AN: This isn't edited as nicely as on Ao3 (whose version includes fancy html footnotes), but I figure this site could have it too.

Crowley jerked awake, wings flaring open before he realized he wasn't actually falling. He laid on his bed, on top of slippery silk sheets, whose color he really should change. Waking from a dream of plummeting through nothingness, only to wake up with a face full of black did not help him calm down.

Groaning, Crowley closed his eyes and let his wings sink a few inches until they rested on bed on either side of him. He didn't know why he called them out, or why he didn't just pull them in again. Instead, he laid on the bed and simply was.

That was all he really could do after these nightmares – force his human body to take deep breaths and pay attention to everything in the moment. The fabric under his cheek, the slow pulse in his head, the slight weight of his wings on his shoulders, the band of sunlight over his calves. There was no rushing air, his body was supported by a very comfortable mattress. There was light. There was silence. There was, in its own way, peace.

Recentered, Crowley pushed himself up and banished his wings. There was no reason for them to be here on this plane, not now when all he wanted to focus on was Earth and his time on the dirtball. Not… not the dream.

Frowning, he looked out the window. It was bright, but that was the only attractive bit of weather London held today. The streets were filled with grey slush, and the walkers had on hats, mittens, and two scarves.

What he needed was something Earthly, but he didn't want to step outside. Why he stayed in London year-round he didn't know (1 He did, actually. It was an angel named Aziraphale), it was too cold. Maybe he should go to a museum or an indoor garden. Something that reminded him that life was good, he was good, and he had power.

He ended up at Aziraphale's bookshop. No surprise there. It was warm, familiar, and Aziraphale didn't mind it when Crowley scared a way customers. (2 After all, despite being called a bookshop it really was more of a personal collection that the public could be aware of but not actually touch.) All things that chased away the lingering taste of his nightmare – the helplessness, the loss, the shock.

If Aziraphale noticed Crowley's thorny than normal disposition, the angel didn't comment on it. He simply brought Crowley new cups of tea every two hours and puttered about the store organizing the shelves. Neither of them made the suggestion to go out for dinner. Crowley, because he didn't want bear the weather outside and watching Aziraphale eat wasn't something he was in the mood for. Aziraphale, because he had picked up on Crowley's mood. Or so Crowley assumed. (3 He assumed correctly.)

"Did you have a good day?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley got up to leave for the evening.

Crowley thought back to the young toff he'd blocked from entering by standing in the doorway, the middle-aged woman who he made hallucinate books as cake slices to send her out and to the bakery down the street, and the glares he'd sent a man who stepped inside to warm up. The man had frozen, a mouse in Crowley's snakey gaze, and fled as soon as he crossed the threshold.

He felt good, a powerful and feared demon. He was proud of what he'd done that day, and the close presence of Aziraphale had soothed his nerves.

"Yeah," he answered.

"I'm glad. Take care driving home, Crowley."

He was hesitant to call today his favorite flying weather, (4 He can't call it that because when flying in Heaven, he'd had no weather to fly through. It was a purely Earth concept) yet the day still made him nostalgic. Probably because this was the type of weather that had made him think, roughly six thousand years ago, that it would be nice flying weather.

A moderately warm day. Clear. With a steady breeze.

While in the Garden of Eden, he'd stand on the wall during days like this and feel the wind pick up his hair. Long as it had been back then, he sometimes mistook the touch of the tresses on his neck as feathers. And at night, when the risk of running into the angel also in the garden was low, he'd stand there, spread his wings, and grip the edge of the wall with his bare toes.

Like that, with the wind in his hair and feathers, a drop before him, and an unobstructed view, Crowley tricked himself for a second, maybe two, that he was flying.

He had the desire to do something similar today. Find a tall building or cliff, spread his wings out and lean over just a little bit.

Fuck it. There was nothing stopping him. He hopped in the Bentley and drove... he wasn't sure where. He just drove to a spot that seemed right.

It ended up being hours outside of London 5 (though it only took him an hour and a half. He frequently drove above the speed limit and used his demonic influence to encourage others to get out of the way and for the Bentley to *go fast* which often resulted in it skipping through space, covering 30 miles in a second on open roads. ) on a cliffside that overlooked the south part of the North Sea. While the cliff was exposed to the wind, which was much stronger here, there was a thick corpse of trees between it and the road. That, plus a little snap of his finger to make humans uninterested in coming to the overlook, ensured he wouldn't be disturbed.

He pulled out his wings and stretched them wide, giving both a shake to expose all his feathers to the air. They caught the breeze well, sinking back just a bit, and if he timed it right, a gust, a jump off the cliff, he pictured himself catching the wind and soaring low above the water until he found an updraft that would take him so high the Bentley became a spot.

Crowley closed his eyes and imagined it. His flight path, the adjustments to his wings, the sea spray and hair whips on his cheeks.

"Crowley?"

His eyes snapped open. He saw the deep purple-grey of the reverse side of a sunset. He'd moved to the edge of the cliff, leaning over so much he would have fallen if not for the branch he held. Hastily, the demon stepped back.

Behind him stood Aziraphale. The angel looked unsure, wringing his hands as he gazed at Crowley's wings. Crowley had the sudden desire to snap them closed, but that felt like hiding.

"Angel. What are you doing here?"

"It's, well, it's the second Tuesday of the month."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale took a step closer.

"For the past year, you've come to the shop every second Tuesday of the month. When you didn't, I got worried."

Did Crowley actually do that? Go over that frequently, that regularly, and Aziraphale had tracked his habits?

"No, I don't."

Aziraphale pouted and stepped closer. He glanced again at Crowley's wings. Crowley stubbornly refused to put away his shame.

"It nice here," Aziraphale offered, "No humans, a good breeze, were you planning on a flight?"

"No."

Aziraphale gave him a flat look. "You're standing on a cliff edge, wings spread. If you weren't going to fly, what, pray tell were you thinking of doing? Diving in for a swim?"

Crowley flinched and Aziraphale stilled.

"Right, not diving," he whispered. "I bet there's a fair bit of rocks down below, and wet wings are not a pleasant experience." He stepped forward another step, bringing out his own wings.

Crowley immediately stared at them. For all intents and purposes, they had the same wings. Similar size, similar feathers. Healthy, air-catching limbs. Paint Crowley's wings white and he'd look just like an angel if he hid his eyes.

"Come dear," Aziraphale said gently, "Let's go fly. It's a nice night for it."

"You first."

Aziraphale sighed. "Alright." He stepped back and to the left, gaining space to shake out his wings. Then he broke into a bouncy jog and leaped over the cliff.

Crowley leaned over to watch. Aziraphale's wings opened, primary and secondary feathers spreading. They caught the wind half way down the cliff and the angel rose at a gentle angle, the rosy glow of the sunset on the other side of the sky giving his wings a shimmering look.

Crowley wanted to do the same. Wanted to leap and soar and laugh.

He turned around and walked to the Bentley.

Aziraphale never mentioned that night to him.

Crowley ran his fingers through his wings, zipping barbs as he went. His muscles were strong, in both his wings and shoulders. His feathers seamlessly caught the wind, they were large and healthy and undamaged.

He could fly. 80%, no 70% sure. Physically, there was no reason he couldn't.

But he just... he just can't.

The night after they saved the world and stopped the apocalypse by association, Crowley desperately required sleep. Celestial bodies might be made of energy, and their mortal bodies run on it, but he used up a lot of power in a short period of time. Both his forms needed to recover.

"I need to crash," he told Aziraphale as he let the angel into his apartment. He wobbled his way through to bed, waving his hands as he went. "Sitting room, living room, kitchen, bathroom. And bedroom."

"Mind if I join you?"

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale, not sure he understood.

"It's just," the angel continued. "This is a new body, created by Adam, I need to...settle into it and I think a nap will help."

Crowley gave a graceless shrug. "Do what you want."

He fell face first into his sheets and gave in to exhaustion.

Apparently, even when exhausted, he still had nightmares. Crowley woke, wings flapping. He struck something, panicked, rolled off the bed, and landed uncomfortably with his left wing pinned between his back and the floor while his right pressed flat against the wall sticking up.

"Crowley!"

He blinked up at Aziraphale, eventually putting together the feel of his wing hitting something and the red mark on the angel's cheek, but he couldn't make himself do anything but stare.

"Crowley? Are you okay?"

Crowley shut his eyes and lifted a finger in the air, a request for time to put himself back together. (6 All he really wanted to do was lie there and be, to relish in the feel of something solid beneath his back, but he worried if he didn't say something in a short period of time Aziraphale would go from fretting to worried to mother henning and he hated that.)

When he next opened his eyes, Aziraphale was crouched on the end of the bed, looking at Crowley who felt well wedged between the bed and wall. The pink mark on the angel's skin was fading, Crowley was pleased to see.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked for the third time.

"I'm fine, angel. Just a nightmare."

Aziraphale's hands clutched the sheets. "Are they always like that?"

"This one is," Crowley admitted.

"It's... reoccurring?"

Crowley nodded.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

Crowley sighed. He knew that face, it was the look Aziraphale wore when he was doing something for the benefit of another, at the cost of his own happiness. No doubt, the angel was upset Crowley didn't plan on sharing his feelings, but he wouldn't push for the sake of Crowley's boundaries.

He hated it when he made Aziraphale unhappy.

"I dream of the fall." Crowley banished his wings and sat up, looking down at the floor. He didn't want to see Aziraphale's face. The pity or sorrow. The need to make things better. No one could make falling better. Besides, he came to terms with the consequences of that a long, long time ago. As his life was this very moment, he regretted nothing.

Aziraphale didn't say anything, and well, Crowley always had been too curious for his own good. He looked up.

From his position a few inches higher on the bed, Aziraphale smiled at him. "Thank you for telling me that. Now come on," he stretched out a hand, "I don't think I'm quite done sleeping."

Crowley hesitated. He was done sleeping, wanted to stay as far away from another nightmare as possible. But both his forms wouldn't last long, he knew. He needed the rest. And spending more time with Aziraphale, hearing his breathe and feeling his warmth after thinking he'd lost it for eternity, well. Crowley would never pass up that opportunity.

He took Aziraphale's hand and let the angel pull him back onto the bed. They fell asleep, hands still clasped.

Humans were fond of saying things like "the pride before the fall" or "it's not the fall that kills you, it's the landing".

Crowley didn't agree with either of them, but if asked for his opinion he'd say they got the sayings mixed up.

He fell so fast, was identified and cast from the mountain in the same breath, that he couldn't acknowledge the sting of loss for his angelhood and all that came with it until he stopped. He felt shame for the first time, and regret, and sadness, and despair. He'd looked up and realized he had taken pride in his work, in his role in the Host. He might never feel that again.

But it wasn't that awareness, that he'd been deemed unworthy of unconditional love, he'd been discarded, tossed like trash, that terrified me.

God's opinion, he eventually told himself, didn't matter. God was just another being in the universe and was entitled to think about Crowley as She will just as he was entitled to think what he wanted about Her.

What broke him, what still haunted him after six thousand years, was the act of falling itself. Spreading his wings, flapping as strong as he could, and feeling them catch nothing. God had done something to his wings when She forced him off the mountain. Those limbs refused to work right, the muscles numb, the feathers not responding, the air moving past them like through the bars of a prison window instead of catching it like a parachute.

Crowley fell faster and faster. He'd turn over, falling not face down but face up to reduce the strain on his shoulders as he wings were wrenched back.

He couldn't do anything, he couldn't do anything, even though he wanted to, wished to, imaged to so strongly.

It was the failure of his body, the knowledge he had no control even over his own self, that haunted him.

Since then, he'd always wondered Can I do enough? Can I save me?

On Earth, he was safe. His legs never stopped working, he had control over his days. But as soon as he was in the air, he had no idea. His wings could either catch air or fail him again.

And he was too scared of the latter to risk it.

Calling Crowley a control freak wouldn't be inaccurate, but he let up sometimes. And by sometimes, he meant usually when Aziraphale made a request. There was little he wouldn't do for the angel. Which was why they were on the beach.

He also said yes because he suspected the angel was planning something and was curious. (7 After all, Aziraphale was not a beach person. Crowley liked to sunbathe, Aziraphale liked to stay indoors and read. Bringing a book to the beach got sand between the pages and he hated that.)

They got in the Bentley and drove to Greece, swimmers on and slathered in sunscreen. The beach Aziraphale choose was populated, but not crowded which allowed both of them a chance to work. (8 Not that they needed to, but six thousand years of habit didn't disappear in a few months. Aziraphale prevented breezes from overturning umbrellas. Crowley redirected seashells so people he didn't like the look of stepped on them.) Crowley laid in the direct sun on a towel, basking in the warmth and salty air. Aziraphale sat in a chair under an umbrella with a what might be an autographed copy of The Odyssey.

It was a pleasant day, but Crowley knew something would come up. As he waited for whatever Aziraphale was planning to happen, Crowley found his gaze drawn to one of the tourist activities – parasailing.

The humans would be strapped to a hanging frame under a colorful parachute and up in the air they went, flying above and behind a motorboat that pulled them along the beach. There were three such boats and they seemed to have been doing it for a while. Not a single human fell. Take off, flight, and landing. All safe and producing happy humans.

"Did you want to try?"

Crowley snapped his head toward Aziraphale's soft question.

"I booked a time slot for a double, we can do it together."

Crowley stared at him.

He'd gathered Aziraphale had put the pieces together into some type of image. It wasn't perfect, but it was probably enough to know Crowley had a thing about flying. What that thing was the angel was welcome to guess, (8 Aziraphale indeed had guessed and believed that the fall came with a permanent grounding due to wing damage) but Crowley didn't feel like spelling it out.

He never thought the angel would do something like this though.

"It can be a human adventure," Aziraphale said in that same, soft voice. "They look quite safe."

Safer than Crowley's own wings, anyway. It wouldn't be the same, of course it wouldn't be. Dangling from a swing, not soaring horizontally, no flapping, minimal control over the flight path. It would mean being in the air with his feet off the ground, with Aziraphale beside him.

He couldn't verbally answer but gave an obvious nod.

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him. "Wonderful. I booked us the six o'clock spot."

Later, on the boat, Crowley eyed the Greek girl in charge of getting them outfitted as she went over the safety features of the rig. She made sure the life jackets they put on were snug, the harnesses they stepped into was tight and secure, the parachute attached. Crowley double-checked with her and he ignored the little miracle Aziraphale did to tighten all knots, straps, and knobs.

This wasn't flying, and the height they were going to reach was pitiful, but Crowley found himself obsessing about the safety features. He didn't want to fall, but when they did he wanted to know his life jacket worked and they wouldn't be trapped under the parachute.

"You're tense," Aziraphale said before they got into the water. "If you don't want to do this-"

"No. No, I do. I just want to make sure everything is reliable." Because his wings wouldn't be. If anything happened, he could do nothing.

After final checks, they were instructed to get in the water. It felt silly, but then the driver punched the gas, the boat shot forward, the parachute caught air, and they were pulled up into the sky.

Aziraphale clutched the ropes of the swing tightly, facing going pale, and Crowley laughed. This wasn't flying, he knew that and accepted it, but he could see the water beneath his feet, feel the wind push back his hair at 30kph, and the ocean's horizon line had never looked so welcoming. He closed his eyes and spread his arms, careful not to hit Aziraphale, and tried not to imagine sudden holes in the parachute.

Things were fine. He'd seen the equipment checked, Aziraphale added a little miracle, and humans had been doing this all day. This air sport required nothing of Crowley but to enjoy it, and because he was the least important part of this, solely a rider, he found himself relaxing further and further.

The wind between his fingers was cold, the air in his lungs sweet, the feel of his dangling feet freeing, and the presence of Aziraphale beside him the most wholesome thing in the world. He opened his eyes and saw the first part of the sunset. Saw the evening star glimmer on the horizon, not one he'd created but one he'd always enjoyed looking for. For a little bit, he forgot about the parachute, the harness, the boat, and the humans.

It was just him and Aziraphale in the sky.

When they land in the water to get back on the boat, Crowley shoved his sunglasses on to the top of his head and splashes a handful of seawater into his face. Aziraphale said nothing, but Crowley suspected that he had seen the salt tracks on Crowley's face.

"I'm sorry," the angel said once Crowley settled his sunglasses back on his face. "Was this a bad gift?"

"No, no." In the water, Crowley found Aziraphale's hand and squeezed tightly. "It was… it was perfect, angel."

"Whenever you want to do it again, just let me know."

"What if I want to go skydiving, next time?"

"Then we'll go skydiving."

Crowley didn't actually want to go skydiving. Just thinking about it made him panic. But this? Parasailing on a beach with Aziraphale next to him? This, he could do again. Wanted to do again.

Hell, he missed flying.

Crowley felt ridiculous, standing in on the tree branch like this, but he didn't know how else to test himself. He was only about six meters up, below him was soft grass, and since the tree was dead there was no leaves or little branches to get in the way. If this failed, he could be hurt, but probably nothing more serious than a broken bone.

But he had to know – could he do it?

So far, he'd been staring downward for three hours, waiting for the perfect breeze. It hadn't come,(9 A lie he's told himself. Five perfect breezes had indeed came) and honestly, he didn't really need one for what he was trying to do. He wasn't, he wasn't going flying. He was just determining if he could catch himself.

He knew he could flap. Knew that he could flex his wings, move his feathers, read the winds. Knew that when his wings pushed down, it created a gust that scattered the papers of his desk, blew grass away from him. He'd tested every single, tiny part of flying and determined that his body could handle it.

Except one.

Would his wings capture and use the wind?

Would the air hit his wing-wrist and split, generating flight? Could he soar, move forward, stay air bound?

And perhaps, more importantly, would the wind pool under his feathers, tightly zipped barbs preventing the air from streaming past his wings like it would a stick? Could he stop, could he slow his descent and land safely on his feet instead of in a crumpled heap in the dark, bones broken and soul ripped apart because he was an outcast, loveless, a failure, weak and grounded?

Crowley shook his head, not letting himself fall into the memory.

There was no pit, no Hell below him. He stood on a tree not six meters from the ground, staring at green, green grass.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have asked Aziraphale to come. But as patiently as the angel would wait, and as kind as his smile would be no matter what Crowley did, Crowley knew what he needed wasn't that kind of support. What he needed was to let go of the tree and fall already, damn it.

And, well, if it didn't work? No one would have to know but himself.

And no one but himself would know he was too cowardly to try.

But, for once, after the six millennia since he fell, he felt something stronger than his fear.

The desire to fly, side by side, with Aziraphale.

And he'd hate himself if he never attempted to do it. Never tried.

He'd spent three, maybe four hours now staring at the ground.

It was time to jump.

Leaning forward just a bit, shifting the soles of his feet to the side of the tree branch, not on top, he flexed, paused, and then pushed off.

The rush of air in his face terrified him, and instincts he hadn't used for centuries made him snap out his wings. And his wings… his wings held him.

He hit the ground fairly quickly, six meters wasn't a long fall. Just after his wings caught the air his feet had slammed into the grass. But, but…

There were higher branches.

He was a snapped curse, or a quick Bentley ride, away from a cliff. His wings had worked. Worked! At a higher starting point, he could catch the air and control his drop before hitting the ground. He could control his descent. Control his direction.

Never have to worry about falling again.

There was no one there to see, but he still brought a hand up to cover his eyes as they teared up.

He'd jump from the tree again, higher. And then do it a third time, appearing on the highest, thinnest branch so that it broke under his weight and he could glide down to safety.

He'd…he'd…

He'd fly with Aziraphale.

He fell to his knees and started sobbing. This wasn't redemption, Crowley knew that. He'd always be a fallen angel, always always always. But that was six thousand years in the past now. How long had his wings been healed? How long had he'd held himself back, scared of his own history?

Crowley found he didn't care. What mattered was that today, today, he felt he could move forward. He and Aziraphale had already pulled themselves free of the restrictions of Heaven and Hell. And now, Crowley could shed the fear and the lingering shame that had been holding himself back from everything he wanted to do with Aziraphale.

Another jump. He needed to do another jump, to makes sure his wings worked, but he already suspected they would. He'd do it. He'd launch himself from the tree, wings extended. Prove the concept. But first, he just had to stop crying.

AN: Because it's such a different tone to this story, you won't be seeing Crowley's and Aziraphale's flight together. Sorry! Crowley's only an angsty little demon in his head, otherwise he's all dramatics and how he tells Aziraphale he can fly is nothing but drama. It goes something like this:

Crowley takes Aziraphale up on that skydiving offer. And then, when it's time for them to jump, Crowley just dramatically flings himself out of the plane w/o a parachute. And Aziraphale is like, "oh eff" and swan dives after him, but then he sees Crowley open his wings and this cackling laugh just fills his ears. Aziraphale wants to both murder him for the heart attack and weep with joy. Neither happens, instead they take a leisurely flight back to the bookshop and then on the roof Crowley snogs the angel senseless. There's nothing tarnishing his image of the future now. He may state his intention to propose too (but not actually do it, of course. Not now. Aziraphale gets too many shocks this day.)

Additionally, this story was Inspired by incredulousanteater's story Flightlessly.