pocket and began to shine the basket’s numerous brass fastenings. “The lovely Queen Mab here can make it clear to Dover without so much as the slightest exertion.”

“Indeed?” Crowley chuckled, his voice low. “They’re fascinating machines.”

“Yes, well.” He frowned again. “How might I be of service to you today, sir?”

Crowley tilted his head out of range of Aziraphale’s arsenal of gawps and defiant stares. “I was actually hoping to take a closer look at your burner as to ascertain the specific components of its application.”

“It is one of my own designs. See?” The pilot added a handful of straw and adjusted several valves, causing the flame to ebb and recede. He winked conspiratorially. “There are none like it in all of England.”

“Is that so? I believe I’ve seen several that were rather similar in--”

“You have flown before, sir?”

“Oh, yes.” Crowley made an airy gesture. “Countless times.”

“I see,” the pilot said. “And where is your balloon at present?”

“I am quite lacking in balloons just now, to be sure, which is why it’s so very fortunate that my companion and I should have come across you today.”

“He is well-versed in flight techniques as well?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I assure you, sir, I haven’t--”

“--had any sort of mishap in recent memory,” Crowley broke in, shooting Aziraphale an all too familiar glare.

The pilot’s lips parted with curiosity as he brushed his hands together and turned towards Aziraphale. “Is this true?”

“My friend exag--” Aziraphale coughed lightly as Crowley’s elbow dug against his side. “Ah, that is... I actually don’t recall ever having any sort of flying mishap.” He smiled pleasantly, inwardly dreading the undoubted delight that Crowley would later take in recalling the angel’s “little incident” in Prague.

“Which is why we’re quite suited to inspect the mechanics of your balloon,” Crowley said diplomatically. “We would very much like to test its qualities, as it were.”

“That is well, sir, but I simply cannot go about lending her away, what with revolution in the air and poetry springing up in every bare patch of ground.” He shrugged lightly. “These are dangerous times, you must understand.”

“Of course,” Crowley said, pulling his shaded spectacles away from the bridge of his nose. Ignoring Aziraphale’s wide eyes, he made a slight motion with his hand and continued affably, “We wouldn’t want to be of any trouble to you.”

The pilot’s face became one immense smile. “Trouble to me? Oh, think nothing of it, sir! I feel rightly honored that you would have taken an interest in the balloon of such a humble attendant as myself. It is always a genuine thrill to meet a fellow aviator on the road, though it pains me to know of one who has lost his own balloon, and I hope that you would consider taking mine.” He let out a hearty, fully unnerving laugh. “Yes, it is high time for me to invest in one of a newer variety, or my name is not Maxwell Edison.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s ear. “Is this really necessary?”

“Well, no,” Crowley replied, handing Maxwell Edison a coin of negligible value, and raised a leg over the rim of the basket. “We could allow him to put up a proper fight, but really, one ought to encourage a budding Good Samaritan when given the opportunity.” He flipped his other leg into the basket, carefully standing up and adjusting the sleeves of his frock coat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes-- I mean...” Aziraphale took a step closer. “That is to say, you don’t actually intend to usurp this poor fellow’s means of transportation?”

“You heard the man.” Crowley grinned. “He’s allowing us to have it.”

“He’s allowing you to exhibit your treacheries over him.”

“Technicalities, technicalities,” Crowley replied, idly waving his hand. “Now, do save any other shocking revelations for the tabloids and come on. I’ll turn a few knobs... there we are, and you can untie the rope that’s anchoring us to the ground, if you don’t mind.”

“I simply can’t be involved in this sort of... Er, which rope was it? This one?”

“Yes, that’s it,” he said, reaching forward for Aziraphale’s arm. “Hurry up, angel -- I’m not coming back down for you if you botch your decision to come aboard now.”

“All right,” Aziraphale sighed, climbing into the basket. He gritted his teeth, narrowly avoiding the burner’s open flame as he was pushed to the side with the balloon’s sudden movement.

They were lifting off, steadily up and up until both the ground and Maxwell Edison’s form began to diminish. Aziraphale returned his wave, smiling congenially, though he dropped his hand to his side as he saw that Crowley was shaking his head in mild amusement. “Really, my dear,” he said, crossing his arms. “I do wish you wouldn’t take such satisfaction in that sort of thing. It is my full intention to have this balloon returned to him before the day is over. I should like to ask him what the meanings of his unicorn and lion are.”

“He’s an admirer of German folk-tales, I think,” Crowley replied dryly.

With a short laugh, Aziraphale leaned forward, grasping the railing as he gazed to the landscape below. It was a familiar site: hills and dappled trees, heavy with growth, flowing meadows and the encroaching mass of London at the horizon. Seeing the countryside from this vantage-point was rather charming if one was willing to settle for a complacent, mortal sort of sympathy.

As for the balloon’s operation, it was all somewhat dubious and so obviously lacking in fluidity as it required bundles upon bundles of straw, though its mystery was not an entirely disagreeable one. It was true that the burner was insufferably noisy, and its heat was rather oppressive, but Aziraphale found that to fly without wings was something of a novelty.

Arching a brow, he asked, “How did you know that there would be a balloon at the ready today?”

Crowley tapped his fingertips against the edge of the basket. “I have my ways.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded, his brow creasing with bemusement. “And what’s the occasion, then?”

“Occasion?”

“Well, yes. You didn’t bring me here just to gaze at the flora, did you?”

“Oh,” Crowley said with a pensive sigh. “It’s only that I have a bit of business to attend to today and I thought that you, er, might...”

“Aside from bamboozling a pilot?” Aziraphale chuckled. “What sort of business?”

Crowley shrugged.

“As you like.” Aziraphale nodded, brightening as he continued, “And you’ve been in one of these contraptions before, I trust?”

“Been in one? No,” Crowley laughed sullenly. “I’ve seen them in action often enough, though, and I took the liberty of assuming that it would hardly be a problem to manage and navigate.”

“I see.”

“I was correct, of course. Really, I can think of very few things that are more forthright in their operations.”

Aziraphale sighed, his smile becoming decidedly grim. “Hot air has rather become your forte of late, has it not?” he said against the back of his hand.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale pursed his lips guiltily. “The weather is exceedingly well today.”

“Ngk,” Crowley agreed, mumbling something about the misconceptions of gratuity.

At length, Aziraphale glanced towards the burner. “Was this...” He cleared his throat, gripping the rail tightly. “Was this one of yours, then?”

“One of-- Oh,” Crowley said, shaking his head with what was almost certainly remorse. “No, I’m afraid not. I believe it was the French, actually.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed lightly. “And how did its invention come about, then?”

“I think it had something to do with a couple of affluent men lounging in front of the hearth over a bottle of wine or three and working through their ardent admiration for Cavendish and Bacon.” Crowley arched a brow. “You know, scientists are generally underrated sorts of people. Not always as stiff as one might think and often rather open to suggestion, one way or another.”

“It’s interesting that you should mention that because I’ve always--”

“Early tests involved the transportation of ducks.”

“Ducks?” Aziraphale repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “That does sound rather... familiarly callous, I suppose. And no one was injured?”

Crowley grinned.

“Well?”

“It was nothing, really.” Crowley shrugged and leaned against the side of the basket.

“Tell me.”

“There was just a bit of a fire and some unreasonably loud shrieking and, well, a watery grave or two. I daresay it was the pilot’s own fault.”

“Watery grave?”

“This happened almost ten years ago -- don’t you read the papers anymore?” Crowley grimaced. “He was attempting to fly across the Channel, which, I must say, is a bit of a slim claim to greatness... tied his hydrogen and hot air balloons together or some such.”

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale said with a shudder. “What happened, exactly?”

Crowley shrugged. “Oh, nothing serious. It was just an explosion.”

“Do you mean to tell me that we could be killed?” Aziraphale moaned, and then, catching Crowley’s eye, corrected himself lightly, “Er, inconveniently discorporated.” He frowned, waving his hand as though to dismiss the idea altogether.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Believe me, angel -- the chances of this specific balloon malfunctioning at this exact moment in time are laughably minimal.” Crowley’s tongue darted across his lips in thought as he hastened to add, “Forty-sixty at the very most. It’s nothing to worry about, really.” He gave Aziraphale’s shoulder an encouraging pat.

“I see.” Aziraphale watched as Crowley opened a satchel on the basket’s floor that he was certain hadn’t been there a minute before, though he was unable to find the voice to complain. Crowley uncorked a bottle of champagne, his hands steady as he filled the two glasses without spilling a drop.

They drank in rarefied silence. At length, Aziraphale turned towards Crowley before venturing, “Did the duck survive?”

“What?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“The duck... did it survive the explosion?”

“Oh. No, I don’t believe he did.” He sighed wistfully, offhandedly adding, “Nasty little thing. He was really quite a cheeky sort of beast, even at the end, but rather delicious with sweet mustard and scallions.”

“You don’t say.”

“He shouldn’t have agreed to participate.” Crowley shrugged, setting his glass down. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a small, leather-bound folio.

Aziraphale frowned, leaning over Crowley’s shoulder to see. “What is it?”

“My bit of business.” He held aloft a sheaf of promotional leaflets, tender white sheets emblazoned by grave explanations and hectic charts, promises of the most convenient ways to go through with the act of selling one’s soul, and line drawings of attractively-shod creatures of the underworld interspersed between advertisements for fashionable pubs and dentists.

Crowley grinned, quickly pulling the bundle away from Aziraphale’s reach before there was room for argument, and proceeded to drop them over the edge of the basket.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale gasped, coloring slightly. “I had no idea.”

It was certainly a shame to see the countryside disfigured as such, though the angel was forced to admit that the leaflets looked rather elegant, fluttering and drifting in the breeze. He closed his eyes, ensuring with a thought that each page would soon be remedied, lines of ink shifting and becoming something decidedly different [2] as the clutter embarked upon the streets of outer-London.

Both agreed that enlightened or not, the modern world was frightfully efficient.

With a waywardly restless sigh, Crowley turned and placed his hands on the edge of the basket. He began to pull himself up by the rough, vertical rope, his boots dark against the bright rail as he crouched forward and then stood straight up. He smiled. “Aziraphale,” he said breathlessly, his knuckles growing white as he held the rope and leaned forward, fully prepared to tempt Fate, “what is it that they say about disbelief?”

“Ah, it’s only...” Aziraphale hesitated, glancing over the side of the basket and the ground that lay far, far below, and then to Crowley’s upturned palm. He took it, frowning and pausing once more as he felt Crowley begin to help him up.

“Hold on,” Crowley said, shaking his head as the breeze graced through his hair, drawing upon the soft folds of his jacket.

Feeling suddenly dizzy, the angel closed his eyes against the light that seemed to have become somehow less real, distorted and hung with silence. “Wait,” he murmured, not considering his words, and then raised his voice, “Get down!” He tugged firmly upon Crowley’s hand, roughly pulling him back down from the ledge.

Crowley’s boots thudded to the bottom of the basket. The open flame sputtered lightly as he straightened his shoulders, his eyes wide and heedlessly startled. “What in the bloody hel-- heav-- Trafalgar was that all about?” he fumed, jerking his arm away.

“You were going to fall.” Aziraphale’s gaze dropped as he hastened to add, “That is, I wouldn’t know the first thing about landing this machine without it resulting in calamity if you weren’t here. You don’t think--”

“Oh,” Crowley said, at once taking an acute interest in the flecks of pollen that were strewn across the dark silk of his waistcoat. An almost imperceptible change crossed his features, tugging upon the corners of his mouth, and he looked away. He hissed something under his breath, though Aziraphale only heard a jagged, “Naturally.”

“I didn’t...” Aziraphale’s chest felt suddenly tight; he had ceased to breath minutes ago. Perhaps was nothing more than the champagne and sunshine, perhaps it was nothing at all. He swallowed. “I was hoping that you might be interested in dining with me this evening. I know of a charming little restaurant in Burlington Street that makes a lovely boiled pudding, even this far out of season.”

“That’s all right, then.”

“The house bitter is really quite good as well.”

Crowley nodded, for the moment focusing his attentions on the burner, his fingertips steady and sure. The flames rose, softly coaxing the balloon forward.

The moment hung upon the air like a strand of silk that could be just as easily blown away and vanquished. Aziraphale sighed.

It was foolish, he thought, recklessly foolish. And yet how could he imagine it to ever be otherwise? After a long moment, he allowed his hand to slowly make its way across the rail and settle atop Crowley’s as he asked, “How long do we have until this contraption comes down?”

“Oh,” Crowley said wistfully, “twenty minutes, perhaps.” He didn’t turn.

“And with...” Aziraphale trailed off, feeling his cheeks flush. “Your, er, assistance?”

Crowley laughed. His voice was disarmingly quiet as he replied, “As long as you’d like it to.”

Aziraphale looked up and found Crowley watching him.

------------------

[1] The last time that he had offhandedly denied Crowley’s company resulted in a profanity-laced dismissal and several months of hard cantankerousness. It was awkward.

[2] A rather nice recipe for lobster bisque in a bread bowl.