Bugs in Amber
Bugs in Amber, Ten/Future!Rose. Teen. 973 words.
“Hullo,” she says, picking small irregular bits of gravel from the backs of her thighs. She bears lines, pink and running through her skin like pinstripes, from her weight on the concrete, and she is dirty. “I didn’t think you’d see me,” and she brushes flecks of earth warily from her knees.
All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.
-Kurt Vonnegut
“Hullo,” she says, picking small irregular bits of gravel from the backs of her thighs. She bears lines, pink and running through her skin like pinstripes, from her weight on the concrete, and she is dirty. “I didn’t think you’d see me,” and she brushes flecks of earth warily from her knees.
He stands there, a lean spire before her, hips clearly jutting like mountains even through his dark trousers. She could climb their peaks and see the stars, likely, but even if she successfully navigated his body it would only confirm how little he was eating, make harsh the white contrast of scars littering his ribs and poisoning the image he puts forth of one who does not suffer.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says.
“You’ve been waiting years to say that, haven’t you,” she teases, rising from her perch. The stone steps feel like an island in the vastness of the park, life blossoming in a verdant assault all around her except directly under her feet. Except under his.
“I’ve only known you fifteen months, Rose. You, that’s on my TARDIS, anyway. But you, here… how long have you known me?”
“Tsk. Linear.” And she is against him in two whimsically long steps, palms cupping one each of his hipbones and considering their density. She can hear his hearts, the blood rushing through the atriums and valves and chambers like little gasps, bones producing more miniscule red cells, brain with electricity sliding through it as fluidly as he could run between the raindrops. Resting her head on his shoulder, she thinks of relief, and bar fights, and coral struts to be thrown against in haste and pain and pleasure. He has so much still to see, but she can only circle back.
“When we are young, we believe the most fantastic things,” she whispers conspiringly to the small wrinkle on his shoulder.
He has brought his arms around her, cupping her shoulders like he’s holding the secret to how the great lumbering torsos of Stonehenge were so carefully placed. Like they are in the center of the circle, and if he holds her too tightly, he’ll be forced to notice the setting sun on the other side.
“I’m really, really not young, Rose.”
She smiles with her eyes closed, face serene and fingertips curling into belt loops.
“You really, really are.”
He closes his eyes tightly, wondering what has happened to his pink and yellow girl. He brushes a little dirt from her elbow, cool fingertips cupping the vaguely dry skin there. He can hear the rustle of their cells sliding against each other, like music.
She should not be here. He should let go.
“Rose,” he whispers instead, just her name as prolific as the longest litany. Or elegy. Some of him thinks she’s dead, and a vision; the rest wants to trace the void stuff that clings to her with his tongue and see how it tastes.
“Do you believe in fairytales, Doctor?” and she leans back, holding his hands and letting her weight fall toward the ground. Together, they pull apart, joined palm to palm and shifting their centers of gravity away but only to circle. They look about ready to spin, or dance, become dizzy in this beautiful park just for the sake of feeling a breeze on too hot cheeks.
He doesn’t answer, and she spins, crossing his arms over her chest and backing into him. Dancing, ring around the rosie. A pale, moon-colored string from her denim cutoffs clings to a piece of grass, broken blade leaking color into the fabric. Her tank top shifts like dark liquid over her belly as she breathes, and he sucks her air greedily in for himself as she exhales. Pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes…
“I don’t, either,” she announces, sliding away from him, dragging her fingernails oh so lightly down his arms until she grips his hands. His hair rises at the sensation, catching the breeze and sending a violent shiver through him. Her’s lifts and floats with the very same wind, and he finds himself struck with a togetherness, a star and her satellite, inseparable by orbit. “But I believe in fantastic things,” and then she is in front of him, dirty skin and short shorts and human heart and her mouth, she does taste like the void, and her tongue is flicking inside and he widens the contact and they slide so wetly against each other, a jangle of nerves and a jumble of thought and god, closer.
His hands are on her shoulders so tightly her muscle is lifting with his hands, he’s kneading, she’s gasping and nodding and smiling, ashes, ashes, timelines jutting against each other, and with great magnificence, they all fall down.
“Take me home,” she whimpers, and he bites down, palms on her cheeks. He is sucking her lower lip, the moment needless for him to ask where home is; he just tastes, and tastes, and drinks her down.
“Take me away,” he breathes into her, and she swallows, takes his hand into hers and steps back. Her mouth glistens proudly in the sun.
“They have always been the same place,” and they run, feet pumping into the grass, kicking up green clumps and sending laughter and breathlessness tumbling to the earth.
This is it, he thinks, and he does not look back to see what he has abandoned, does not turn his eyes over his shoulder to see footprints or empty spaces or the trees, blowing upwards in their rustling dance of ecstasy.
“Hullo,” she says, picking small irregular bits of gravel from the backs of her thighs. She bears lines, pink and running through her skin like pinstripes, from her weight on the concrete, and she is dirty. “I didn’t think you’d see me,” and she brushes flecks of earth warily from her knees.
All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.
-Kurt Vonnegut
“Hullo,” she says, picking small irregular bits of gravel from the backs of her thighs. She bears lines, pink and running through her skin like pinstripes, from her weight on the concrete, and she is dirty. “I didn’t think you’d see me,” and she brushes flecks of earth warily from her knees.
He stands there, a lean spire before her, hips clearly jutting like mountains even through his dark trousers. She could climb their peaks and see the stars, likely, but even if she successfully navigated his body it would only confirm how little he was eating, make harsh the white contrast of scars littering his ribs and poisoning the image he puts forth of one who does not suffer.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says.
“You’ve been waiting years to say that, haven’t you,” she teases, rising from her perch. The stone steps feel like an island in the vastness of the park, life blossoming in a verdant assault all around her except directly under her feet. Except under his.
“I’ve only known you fifteen months, Rose. You, that’s on my TARDIS, anyway. But you, here… how long have you known me?”
“Tsk. Linear.” And she is against him in two whimsically long steps, palms cupping one each of his hipbones and considering their density. She can hear his hearts, the blood rushing through the atriums and valves and chambers like little gasps, bones producing more miniscule red cells, brain with electricity sliding through it as fluidly as he could run between the raindrops. Resting her head on his shoulder, she thinks of relief, and bar fights, and coral struts to be thrown against in haste and pain and pleasure. He has so much still to see, but she can only circle back.
“When we are young, we believe the most fantastic things,” she whispers conspiringly to the small wrinkle on his shoulder.
He has brought his arms around her, cupping her shoulders like he’s holding the secret to how the great lumbering torsos of Stonehenge were so carefully placed. Like they are in the center of the circle, and if he holds her too tightly, he’ll be forced to notice the setting sun on the other side.
“I’m really, really not young, Rose.”
She smiles with her eyes closed, face serene and fingertips curling into belt loops.
“You really, really are.”
He closes his eyes tightly, wondering what has happened to his pink and yellow girl. He brushes a little dirt from her elbow, cool fingertips cupping the vaguely dry skin there. He can hear the rustle of their cells sliding against each other, like music.
She should not be here. He should let go.
“Rose,” he whispers instead, just her name as prolific as the longest litany. Or elegy. Some of him thinks she’s dead, and a vision; the rest wants to trace the void stuff that clings to her with his tongue and see how it tastes.
“Do you believe in fairytales, Doctor?” and she leans back, holding his hands and letting her weight fall toward the ground. Together, they pull apart, joined palm to palm and shifting their centers of gravity away but only to circle. They look about ready to spin, or dance, become dizzy in this beautiful park just for the sake of feeling a breeze on too hot cheeks.
He doesn’t answer, and she spins, crossing his arms over her chest and backing into him. Dancing, ring around the rosie. A pale, moon-colored string from her denim cutoffs clings to a piece of grass, broken blade leaking color into the fabric. Her tank top shifts like dark liquid over her belly as she breathes, and he sucks her air greedily in for himself as she exhales. Pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes…
“I don’t, either,” she announces, sliding away from him, dragging her fingernails oh so lightly down his arms until she grips his hands. His hair rises at the sensation, catching the breeze and sending a violent shiver through him. Her’s lifts and floats with the very same wind, and he finds himself struck with a togetherness, a star and her satellite, inseparable by orbit. “But I believe in fantastic things,” and then she is in front of him, dirty skin and short shorts and human heart and her mouth, she does taste like the void, and her tongue is flicking inside and he widens the contact and they slide so wetly against each other, a jangle of nerves and a jumble of thought and god, closer.
His hands are on her shoulders so tightly her muscle is lifting with his hands, he’s kneading, she’s gasping and nodding and smiling, ashes, ashes, timelines jutting against each other, and with great magnificence, they all fall down.
“Take me home,” she whimpers, and he bites down, palms on her cheeks. He is sucking her lower lip, the moment needless for him to ask where home is; he just tastes, and tastes, and drinks her down.
“Take me away,” he breathes into her, and she swallows, takes his hand into hers and steps back. Her mouth glistens proudly in the sun.
“They have always been the same place,” and they run, feet pumping into the grass, kicking up green clumps and sending laughter and breathlessness tumbling to the earth.
This is it, he thinks, and he does not look back to see what he has abandoned, does not turn his eyes over his shoulder to see footprints or empty spaces or the trees, blowing upwards in their rustling dance of ecstasy.