Weightless
by Mesa 
Mesa98@hotmail.com
November 1998

Category: V, R
Rating: NC-17
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: none

Summary: A flight home and a realization of what waits.

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of The X-Files are the
property of 1013 Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No
infringement intended.

Note: This takes place in the same universe as, and after the
events of "Undertow," but is a stand-alone story.

My deep thanks to Meredith who puts up with way more than
she should, and who always makes just the right suggestion.

I would, of course, adore feedback....mesa98@hotmail.com


Night flight.

Fleeing from nowhere into nothingness.

A window seat in an empty row, on a half-empty plane. Tired
passengers taking this final flight of the day away from a place
whose name they'd already forgotten.

Beneath him the country rolled away in serene and surreal darkness.
The glowing sprawls of urban lights looked like coral colonies--
groupings of small, single-minded creatures moving and flowing
through a darkness they didn't even realize was without light.

The plane climbed up to cruising altitude through the cloud layers
until there was nothing visible below him. The lights were dim
throughout the cabin, and there was only the reflection of moonlight
on the clouds--infinite shades of white and grey and more grey.

He actually liked these late flights. Less crowded, dark, nearly
silent, they suited his solitary nature. Afforded him time to pull
inward, to sit in the quiet of an imposed darkness, and drift
along on the mechanical will of the plane's flight path. He
could surrender to the inevitability of departure and destination.
There were no decisions to be made once he found his seat.

Up here, unable to use his cel phone--cut off from the known
world, he simply was. It was a pleasant non-existence. In these
times, between cases, flying from dark into dark, there was
nothing behind him and nothing before him. It was an odd sort of
freedom. Almost unexpected.

This, he thought, was true weightlessness. Not the zero-gravity
experienced by astronauts, who merely escaped the mundane and
pragmatic pull of Newtonian force on their physical bodies. No,
flying through this night he felt the weightlessness of freedom
from life. For these precious, dark, quiet moments there were no
tugs and pulls on him, no factors anchoring him to the hard, bright
realities of his existence. There was only this dim cabin, with the
muted lights. An isolated time of space with no time.

Below him the night-lighted cities swam in and out of view, visible
through the gaps in the clouds that rushed by under the plane's
wings. Or was the plane rushing through the clouds? It didn't
matter. Time and direction had no meaning in this floating world
that encased him.

And yet.

And yet, it wasn't entirely true that he was flying into nothingness.
>From nothing--yes. Another case that would simply become part
of the inextricable jumble of his memories. Another brutal series
of murders that would blend seamlessly into the horrors that lurked
always below his consciousness, surfacing in sharp, fitful
nightmares. His part done, the murderer caught, and already it
was fading away into nothingness, merely another case file.

Flying through nothingness. Up here, suspended in mid-air, held
up by a contraption that if he looked at it too closely would
surely disintegrate under the sheer improbability of a hunk of
metal being able to fly. He would be dropped into thin oxygen-
starved atmosphere--unable to breathe, unable to do anything but
tumble and tumble into the final unknown. Nothing to break his
fall, nothing to buoy him. But....

Before him....ahead of him was something he was flying toward.
Something that he didn't dare even name because if he tried to
name it or touch it, it might simply slip through his fingers--as
insubstantial as the whips of clouds through which this plane flew.
Clouds that could hide lethal storms, and obscure vision, but that
ultimately were nothing more than water and air. Yet, it wasn't
the individual components that mattered. It was what they became
together.

The idea that there was something else was too new to think
about clearly. It still seemed impossible that there could be
anything in front of him. But there was.

He held on to the thought of his destination. He let the night
carry him home.

And then the bump-bounce of touching back to earth, and the
heart-stopping roar of the engines reversing as the plane all-too
slowly reduced its speed to finally reach the safe taxi speed that
would take them to the gate. Always it seemed to him that the
plane was reluctant to cut the speed, to slow to something reasonable
or safe.

Stepping out of the plane onto the walkway, he felt the chill air
seeping in around the loose seal. Earth-bound once more, he felt
the weight of the past 2 weeks settling on his shoulders, pressing
down on his spine. Vague aches making themselves known now at
this late hour, in this cold winter night. He shivered as he walked
up into the harshly lighted terminal.

He found himself scanning the faces of the half-dozen people waiting
at the gate, looking unconsciously for the one face. Her face. He
knew she wouldn't be there. He didn't expect her to be there. And
yet, he couldn't suppress the sharp bite of disappointment at her
absence. He growled incoherently at himself and trudged out of
the departure/arrival lounge and toward the main terminal.

It was late--so late that all the shops and bars and coffee shops
were all gated and shut down. Abandoned storefronts that beckoned
the weary travelers with bright displays and then denied them with
the dark windows and padlocked doors. There was no one alive
in the world but the people straggling off the plane--their
footsteps both echoing and being swallowed up by the cavernous
spaces of the airport.

On the way out he debated with himself the relative merits of taking
a taxi--probably faster if there wasn't a line, but more expensive--
versus the metro. Finally the metro won, simply because he knew
he could be assured of not having to talk to anyone. He was so
tired, had no more words left. The metro would take a little
longer, but he had very little luggage, and it would be silent.

The four-block walk to his apartment from the metro station was
eerily deserted. He seemed to have carried a surrounding
atmosphere of silence and dark with him. For a moment he was
weightless again--alone--free from the petty annoyances of life and
job and paperwork and family and past and history. Simply a man
walking toward his home.

His home that would also be empty and dark and silent. Unanchored,
he could drift until morning--loosed from constraint and tethers to
anything resembling reality. He wondered briefly if there was a
danger in this weightlessness. If he would simply lift up and away
until he disappeared from anyone's consciousness.

In the dark of this night, the line between the freedom of being
without weight, and the loneliness of it blurred and snarled in his
gut.

The prospect of his empty apartment seemed suddenly sinister.

But it wasn't empty.

She was there, waiting for him.

She flowed out of the shadows, almost startling him, his only warning
of her presence in his darkened rooms the faint scent of her that
reached him milliseconds before she pressed against him, arms
reaching to wrap around him, pulling him into her. Almost desperate.
Hungry.

"I missed you." He wasn't sure if she had said it, or he simply
heard her thoughts echoing in his mind.

He dropped his bags and returned her embrace, one hand cradling
her head against his heart. Feeling himself becoming anchored back
to this world, this life, this moment. For a brief instant he missed
the feeling of weightlessness, of flight, but the solid and welcome
reality of her warm body in his arms evaporated the tiny longing.

She was there.

Unexpected, but essential. Had she known that he had looked for her
face at the airport? Held on to the memory of her touch and taste
and texture through all the lonely nights on the road?

She moved her head against his chest--seeking, restless--lifting her
mouth to his. Lips touching, and retreating slightly, and then
touching again, and again. Deeper. Longer. Harder.

He felt his fatigue wash through him again, for a moment threatening
to pull him down, to disintegrate him into nothing but a quivering
heap of bones and rumpled clothes.

But then her tongue swept over his. Touching, exploring, claiming.
And he was lost, sinking down into her, surrendering to her fierce
hunger.

She surprised him. Not just her physical presence, but her need, her
fire. Her wordless demand for all of him. Her hands pulled and
caressed and tugged. She seemed to want to merge their bodies at
the molecular level. He felt himself growing hard, hot, his need
flaring to match hers.

He finally dragged his mouth away from hers, driven only by his frail
body's need for oxygen. He began trailing kisses down her throat,
pausing to lightly nip her earlobe, and to whisper to her, "Yes.
Always. Always." He wasn't sure what he was reassuring her of,
only that the words were needed.

Her head fell back, arching her neck in a form of submission that
had nothing to do with any power, except the overwhelming force
of what lived between them. Of the electricity that had sparked
from the first moment and that had finally been acknowledged and
surrendered to two months ago in that lonely beach motel.

It was still all so new--this freedom to touch her, taste her, feel
her writhe and shift under his eager hands. Each time they came
together felt like a new epiphany, a separate wonder.

He felt her tugging at his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, so
that his arms were briefly trapped as it slid backwards. Reluctantly
he let go of her long enough to shed both his coat and his suit
jacket.

She was still wearing her suit from the office, and some distracted
corner of his mind paused to wonder if she had simply worked far
too late, or if she had been here waiting for him for these many
hours. He would have waited for her....

She had removed her jacket, too, and began working on the slippery
fabric-covered buttons of her blouse, but he still stilled her
impatient fingers--moving them aside so that he could unfasten them
one careful button at a time. Pausing to brush his fingers over the
heated flesh he found revealed by each opening. Bending over and
letting his lips linger on the beauty revealed by this simple, erotic
act.

Then her blouse and bra were puddles of white on the floor, and she
stood before him, swaying slightly under the force of the desire
that wrapped about them--tangling them in an intricate web of
passion and impulse.

Something shifted in her eyes, and she reached out to him--still
ablaze with need, but more contained now. Focused. With the
same solemnity that he had shown, she undid his shirt. Pausing at
the cuffs to kiss the inside of each wrist. A benediction, a promise.

Now half-naked and half-dressed, they came together again. Embarking
once more on a journey of familiar rediscovery. For an endless time
they simply explored. Kissing, tasting, holding. The sensation of
hands roving over skin, gliding, and scratching lightly. Caressing.
Loving. Skin against skin. Need meeting need.

Moving against each other. Hunger growing, accelerating as
the night grew slowly older. Breathless moans and sounds of
arousal. A gasp, an answered groan.

Beneath his touch and lips, her nipples were puckered, sweet,
achingly hard. He felt an answering ache in his chest and cock.
In the pit of stomach he could feel the sharp greed for her growing.
Insistent, hot, tight. Now. The time was now.

He broke from her grasp, just slightly. Stepped toward his bedroom.
She followed--a brilliant smile gracing her beautiful face.

Still dark, still almost silent, they rid themselves of their
remaining clothes and tumbled heedlessly onto the sheets. Alive,
aware, awake to a joyous sense of reunion.

Tangled in each other, their journey continued. Hands grasping
to pull them tight into one another, breathy laughter at unexpected
touches, gentle nips. She flowed under him like quicksilver, almost
elusive, but bright, and perfect.

Her hands tugged him tightly against her--his erection firmly
trapped against her soft belly. He groaned, unable to stop himself
from thrusting against her.

She smiled up at him, and then rolled to her back, parting her legs
in intimate invitation. And without another thought, he sank down
into her warm, wet depths, stilling only when he was sheathed
completely within her.

"Ah." A swallowed gasp, and then slowly, slowly they began to move.

Sweet, deep friction. Instinct driving them forward, and upward.
Their eyes met and locked--sharing the secrets of the world between
them. He bent to kiss her, allowing himself to plunder her willing,
dangerous mouth. The mouth he dreamed of, but this was no dream,
and he continued to surge against her, feeling her meet him again
and again.

He shifted, thrusting ever deeper, harder. Feeling her shiver as he
brushed against her clitoris, their urgency echoing back and forth
the points where their bodies touched, and joined, and meshed. An
irresistible impetus lifting them away from everything but this
moment, this second.

And speed now becoming imperative, necessity sweeping through them,
pulling them headlong into a storm of senses, the sound of their
bodies' slapping against each other, the taste her mouth, the feel of
her hands against his back, the incandescence in her eyes, and
then there was only them, and them, and them, soaring up and up...

The world faded away as she cried out, and he felt her spasm against
him. Moments later his own release overtook him, and he fell
through thin atmosphere, dropping endlessly through space and time,
unable to escape from gravity's attraction. But just as he thought he
would smash to earth, his body broken into dozens of pieces, he
discovered that he was....weightless.

END

Feedback greatly appreciated at Mesa98@hotmail.com