From: "Sasjah Miller" Date: Sun, 20 Aug 2000 12:07:29 GMT Subject: Five Miles High (1/1) by Sasjah Miller (M/K slash) Source: xff TITLE: "Five Miles High" (1/1) AUTHOR: Sasjah Miller RATING: R, for strong language and implied sexual situations CATEGORY: V, A KEYWORDS: M/K, slash ARCHIVE: Sure, go ahead. I'd like to know where it goes, though, so please drop me a note FEEDBACK: sasjahmiller@hotmail.com SPOILERS: Tiny one for Piper Maru DISCLAIMER: I didn't create them, CC did SUMMARY: When you get on that airplane you better not end up sitting next to Alex Krycek NOTES: Big thanks to griffin and bolan for providing excellent beta and to Marillion for the inspiration ----------------- Okay. So here I am, stuck in this fucking airplane, with a thick fat woman who can't stay put in her seat sticking her big ass into my face each time she turns around to tell her backseat neighbor how fucking great her holiday was and what they did each fucking minute of the day. Get your ass out of my face and leave me alone. Leave me the hell alone. Oh yeah, I'm alone, alright. I'm left to my own vices and devices, sent off to whatever spot in the world the syndicate has come up with as being worthy of the attentions of Alex Krycek, double agent extraoirdinaire. Finally she's settling down, actually stays put in her seat for more than two whole seconds in a row as the seatbelt lights come up (thank God for tight seatbelts) and I get some peace and quiet. I just hope she won't start talking to me instead. I adjust the volume of my Walkman, push the headphones just that little bit further in so the music at least partially drowns out the sounds of the airplane and its temporary inhabitants; I draw the brim of my cap over my eyes, pull my leather jacket closer around me and close my eyes. It feels kinda funny, shutting myself off from the world in this sense: voluntarily muting my hearing, impairing my vision, the senses that have saved my life so often; but here, in this little self-contained world, population 350, a little hamlet poised on a runway to go up into the sky any minute now, it is about the only time I can safely pull it off. The plane taxiis towards the landing strip and picks up speed, preparing itself to bring me and my involuntary community into the sky. I hate departures, the feel of the plane taking off, the wheels losing touch with the ground. It's way overrated: being free as a bird, floating high up in the air. Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it. I like going down though, pun intended. Knowing that I've once again defied the fates and gotten away with murder. Yeah, okay, I'm different from most people. What else is new? They're not the ones getting onto airplanes, Marillion blazing through their earphones, with orders to kill off another bystander who just happened to have a bad case of time/place management malfunction. They're not the ones getting the crap beaten out of them in Hong Kong airport restrooms. The leather of my jacket creaks as I shift, suddenly uncomfortable again in this too - fucking - small seat. A good thing they provide blankets on international flights: my talkative neighbor might find a whole new subject to discuss, or maybe just ogle my jeans that have suddenly become quite snug. A sensation I get a lot when thinking about this. Not about getting beaten the crap out of me, per se but getting it done by my former fibbie companion, my beacon, my reason to exist. Literally. If it hadn't been for Mr. Fox William Mulder - and his crazy schemes to save the world and every idiot on it from extinction - I would long since have turned into a lab rat for the Consortium's scientists. But I got the shifty honor of keeping tabs on him and making sure his schemes won't interfere with their plans. So far they think I've succeeded, so I am still alive and my being on this airplane in one piece is proof of that dubious accomplishment. Yes, my little Foxlet is what keeps me alive. And wide awake as well. I am really starting to feel uncomfortable now, my erection clearly visible if it wasn't for the blanket so tastefully arranged in my lap. The discomfort from my hardon grows profound and I shift my position slightly, apparently claiming too much armrest space in the eyes of the fat-assed lady beside me. I can feel her stare at me, eyes glaring, but too afraid to say anything. It does pay to have that bad-boy-look pat every now and then. I grin evilly at her from under my cap then close my eyes again, conspicuously leaving my prostethic arm lying on the armrest. I can be such a prick. I have to get my mind off him - desperately need to - but more powerful than that need is the desire to get off on him. I have wanted to fuck him every single night, afternoon, morning and lunch hour since I met him. Oh sure, I've had my share of meaningless sex since then: the prerogative of a real-life James Bond, without the complementary tux, though. But I want Fox Mulder. Bad. Real bad. We are airborne now, and I want to get up, go to the restroom and jack off. But of course there is turbulence expected so we have to stay in our seats, belted up. It feels like fucking forever. I try to get my thoughts off Mulder, but do not succeed: Marillion's "Assasing" sounds in my ears, making me even more aware of the situation I'm in. I suspect Mulder knows about my attraction to him. Hell, he must know - intimate fist fights during which the pain of his blows failed to hide the heat and frenzy of his body. And when I'd surrender, when I'd allow him to be the alpha male, when he'd press me against the wall in a final gesture of victory, I'd feel his hard bulge. And then I'd know. His body betraying him. So I know he wants me. To what extent I haunt him, I cannot tell. I admit there is some serious wishful thinking going on here as well. But he remains the ever valiant Don Quixote on his quest for a better world for all of us, accompanied by his faithful readheaded Sancho Panza. And somehow I get the feeling that in this particular mise en scene I am not cast as the fair Dulcinella. Finally we are free of turbulence and as soon as the sign is clear I get up and head up to the bathroom. There I pay my solitary fees to the Mile High Club, Singles Division, thinking about Mulder all the time. I return to my seat, unsatisfied in my sated satisfaction I give my neighbor another manic grin. It's just enough to inspire her to leave me alone for the rest of the flight; I plug in the headphones, close my eyes and fall asleep. There's nothing better than a soldier's ability to sleep in times of war... The End ---- Sasjah Miller Comments welcomed at sasjahmiller@hotmail.com