The window panes rattle and the walls groan, exhausted, under the onslaught of wind—twenty miles an hour and climbing, spring's first storm come early.
He made a joke earlier when he opened the door to her tousled hair and watering eyes about how he'd begun to wonder if he might have to track her down three states away, blown off course like the Flying Nun.
Now, caught in the slick cradle of her thighs, he worries it is he who might find himself untethered in the Midwest. It is elemental weightlessness, the catch and release of her body. He is helpless to it, as carried away as the detritus that pelts the windows.
One strong gust, and he will soar. He prepares himself for liftoff even as he thrusts down, down. He will see the clouds, the tops of trees. Perhaps if the winds are strong enough, he will greet the curve of the earth, the stars he has spent so long chasing. He imagines the heat of the sun on his face and wonders if it can compare to the heat of her under, against, around him. The apartment shakes, the bed shakes, he shakes, feeling his impending flight.
He gasps her name against the salty hollow of her throat to tell her he's sorry, there's nothing he can do. Not even gravity can save him now. But Scully, smarter than, stronger than any natural phenomenon, merely locks her ankles higher along his spine and anchors him to earth.