Work Text:
Quackity wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to fly again.
Technically he shouldn’t have ever been able to fly in the first place, given how small his wings were. On a human body they just weren’t enough to propel all the mass upwards and keep it in the air for any amount of time. Except for hybrids, that didn’t matter. There was a certain magic to them that allowed them to fly, even when there was no conceivable way any pair of wings that weren’t many feet long would be able to hold them up.
Yet Quackity’s wings had always been on the so small it was comical side. Only two feet long at most, barely reaching past his upper legs when down, and just about the length of his arms. In fact, his fingertips just barely beat out his primaries when stretched out. Small enough that the sight of him flying was a source of great mockery to a lot of people he used to know, enough to eventually ground him all together.
You see, the good thing about small wings was that it made them easier to hide.
He didn’t at first. He just kept himself grounded, preferring to walk rather than get mocked for being a flightless bird that shouldn’t be in the skies. It wasn’t even true- ducks could fly! Yet the insults hurled still stung, and honestly it was easier to just avoid it altogether.
And it was fine. Quackity didn’t need to fly. He didn’t need to feel the wing blowing through his feathers as he soared the skies, stretching them out and letting himself glide through the land. He didn’t need it, and besides it helped him pass as a regular human easier. Tuck his wings under a thick jacket and voila, no one knew he was part duck.
That was until he came to the Dream SMP. For the first time since he was just a kid living with his parents, letting them carefully preen his wings as his primaries finally came in, Quackity figured that there wasn’t any harm in letting people know his hybrid status. Dream SMP was known as a welcoming place for hybrids, and given the fact that it was a brand new place and a new start, he figured it couldn’t hurt.
But it did-
Sharp biting words thrown his way.
“Why bother even showin’ them? They’re a disgrace. You look like an idiot.”
Words he had heard before, hitting harder than they ever had coming from the mouth of someone he trusted.
“I’ve never even seen you fly with ‘em! What are they, decorations?”
Backed up against a wall, cornered like an animal. The overwhelming stench of alcohol.
“They’re ugly as shit is what they are. Cover those stupid wings up, I swear to god.”
---------
Bandages wrapped around his body, keeping the wings flush to his back, flat enough to hide under a suit. It ached, a never-ending dull pang as feathers misaligned, bones hung in positions they were never meant to be in for far too long.
But it stopped the sharp glares his way.
It stopped the insults, and though more would come about other things, this was something he had control of.
It was a little grasp of control he could get over his situation, and by god would he take it.
He hadn’t taken off the bandages for more than a quick change, even since leaving his office of Vice President. Through the revolution and even past the tyrant’s death, he hadn’t dared to let himself breathe until the man was dead and gone in the ground.
And as he stood in front of the mirror as the sun had set, leaving the day of the funeral behind him, he finally did, letting the bandages fall down to reveal what was underneath.
As he looked he remembered his mother once whispering to him in Spanish as he curled up next to her, stroking his hair and saying that his wings were beautiful, like flecks of sunlight come down from space. That they shone like the sun, as delicate and pretty as a sunflower.
Those words didn’t ring true anymore.
Looking at his reflection, all he could see was crumpled remains of what used to be. As he stretched the wings out to the full length, all he could see was muted gold, the color of rotten lemons, no beauty to be seen anymore. The feathers were misaligned, some of the verge of falling out as they were let free of their bindings. They hadn’t been preened for ages, the shine of oil that was supposed to coat the feathers gone, leaving only a dull ruffled mess behind.
They were ugly and useless. Just like Schlatt said they were.
Even with the magic that kept avian hybrids in the air, there was no chance of getting off the ground. Not like this.
He never meant for it to get this bad. He just wanted some modicum of control over his situation. Something he could do, rather than being pushed to the sidelines, ignored, hurt.
Quackity turned away from the mirror, unable to look any more. The room was spinning, blurring together as tears filled his eyes. He stumbled back, hitting against a wall and jostling his wings, slowly sliding down to the ground. He put his head in his hands, taking deep shuddering breaths to try and calm himself, but it was pointless. Even after his death, Schlatt still had a hold over him.
As he weeped in the corner, he couldn’t help but wonder what he was crying about. Was it the state of his wings? The fact that they were still there? Was it grief? Relief? He didn’t know, but the tears wouldn’t stop pouring down, leaving him in a puddle of unanswered questions.
His wings pitifully curled around him, the ache still present as they moved in a way they hadn’t in months. The tears broke up just long enough for Quackity to get a close look at the feathers. Many of them were out of place, the barbules broken up and frazzled, the quills skewed slightly. A few of them were completely bent out of shape, which was probably the cause of most of the pain. Quackity reached out, grabbing at a bent feather and pulling. It came out with a sharp prick, hurting enough to almost cause him to abort his attempt, but when the feather detached from his wing it felt like a breath of fresh air.
He stared at his hand, the yellow feather laying in his palm, relieved from the confines of his ugly wings. The thoughts running through his head quieted, focused on the spare feather. It dropped to the floor as he moved slightly, falling between his legs. Rather than picking it back up, his hand trailed over towards his wing, grabbing another. And another.
The pain became a blur, just another ache to add to his collection. He just needed to get rid of the feathers. This was something he could control. He could rid himself of the ugliness of his wings. Because that’s all they were. Ugly. Useless. Just like him.
Eventually Quackity’s hands shook too much to continue, leaving him in a pile of feathers, probably numbering in the hundred. But even wings as small as his had thousands.
He took a deep breath, finally feeling like he wasn’t spiraling out of control. Really looking at his wings since the first time he had bandaged them up brought up feelings he had repressed far down with the bandages themselves. It was like Schlatt was still hanging over him, whispering words laced with acid in his ear. Tearing out his feathers quieted that voice in his head, and it was relieving.
Logically, he knew that this was a bad thing. Feather-plucking was, for avian hybrids, an extreme stress reaction that signaled a need for immediate intervention. Logically, mutilating his own wings was a terrible solution to what was obviously crippling self-doubt and powerlessness. Logically, he needed help.
Yet he felt an overwhelming sense that he just needed to do it. What point did he wings have anyway? They were just useless decorations on his back, not even fit to fly with. He might as well pluck them.
---------------
Quackity yawned, his eyes blurring as he looked over paperwork, trying to get himself to focus. Being the Secretary of State for L’Manberg was exhausting in its own right, what with the constant amount of problems that seemed to occur on a semi-regular basis. Things had settled down, and it seemed they were in an unprecedented era of peace for once, but Quackity knew that relying on things to stay that way was a fool’s errand.
His wings twitched under his suit, having been trapped under it for the entire day and yearning to be spread out. It had been easy to keep them docile when wrapped up in bandages, but now that he had gotten into the habit of letting them free and just taking care to make sure no feathers made any unwanted appearances, there was an unrelenting instinct in his mind to stretch them out every once in a while.
“Ay por el amor de dios,” Quackity hissed, a twinge of pain running through him as his wings involuntarily twitched, hitting against the back of his suit. He threw down his pen, rubbing his eyes harshly. God, he wanted to pluck them so bad. They were nothing but useless problems.
He pushed back his chair, shucking off his suit jacket and tossing it over the paperwork he was meant to be doing. He then shed his undershirt, loosening the tie and tossing it on the ground, and finally his wings were free. They spread out almost immediately, shaking from the effort. It didn’t feel as good as it should have, instead sending sparks of pain up the bones as they creaked and tried to adjust to the cold air.
Quackity grabbed a few feathers, calmly plucking them out to distract from the aching pain, for the more intoxicating sharp pain of defeathering. Each feather out was like a breath of fresh air, almost addicting to a degree. It was calming, shutting down the racing thoughts in his head.
He leaned against a wall, going through feathers slowly until- Quackity’s breath hitched as he held back a scream.
Fuck, that was a blood feather.
He could feel warm blood dripping down his hand, splashing down onto the floor. He had gotten so caught up in plucking he hadn’t realized when his hands grazed over the blood feather, yanking at it to pull it out before realizing that it was deeply embedded in the skin, a blood supply still there to help it grow. He hadn’t succeeded in pulling it out- that would require much more strength and pain, but it had broken, leaving him a bloody mess.
Blood feather breakage was notoriously bad for avian hybrids, given the wounds bled a lot, and fast. It was basically like cutting a vein and having all of the blood spurt out with the beat of your heart. This wasn’t helped by Quackity’s heart rate immediately picking up as he panicked, trying to put his hands on the feather to stem the blood, but even trying to put pressure on it was extremely painful.
Fuck, what did he have to do? He had broken a blood feather accidentally before, but his parents had been there to help! He could barely remember what they did to stop it. Pull the feather? He wasn’t sure he could even do that himself, given the amount of pain that would stop him instantly from going through with it.
His breathing picked up, body frozen as his mind ran through options of what to do. Go grab somebody? Tubbo had to still be in the offices doing his presidential duties, even if the sun had already set, but then he would see his wings, and oh god that couldn’t happen. Images flashed through Quackity’s mind of them seeing his ugly wings and recoiling in disgust, just like-
Quackity looked at his hand. The blood pooling, it was just like-
Just like-
Schlatt, pushing him back against the wall while screaming indiscernible words, the force enough to cause a lance of pain to shock up his wings, still bandaged tightly.
“Screw you, I’m Vice President! I deserve some respect!” He shot back, pushing against the man to try and get some space. “You should have told me what you were planning! An execution, seriously?”
“I didn’t need to tell you anything, you’d have only gotten in the way.”
“Yeah, because you executed Tubbo! He’s your right hand man!”
“He was a traitor, and you better watch your mouth because you’re sounding awfully suspicious right now, Mr. Vice President,” Schlatt hissed out, pushing forward to corner Quackity once again. The smell of alcohol was thick on his breath as he leaned in close. “You don’t have any power here, Quackity. I hold all the cards. And you? You’re worthless. I mean-” He barked out a laugh. “You’re nothing without me. And don’t you ever forget that.” A hand gripped onto his shoulder, grabbing tightly enough to bruise. The fingers brushed against the tops of his wing, and soon enough he was being pushed back against with enough force to knock his head against the wall and feel a slow warm trickle of blood.
“Now get the fuck out of my office.”
And everything in Quackity wanted to push back against him, fight for his right as Schlatt ’s Vice to make decisions- he wasn’t some kind of doormat! Yet he couldn’t get the words to come out, instead running out of the oppressive air of the office to the freedom of the hallway, stumbling out into his own room.
He held a hand to the back of his head, pulling it back to find his fingertips splashed with warm red blood. His head was spinning. He wasn ’t getting enough air in his lungs, he couldn’t breathe. Fuck, what was he even doing? Why couldn’t he do anything? Why was he so useless?
His vision began to blur, and he couldn ’t figure out if it was because of the wound to his head, or the fact that he was struggling to breathe from the panic he couldn’t quell down, certainly not helped by the thick bandages wrapped around his torso.
He held his hand to the wall, trying to steady himself, except the hand he used was the bloodied one and it left a red smear across the wall, taunting him.
“Quackity!”
Was someone yelling his name? Was Schlatt coming back to hurl more insults, or finish what he started?
“Quackity!”
“Quackity? Quackity! Oh gods, oh gods, uhhh, hold on Big Q, let me grab someone! Don’t freak out, okay? I’m going to get help!”
---------------
Philza took a deep breath, letting himself enjoy the fresh smell of the tea he had just brewed. After a long day of work, it was nice to finally be able to put his feet up and rest. He stretched his wings, letting them lay spread out on the couch behind him as he took a sip. A sip that was immediately interrupted by the loud bang of his door being slammed open.
Phil nearly choked on his tea, coughing at the sudden shock of an intruder in his household who didn’t even have the decency to knock.
“Philza!” It was Tubbo. Of course the President didn’t have any kind of manners.
“One second,” Phil coughed out, putting his tea down.
“There’s no time! Somethings wrong with Quackity!”
“What?” Phil stood up, walking over to where the president was standing at the door. With a closer look, it was obvious the boy was frazzled, and completely out of his element.
“He’s bleeding a lot! And he was panicking, and I didn’t know what to do!” Tubbo grabbed his hand, pulling the man out of his house and towards the presidential offices.
“I’m not a doctor, Tubbo!” Phil sputtered out. “I don’t even know Quackity that well!” Why would Tubbo come to him with this? It’s not like him and Quackity interacted a lot, although he seemed like a good kid.
“Yeah, but you’re the only one with wings I could think of! It was his wing that was bleeding, and I have no clue how to deal with that, Phil!”
…Quackity had wings?
Philza blinked, taking a few seconds to process that. He had thought he was the only avian hybrid on the server, given wings were kind of hard to hide. Unless he had small wings, but even then he was sure he should have seen them at least once. Phil shook his head. No, that wasn’t important. Tubbo had said that his wing was bleeding, which meant a broken blood feather, or some kind of superficial injury that happened to be bleeding heavily- but given Tubbo ran to him instead of a normal doctor that probably wouldn’t know much about hybrid biology, he had to guess it was the blood feather.
Okay, he could deal with that at least. He’d had a few in his life, and while painful, they were rarely ever life-threatening. Still, it was a bit weird to hear that the man was panicking about it. Most hybrids knew how to take care of broken blood feathers, and knew that panicking would just make it worse. For Quackity to be freaking out, there had to be something more going on.
Phil didn’t have much time to think on it before they got to the presidential offices, Tubbo leading him through the halls and too a room on the far right side.
“Big Q, I got help!” Tubbo called, pushing open the door.
Phil took one look in the room and proceeded to forcefully pull Tubbo back, not caring that he had just manhandled the President. Once look at the scene before him told him that the kid didn’t need to see this.
Quackity was sitting by the far left wall, eyes unfocused as blood dripped from his wing. A wing that looked almost… disfigured. They were clearly some kind of waterfowl wings, and smaller than most hybrids’ he had seen, but they seemed almost atrophied, and had far less feathers than he would have expected. That was explained as Phil’s eyes trailed down to the pile of feathers under the kid, and things clicked into place. He had been plucking his feathers.
Phil turned towards the President, placing a hand on his shoulder while making sure his body was blocking the view inside the door.
“Tubbo, I need you to go grab some pliers, a healing potion, and some gauze, okay? Leave them outside the door for me,” he said quietly.
“What? Why? I wanna help Big Q!”
“I know you do, but this is a bird thing, alright? I don’t think he would want to be overwhelmed right now, and I know how to handle this. I’ll get you when it’s fixed, alright?”
Tubbo looked hesitantly, his eyes darting like he was trying to get another good look at the scene inside, but he eventually conceded.
“Alright, just… tell him I’m here for him, alright?”
“I will.” Phil nodded, watching as the young president scampered off before he turned back towards the room. He took a few steps in before closing the door softly behind him. As he shuffled closer, making sure to telegraph his movements very obviously, he tried to get a better look at what had happened.
Clearly the kid was in the middle of plucking some of his feathers, out, and had accidentally broken a blood feather while doing so. By the state of his wings, this was probably not the first time he had been plucking either. Furthermore, Phil could assume from the atrophy that Quackity hadn’t been using them at all for a very long time, and given that Phil had never even seen the wings before, that meant he was hiding them.
All in all, a very clear picture was being painted of Quackity being afraid to let people know he was a hybrid. He was most likely ashamed, if he was going so far as to mutilate his wings like that.
Now, Phil was no stranger to biting words thrown his way over his wings, being called a devil over their stark black appearance, forced to hide his wings under coats to be safe in sketchier parts of towns, but never once had that translated to hatred for himself. It was the world that was messed up, not Phil. But clearly Quackity hadn’t gotten that message. Phil’s heart broke a little bit more, and he crouched down in front of the kid.
“Hey there Quackity, can you hear me?” Phil whispered, not wanting to scare the man. He still flinched, but the reaction wasn’t as bad as it could have been. “It’s Philza. Tubbo came and got me, told me you had a broken blood feather. I can help you. Can I touch your wing?”
There was little response, almost like he was in his own world apart from this one. It was concerning, but honestly, the feather needed to be dealt with first.
Phil heard the sound of Tubbo putting down the supplies by the door and took a second to grab them when he heard the footsteps leaving. He came back to Quackity, kneeling down a bit closer to him.
He just needed to find where exactly the feather was, and then grab it with the pliers and pull. It would hurt a lot, but if he did it quick enough and got Quackity the health potion, it should be okay. Phil reached out, carefully putting a hand on the bloodied wing. There was another flinch, much more prominent this time, but he was able to keep a hold, parting the feathers enough to find where the feather was. He cringed at the sight. Along with the blood feather was damaged skin from where feathers had been pulled, painting a not-so-pretty picture.
With one hand parting the feather and the others on the pliers, he carefully lined up the tool, his fingers beginning to coat with blood. “This is going to hurt, but it’ll be over in a second, alright? Then you can chug this health potion.” Phil wasn’t sure how exactly Quackity would drink the potion in the state he was in now, but that wasn’t the most important thing.
On a count of three, Phil gripped down on the feather and pulled. Quackity screamed out, causing Phil to jump and almost lose his grip, but with a few more seconds of pressure, he was able to yank it out, nearly toppling back from the effort.
“There ya go!” Phil shouted in triumph, holding up the pliers. The feather itself wasn’t actually that big yet, so it had to have started growing pretty recently. It was probably a replacement for a feather Quackity had already plucked, and the skin there was already sensitive, meaning it was practically doomed from the beginning.
Phil placed the feather down turning his attention to Quackity, whose screams had settled down to whimpers.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Take this.” Phil held up the health potion quickly, which was the exact wrong move, as Quackity immediately lashed out at him, slapping the potion out of his hand and scrambling away. The liquid in the bottle poured out onto the floor as the glass cracked.
“Oh God dangit,” Phil muttered. “Quackity, you’re okay. The feather isn’t there anymore,” he explained slowly. Why was he still freaking out? The feather was gone and he wasn’t going to bleed out anymore.
Phil scooted closer as he got no response, grabbing the gauze by his side. If he couldn’t use the health potion, he could at least bandage the wound so that the bleeding would stop and the chance of infection would be lower. As he got closer, the could hear Quackity muttering under his breath, words laced with fear.
“Please Schlatt don’t. I-I’ve been hiding them, please,” he whispered, desperation palpable.
Phil came to a completely stop, dropping the roll of gauze in shock. His mind took a few seconds to process the words, as more desperate pleas spilled from the man’s mouth.
Oh gods, this was much worse than Phil thought.
Schlatt, the name of the old president, the one everyone whispered about as being a tyrant. In the back of Phil’s mind he seemed to remember that Quackity had been a part of his administration, but he had barely heard anything about that. All he knew was that everyone had left Schlatt’s side by the end, presumably including Quackity, but clearly it had left scars.
Fuck, he was not equipped to handle this. Phil rubbed a hand across his eyes, blinking away images of worst case scenarios he could concoct in his head, each worse than the last. He could worry about that later, right now he needed to calm Quackity down.
Phil sat down beside the man, staying a distance away but not too far to be useless. “Quackity, it’s me, Philza. It’s okay, you’re not there. You’re in L’Manberg, you’re safe. Tubbo is president,” he said softly. He carded his fingers through his wings, careful to avoid the sensitive spots. It was off-putting to feel just how dry the feathers were, indicating he hadn’t preened in a very long time. He had to resist the urge to do so right then and there, instead opting to continue the soft petting until he felt Quackity’s breathing slow down.
“That’s it, that’s it. You’re okay.” Quackity hissed as his fingers brushed against a sensitive spot. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.”
“It’s okay,” Quackity mumbled, his voice barely audible.
“I’d offer you a health potion but you kinda broke it.” Phil chuckled. “You scared me for a minute there. I was afraid I wasn’t gonna be able to get the bugger out for a second. I’ve never actually had to pull someone else’s feather before.”
“Sorry.”
“Nah, nothing to be sorry about. It’s pretty hard to do it yourself, I’ve just had to since I’ve lived on my own so long.” Phil rested his arms on his knees, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding now that Quackity was back to reality. “Everyone needs a little help every now and again.”
“Thanks,” Quackity said bluntly, putting a hand on the wall to try and help himself up.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Phil quickly sputtered, holding his hands out to push the man back down. “I don’t think you should be walking right now. Your wings still hurt, right? That’s gonna throw you way off balance.”
“They always hurt, it’s not a big deal.” Quackity rolled his eyes, a bit of snark coming back into his voice now that he was feeling marginally better.
“Because you’ve been plucking them.”
Quackity looked away. “Yeah, so what? It’s not like they’re good for anything else.”
“Quackity, your wings are a part of you.” Phil spread out his own wings, letting the black feathers shine in the light to punctuate his sentence. “You’re mutilating yourself.”
“So what? It’s not your business,” he shot back.
“It’s my business when you’re hurting! Feather-plucking is really damaging to your wings, and your psyche. You could have bled out if Tubbo didn’t find you!” Quackity refused to look at him, focusing intently at the wall. His hands twitched, almost like he was about to reach for his own wings and begin pulling again.
Phil sighed, trying to leech out the anger in his voice. It was so easy to be frustrated right now, but clearly that wasn’t what was needed. “I didn’t even know you were a hybrid, Quackity.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Why?” It was a struggle to keep the his voice from breaking as he asked. No one should have to feel like they needed to hide a part of themself.
“Because they’re useless! They’re ugly and stupid and I hate them!” The words came out of his mouth, but Phil could tell they weren’t Quackity’s own. That kind of hatred was borne from the world repeatedly pushing you down until you complied.
“And who told you that?” Phil asked bluntly. “Schlatt?” Quackity’s head shot up, but Phil kept his expression neutral. Clearly the man didn’t know that little piece of information got revealed in his panic. “The man’s dead and gone, Quackity. He was a bastard and a tyrant, and you literally pissed on his grave. His words mean nothing.”
Quackity sighed, wrapping his arms around his legs. “He wasn’t wrong about everything. It’s not like he was the only one.”
“Oh yeah, racists. What does their opinion matter?” Phil’s wings ruffled, unable to conceal the anger he felt at the way the man had been made to feel about a part of himself. “What matters is they’re yours.”
“They’re ugly.”
“They are a part of you, and you are not an ugly person, Quackity. You’re a brilliant leader, and a good friend. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”
“They’re too small,” Quackity spit out. As one argument went down he just threw down another.
“You can say that about anyone’s wings, and besides, your wings are the perfect size for you because they’re yours.”
“They look stupid! Have you ever seen someone flying with wings half their body size! It looks pathetic!”
Phil gave him a blank stare. “I’ve met hummingbird hybrids before, and their wings are probably the smallest you’ll see, but they’re just as beautiful. Are you saying they shouldn’t fly either?”
Quackity bit his lip, and Phil knew he had gotten him there. This wasn’t about hybrids as a whole, this was about Quackity’s view of himself as someone inferior, most likely caused by countless people talking down to him. Schlatt bossing him around, treating him as disposable.
“Why do you pluck your wings?” Phil asked softly. This was the opportunity he needed to breach the topic and not have him shut down immediately.
Quackity hunched in on himself, wings coming in to wrap around his body. “I… need something to control. If I can hide them, no one will have a reason to look down on me.”
“You know how you prevent others from looking down on you?” Phil leaned in close like he was telling him a secret. “You rise up. High into the sky, where they can’t go. You can rub it in their jealous faces, because you know that’s all they are. Jealous, insignificant people whose opinions don’t matter.” He held his hand up to the ceiling, swiping it across in a wide motion like it was an ever expanding sky. “What matters is your opinion of yourself.”
“And if my opinion is that my wings are shit?”
“Well then we just have to work to change that. When was the last time you flew?”
Quackity frowned, and then shrugged. “I don’t remember…”
Phil patted him on the back. “Alright, well, I can teach you some exercises to build your wing muscles up.”
“What?”
“Your wings wouldn’t be able to hold you up in the state they’re in, even if you molted right now. You need to build up your strength again.”
“You… think I can fly? With these?” Quackity’s wings twitched up, ruffling the feathers.
“Well, you’ll probably have to wait for your moult to hit, and then keep up preening so that they’re in a condition to catch the air, but I don’t see any reason why not. It’s magic.” Phil smiled. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but you don’t have to force yourself to hide anymore. It’ll be scary, and I know you’re going to want to keep that control over yourself because sometimes the world is real awful, but isn’t the biggest ‘fuck you’ to the world just being yourself? The Quackity I know would jump on that opportunity.”
Quackity laughed. “Yeah…”
“And for what it’s worth, I think your wings are beautiful. You rarely ever see yellow wings like these. I don’t think I’ve ever met a duck hybrid with wings that look as nice as these. I know my opinion probably isn’t worth much to you right now, but I’m just calling it as I see it.”
“Thanks, Phil,” Quackity said softly.
“Don’t worry, Quackity. I won’t leave you hanging here, alright? Let’s see who’s laughing when you’re twenty feet above them.”
Nothing could be fixed in a day, but it was a start. A running jump before a leap off a cliff, where you could finally begin to soar.