This startled out just as a drabble but then turned into a gift fic for Cafelatte100. I hope you enjoy, dear!

Edit: This takes before the events of the book/miniseries. There was a typo towards the end about the timeline and I've corrected that. Just in case anyone was confused. ;)

Soar

G.K. Chesterton once said that angels can fly because they take themselves lightly. Chesterton was one of the few mortals who suspected what was really going on with the Great Plan, but he had never met an angel (or Fallen angel) before. Or if he did, said angel was in a mortal disguise that was indistinguishable from any other British gentleman in the early twentieth century.

If he were still alive, Chesterton would have been shocked to learn that not only that he had indeed once met both an angel and a fallen angel (that is, a demon), but that flying (as well as falling) were much more complicated for said supernatural entities.

In fact, the very angel and demon were still in London, in Soho as a matter of fact, complaining about surprise inspections from their respective head offices over a glass of wine.

"Come on, angel, it can't be that bad," said Crowley from where he leaned against a bookshelf, watching Aziraphale review his notes from the last fifty years. "We all have surprise inspections. Mine was last century. Bloody annoying they are, but I survived. Your side can't be any worse than mine," he added drily.

"Yes, but this is for all of the Principalities," said Aziraphale, flipping furiously through the forms even though Crowley knew he had them memorised. "And I haven't seen all of them together, and in front of Gabriel, since…well, not since 2,000 B.C., I think. But Gabriel was absolutely insistent on meeting with the entire choir for a mid-century check-in."

"Camael still in charge of the Principalities?" said Crowley, frowning as he tried to recall the names of the few Principalities that were left after the War in Heaven. Crowley had been a Power before he Fell but didn't like to think back on those days, at least not without a substantial amount of alcohol on hand.

"Yes," sighed the angel, finally setting his notes down on the counter. "He's also been the guardian of North America for the last millennium. He's…well, let's just say that Gabriel approves of his methods."

When Crowley's frown deepened at that remark Aziraphale flushed and hurried on. "Not that there's anything wrong with his methods, it's just that I wish he and Jophiel and the others would spend a bit more time down here. It would make explaining the nuances of human history so much easier."

"I'll bet," Crowley muttered darkly. Given that Aziraphale's superiors seemed to give less than a damn about the angel, Crowley seriously doubted that any of the other Principalities had spent even five hundred years combined on Earth.

"They're not all bad, not really," insisted Aziraphale. "Sarafina – she's the Principality of Africa – is a very decent sort and Raphael was a great help to me with that awful business with Asmodeus and Tobit."

Crowley, who had been flipping through the thick folder that held Aziraphale's notes, paused and glanced in disbelief over his shades at Aziraphale. "Angel, Raphael was the one who got all the credit for that – it's all there in the Book of Tobit – even though it was you who ended up almost getting discorporated permanently," he added this last part with a growl.

"Yes, well…it all worked out in the end, didn't it?" said Aziraphale, clearly uncomfortable at the mention of Asmodeus. Facing such an old and powerful demon had indeed nearly destroyed Aziraphale completely and even after thousands of years neither of them liked to discuss it.

"Right," said Crowley after a moment, clearing his throat as he quickly changed the subject. "At my last inspection we had to appear in full dress uniform – the whole works. Same with your lot?"

Aziraphale grimaced and nodded. "Yes, although it's been centuries since I last had to do an inspection in first class uniforms," he added with a weary sigh. "I'd better change so I'm not late. You may want to put those back on," he added, handing Crowley's sunglasses back to him.

Crowley slipped them on and nodded. "Go on, then, give us a show," he said, waggling his brows suggestively over his shades at the angel.

Aziraphale gave him a look of mingled exasperation and fondness before closing his eyes and concentrating. A golden light began to swirl around him and Crowley found himself squinting even with his shades.

Many human artists over the centuries have attempted to capture what an angel truly looks like. None of them could have come close to the true version.

As a member of the lowest choir, Aziraphale's true form most resembled that of humans, but that didn't take away from the beauty and majesty of his divine form.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale's worn, frumpy clothes faded into brilliant robes of scarlet and violet, the fabric rippling like water. A gilded belt with an empty scabbard appeared around his waist as Aziraphale's pearl-like wings materialised onto the physical plane.

Aziraphale's face did not change, but the slightly careworn features and lines around his eyes and mouth faded, making his visage appear so much younger. His pale skin seemed to glow with an inner fire that was warm rather than the coldness Crowley remembered from Heaven. The light finally pooled around Aziraphale's head in a brilliant halo before swirling around his brow and fading into a gleaming golden coronet that was the symbol of rank for Principalities. The band shone like liquid fire, the rainbow hued gems sparkling against Aziraphale's wavy hair.

"I've forgotten how heavy this thing is," said Aziraphale, adjusting the coronet before raising his head to look at Crowley. "Well? How do I look? Do you think I'll pass muster?"

Crowley found himself unable to speak – it should have physically hurt him to stand in the presence of an angel, even a low-ranking one – but instead he found himself wanting to draw closer to the warm golden light Aziraphale was giving off.

Radiant was the closest word he could think of. Beautiful was a close second, but not in the silly, frivolous romantic claptrap that so many human poets penned about. No human could understand the true meaning of beauty until they had looked upon the face of an angel.

But Crowley didn't say any of those things. When Aziraphale began to look anxious he shook himself and cleared his throat again. "Yeah," Crowley said, stepping forward and slowly circling the angel as was his habit. "You'll do."

Aziraphale smiled at him, his eyes still warm despite his divine countenance, before taking a step back and glancing at the clock.

"Glass of wine once I'm back?"

"Sure. Good luck, angel."

"Well done, Principality Aziraphale," said Gabriel after the inspection had finally, finally ended. "Your conduct during the two World Wars is to be commended." The archangel sounded vaguely surprised as well as slightly impressed.

Aziraphale could feel Camael's baleful glare boring into the back of his skull but he was too relieved to be truly bothered by it.

"Thank you, Gabriel," said Aziraphale, bowing respectfully to his superior. "With your leave…?" he trailed off, glancing longing at the exit.

"In a hurry to get back?" said Camael snidely, his grey eyes glittering like hard diamonds.

Before Aziraphale could respond Gabriel spoke first. "Yes, you should get back – keep up the good work down there, Aziraphale. The rest of you, pay attention to your coworker here!" he added smugly as though he were in fact responsible for Aziraphale's success (and in Gabriel's mind, he was – after all, all of that micromanaging seemed to be finally paying off).

"I thought I'd take the short way down?" Aziraphale asked as he began to step backwards towards the edge of the meeting hall, which had no true walls, only the illusion of them.

"Yes, go ahead," mumbled Gabriel, waving him off as he turned his attention to the other Principalities.

Aziraphale gave a quick dip of a bow to the other assembled angels before turning and rushing, running towards the edge of the world.

He flung himself into the atmosphere, plummeting away from Heaven and towards land far, far below. Anyone watching the sky at that moment would later report that they saw a meteor plummeting to the earth, lighting up the storm-laden sky with its brilliance.

Aziraphale closed his eyes as he let himself succumb to the sensation of freedom, not yet opening his wings. He loved to fly - it was the one thing that made him feel free, without shame or terror or fear. There was only him and the wind the roaring in his ears and the incredible sense of liberation that flying gave him. In these few precious moments, Aziraphale was free.

He twisted into a somersault, his robes and hair ripping free in the wind, the sun and sky spinning around him in a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour as he rushed towards the earth.

Just before he hit the ocean's surface Aziraphale stretched out his wings, the magnificent primaries gleaming despite the lack of sunlight.

A lone sea eagle screeched in alarm as Aziraphale rushed past him, the angel's speed sending up waves on either side of them.

"Race you!" Aziraphale called to the eagle, laughing as the eagle gave another screech of indignation.

"You're on, angel," said a familiar voice.

Aziraphale looked down, gaping in astonishment to see Crowley flying beneath him, the demon's dark wings mirroring Aziraphale's as he kept pace with the angel. The demon smirked and flipped onto his back, putting his hands under his head.

"So, how'd it go?" he asked as they soared over the ocean.

"I passed," said Aziraphale, smiling.

Crowley didn't often see Aziraphale fly in his natural form – they were both required to keep low profiles while on Earth – and it never failed to amaze him how much happier the angel was when flying.

And oh, how the angel could fly. Crowley was fast and agile but Aziraphale was just as fast; much like an eagle, he could be a bit clumsy when grounded but once in the air Aziraphale could soar for days without tiring.

They raced each other back to western coast of Britain. It ended in a tie with them landing on a rocky cliff that provided shelter from the wind and rain.

Crowley flapped his wings to shake off the ocean spray before winching them back in. Aziraphale sat down, legs folded under him, and started to do the same but suddenly stopped with a gasp of pain.

"What?" said Crowley, frowning as he turned from watching the storm-tossed waves to look at Aziraphale.

"My wing…I think something's wrong with it," Aziraphale said, nodding towards his left wing. "It hurts when I move it."

Crowley leaned forward to inspect the wing and hissed in consternation at what he found. A broken blood feather.

"You've got a broken blood feather, angel. It's going to have to come out," he added grimly as he spotted the blood-stained feathers. He could see the wing trembling and resisted the urge to stroke the feathers in reassurance.

Aziraphale blanched – pulling a blood feather from an angel's wing was like pulling a fingernail from a human hand. Agonising.

Crowley saw Aziraphale's expression and tried to reassure him. "Maybe one of the other angels-"

"No!" said Aziraphale, with such unexpected alarm that Crowley leaned back, his eyebrows shooting up.

Aziraphale blushed at his outburst and stammered out an explanation. "No, er…that is, I don't want to bother anyone over a silly trifle. Could…could you take it out?" he added after a moment's hesitation.

Stunned by the request Crowley could only nod. "Sure angel, but not here." He snapped his fingers and suddenly they were back in the bookshop.

Crowley went to find some wine while Aziraphale returned to his normal form and stretched face down on the worn sofa.

When Crowley returned, sans jacket and tie, he saw that the injured feather was bleeding more heavily. He quickly took a large gulp from his wine glass before turning his attention to his companion.

"I don't understand how this could have happened," Aziraphale mumbled into his arms while Crowley knelt next to him to more closely examine the wing. "I must have bumped it against the cliff when I landed earlier."

Crowley shrugged as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. "It just happens sometimes angel. Maybe now you'll do a better job of keeping your wings groomed," he added but without any real heat. He knew just how much pain the angel had to be in right now but that wasn't Crowley's only concern.

Aziraphale's reaction to his suggestion that he ask another angel for help was bothering him. Immensely. He could think of only a few reasons why Aziraphale would have such a reaction and each of those reasons made Crowley's stomach churn.

And yet…here the angel was, asking him, a demon, for help over his own angelic brethren. While this wasn't the first time Aziraphale had let Crowley touch his wings, the demon still found himself a bit floored that Aziraphale would willingly be so vulnerable in front of him. Sure, they had known each other for thousands of years and helped each other out of scraps on more than one occasion, but this kind of trust unnerved Crowley even as it made something clench in his chest. The feeling might have been gratitude but he would later insist it was heartburn.

"Is it bad?" Aziraphale's muffled voice broke into his thoughts. He felt Crowley gently – so gently – run his fingers through his feathers, checking for any additional damage. Aziraphale shivered at the touch but nodded for Crowley to continue when he paused and gave the angel a concerned glance.

"You'll live," Crowley said after he had checked the limb for any other injuries. "But this is really going to hurt. Brace yourself."

And before the angel could even blink, Crowley moved with incredible speed, holding down the wing with his left hand and pulling out the broken feather with his right in one coordinated motion.

Aziraphale didn't scream, but the low moan and his hitched breathing told Crowley how much pain he was in. He hated doing it but Crowley had wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

He set the broken quill aside before turning back to Aziraphale, moving to sit on the sofa beside the angel. Even though it had been necessary Crowley suddenly felt ill that he had caused the fresh blood to appear on those beautiful feathers.

Even worse, he couldn't heal the angel – all he could do was manifest a soft clean cloth and press it to the wound and wait until the bleeding stopped. Wings couldn't be healed by miracles anyway, Aziraphale would have to wait for it to heal naturally (or rather, divinely).

"You're okay, s'okay," he hissed softly, his left hand stroking the wing in an unconscious effort to comfort. His fingers caught on some of the blood-slicked feathers and he did his best to wipe the blood away. He ran his fingers along the ridge of the wing bone, stroking the long primaries and smoothing out the smaller feathers. Crowley used his right hand to rub between the angel's shoulder blades, occasionally kneading the back of Aziraphale's neck to ease the rigid tension that had gathered there.

It seemed to help, because Aziraphale calmed and raised his head after a few more moments. His face was pale but he didn't seem to be in any more distress.

"Thank you, Crowley," he said, wincing as he vanished his wing back into the ether before sagging more heavily into the cushions.

"I suppose I shan't be able to fly again until it's healed," Aziraphale said after a moment, his tone wistful.

Crowley helped him sit up and poured him a glass of wine, which Aziraphale took gratefully.

"It's only for a short time, angel. You'll be up in the clouds again soon enough."

And oddly enough, Aziraphale believed him.