Will was of two minds about falling. It seemed that every time the team ever fought anyone at a great height (tall bridge, skyscraper, zeppelin, or whatever), he was always getting knocked back, blasted away, or thrown off. Since he was more than durable enough to withstand the impact with even solid rock at terminal velocity, his teammates never bothered to try to catch him unless they needed him around, or he might fall on something important, like an innocent bystander. So he’d done a lot of falling.
On one hand, the sensation of falling was both exhilarating and peaceful. There was a natural and undeniable thrill created by the sudden lack of anything under your feet, but at the same time, there was the floating weightlessness. Since he knew that his pliable body would be unharmed at the bottom, he could relax and enjoy the view, alone with his thoughts.
On the other hand, he was alone with his thoughts. For any decent length of fall time, they inevitably turned to doubt about whether, this time, his power would protect him and keep him whole and healthy. Falling had thousands of generations of fear and uncertainty evolved into it, right down into the reptilian brain. A few years of having a body that was somehow inherently soft and stretchy wasn’t going to overcome that.
At least by now he’d become used to it enough that he was no longer in danger of wetting himself.